Luciana Ellis didn’t recognize me.

She was just as I remembered her—gentle, thoughtful, with a faint scent of sandalwood lingering around her. A set of polished wolf fangs dangled from her fingers, clicking softly as she moved.

“No need for formalities here. Come closer, let me see you.”

I rose slowly, my heart pounding, and let her take my hands. She leaned in, studying me with a careful gaze.

After what felt like an eternity, she smiled and released me.

“You’re a good girl,” she said warmly. “No wonder Weston’s been so taken with you. He’s usually so reserved, but he’s spoken of you for years.”

I kept my head down, feigning shyness, and stepped back to stand behind Weston. I couldn’t risk saying too much.

Weston shot me a tender glance before addressing her. “Adele’s a bit shy, Luna. Please forgive her.”

Luciana chuckled softly. “It’s good to see you care for her so deeply.”

Then her expression shifted, a shadow crossing her face. “It reminds me of how your mentor used to be.”

The room fell silent.

I glanced up and noticed the faint streaks of gray in her once-dark hair, the subtle lines of sorrow etched into her features.

The scent of wildflowers filled the air as Luciana seemed to drift into memories, her voice soft and distant.

“You wouldn’t know this, but he was so devoted to his mate. He’d do anything for her—even race back from patrols just to spend one night with her on her birthday.

“It was the only time I ever saw him act like a real person…”

No one dared to speak. The silence was heavy, suffocating. I clenched my fingers inside my sleeves, forcing myself to stay calm, to keep my expression neutral.

Then, a Delta entered the room, bowing low. “Alpha Archer has returned from the border. He’s hosting a pack gathering tonight and has announced he’ll personally oversee your marking ceremony.”

What?

I thought Weston was supposed to be out of favor.

I glanced at Weston. His face was a mixture of surprise and something else—something I couldn’t quite place.

At the pack banquet, I realized Weston hadn’t exaggerated.

Archer Medina had indeed taken in many sons—eight in total, scattered across the pack’s borders, each vying for power. Weston, however, preferred to stay out of the fray, content with a quiet life as a Delta. His brothers, ambitious and ruthless, often overlooked him, making this banquet in his honor a rare and unexpected event.

I discreetly scanned the room. The other adopted sons, all around Weston’s age, carried themselves with the same imposing aura as Archer, their Alpha. They were like younger versions of him—cold, calculating, and intimidating. Among them, one caught my attention. A scar cut across his brow, and when his gaze met mine, I froze.

I recognized him instantly.

Years ago, when Archer had sent me to live within the pack’s territory as leverage, Makai had been desperate. He’d clung to the gates, refusing to let go even as Archer’s warriors beat him bloody. I could still see the fire in his eyes as he’d sworn, “Adele, don’t be afraid. One day, I’ll kill Archer and bring you home.”

But that day never came.

The memory stirred something in me, but I quickly pushed it down. Promises were fleeting, and I’d learned not to rely on them.

Just then, Weston poured me a drink. I took a sip and immediately regretted it. The bitter tang of wolfsbane-laced wine burned my throat, and I fought the urge to spit it out. Wolfsbane was harmless to most, but it triggered a severe reaction in me—itching, rashes, and sleepless nights. Back in the Blue Moon Pack, Paul had banned it entirely to spare me the discomfort. But here, in this unfamiliar setting, I couldn’t afford to draw attention.

I swallowed the drink, hoping the symptoms would hold off until the banquet ended.

Archer, as usual, was late. When he finally arrived, he lingered longer than expected, sitting silently at the head table, his expression unreadable behind the dim lighting. His presence cast a heavy shadow over the room, and no one dared leave before him.

Weston leaned in, his voice low. “The Alpha’s been in a foul mood since he returned from the border patrol. Normally, he’d lock himself away and take it out on someone privately. I don’t know why he’s staying here tonight.”

Before I could ask who he usually took his anger out on, the doors swung open. Two warriors dragged in a shackled figure, their chains clinking against the floor. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

I stared at the figure’s thin wrists, where a faded pack bracelet still clung. My heart sank.

Someone whispered, “Is that Paul Shaw? He’s alive?”

In the world of werewolves, a deposed Alpha never survives long under a new regime. If they do, it’s only to endure humiliation.

Archer Medina, the ruthless Alpha of the Red Fang Pack, seemed determined to make Paul Shaw suffer. He forced Paul, broken and disheveled, to serve drinks to the guests at the banquet. Paul’s once-proud aura was now a shadow of its former self, his head bowed, his movements slow and deliberate as he moved among the tables.

The room was tense, the air thick with discomfort. Most of the wolves exchanged uneasy glances, but Makai Murphy, the Gamma, seemed unbothered. He even went out of his way to make things harder for Paul, spilling his drink multiple times, forcing Paul to crawl under the table to retrieve the fallen glass. It was a humiliating display, one that made my stomach twist.

Behind me, a pup from the pack whispered to his mother, his voice innocent and confused.

"Mom, why is Alpha Archer being so mean to him?"

His mother quickly shushed him, her voice low but sharp. "Quiet, little one. He’s a traitor. He deserves it."

Weston Rice, sitting nearby, turned to the pup with a calm, almost gentle expression.

"Paul Shaw once betrayed our pack," he explained, his tone measured but firm. "When Archer was just a Beta, Paul’s actions led to the death of someone very dear to him. Archer is making him pay for that now."

The pup tilted his head, still not fully understanding. "But if Archer cared about that person so much, why didn’t he protect them?"

Weston hesitated, caught off guard by the child’s simple logic.

Our seats were tucked in the back, near the draped curtains that separated the banquet hall from the rest of the packhouse. The atmosphere was more relaxed here, the wolves less formal as the night wore on. The pup slipped away from his mother and trotted over to me, his big, curious eyes fixed on mine.

"Are you Weston’s mate?" he asked, his voice loud enough to carry.

Weston’s face flushed, and he stammered, "No, she’s not—but I’d never let anything like that happen to her."

The pup’s question struck a chord. Even a child could see the hypocrisy in Archer’s actions. I reached out and gently brushed the pup’s soft cheek, offering him a small smile.

"You’re a clever one," I said, my voice warm.

He held up a stubborn, unopened water chestnut, his little fingers struggling to peel it. I took it from him and used a small silver knife from the table to cut off the ends, then gently pried it open to reveal the white flesh inside.

The pup’s face lit up as he took it from me. "You’re so good at this! My mom says only wolves from the southern packs know how to peel these. Are you from the south?"

I froze. Adele Dean’s family had always been part of the Blue Moon Pack in the north. I’d never even been to the southern territories. Weston, who knew my history, was watching me closely now, his brow furrowed in suspicion.

The room had grown quiet, the pup’s voice cutting through the noise. All eyes turned toward us, curious, probing. Even from his seat at the head of the table, Archer’s gaze felt heavy on me, his scent—sharp and commanding—filling the air.

I forced myself to stay calm, setting the knife down with a steady hand. "When I was young, my family was poor," I explained, my voice even. "Our neighbor traded southern goods, and I used to help peel these for extra money."

It was a plausible story, and the wolves around me seemed to accept it, their interest waning as they returned to their drinks and conversations. Weston reached over and squeezed my hand, his voice soft. "You’ll never have to struggle like that again."

I nodded, though my heart was racing. I’d just narrowly avoided disaster.

But then Paul Shaw approached our table, his movements slow and deliberate, a bottle of strong liquor in his hand. My stomach dropped. I couldn’t drink that—not without breaking out in a rash that would give me away instantly.

As he poured the drink, I caught a glimpse of his eyes—haunted, resigned, but still holding a spark of defiance. I clenched my fists under the table, my wolf stirring uneasily in the back of my mind. This wasn’t over. Not yet.