Isolde POV:

The world came back to me in fragments of cold and light.

The memory of the limousine ride was hazy-Austen handing me a glass of sparkling water that tasted like bitter almonds.

Now, I was waking up on a hard, transparent surface.

I tried to sit up, but my head swam. I blinked, my vision clearing. I was in a box. A glass box, roughly eight feet by eight feet, situated in the center of the club's grand ballroom.

Panic, sharp and immediate, clawed at my throat. I scrambled to my knees, my hands pressing against the glass. It was cold. Ice cold.

"Austen?" I called out. My voice sounded muffled, bouncing back at me.

Beyond the glass, the ballroom was filled with people. The elite of the Blackwell Pack, business partners, wealthy humans in the know. They were all holding champagne flutes, looking at me. Not with concern, but with the detached curiosity of visitors at a zoo.

And there, standing on a raised platform just outside my cage, was Austen.

He looked magnificent in his tuxedo, holding a microphone. His arm was wrapped possessively around Debra's waist. She was wearing a red dress that looked like spilled blood, diamonds glittering at her throat-diamonds that belonged to my mother.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Austen's voice boomed through the speakers, though I could only hear it muffled through the thick glass. "Welcome to the dawn of a new era."

I pounded on the glass. "Austen! Let me out! What is this?"

He didn't even look at me. He addressed the crowd. "For too long, the Blackwell Pack has been held back by outdated traditions. By weak bloodlines that hide behind ancient names."

Debra giggled, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Look at her," she mouthed, pointing a manicured finger at me.

I realized then what the floor of the cage was. It wasn't just glass. Beneath the transparent floor, I could see coils. Cooling coils. And vents.

"Tonight," Austen announced, "we mourn. We have received confirmation from the Elders." He paused for dramatic effect. "The Supreme Alpha, Ezra Warner... my beloved father-in-law... is dead."

The world stopped.

No. Not Dad. He was just in hiding. He was testing Austen. That was the plan. He couldn't be dead.

Dad! I screamed into the mental void, throwing my mind out as hard as I could. Daddy, please! Austen has gone mad! He's hurting me!

Silence. Just the roar of the crowd applauding Austen's ascension.

But then... faint, like a radio signal from a dying star... a vibration.

...hold on... my little wolf...

It was him! He was alive! But he was far away, too far to help me now.

"With Ezra gone," Austen continued, his voice rising with arrogance, "The Blackwell assets and the Alpha power transfer to me. But a true Alpha cannot be tied to weakness."

He finally turned to face me. His eyes were dead.

"Isolde Blackwell," he said, his voice projecting so everyone could hear. "You claim to be royalty. You claim to be strong. But look at you. Trapped. Scared. You can't even Shift, can you?"

He was right. I tried to call upon my wolf, to break my bones and reshape into a beast that could shatter this glass, but nothing happened. The glass... it was treated. And the cold.

"Let's see how much royal blood can withstand," Austen sneered. He signaled to someone off-stage.

A vent hissed open in the ceiling of the glass box.

"Let's cool her down," Debra laughed, her voice carrying through the glass. "She was complaining about the heat, wasn't she?"

Icy air, visible as white mist, began to pump into the cage. It wasn't just air conditioning. It was industrial coolant.

"Austen!" I screamed, the cold instantly biting into my skin. "The baby! You're killing your son!"

He just raised his champagne glass to me. "To the Nolan Pack," he toasted.

"To the Nolan Pack!" the crowd echoed, though I saw a few elders exchange uneasy glances as they drank.

Isolde POV:

The cold was a physical assault. It didn't just numb; it bit, like thousands of tiny, invisible teeth gnawing at my exposed skin.

"Bring them in," Austen commanded.

A side panel of the glass cage slid open. Two Pack Warriors-men I had grown up with, men who had sworn to protect the Blackwell line-stepped inside. They wore thick thermal gear.

"Please," I gasped, my teeth chattering so hard I could barely speak. "Marcus, verify. It's me. It's Izzy."

Marcus, the head warrior, didn't meet my eyes. "Orders of the Alpha, Luna. I'm sorry."

He grabbed my arm. His grip was iron.

"Strip her," Austen's voice came over the intercom system inside the cage.

"No!" I tried to fight, but the cold had made my movements sluggish. My human strength was nothing compared to a warrior, and my wolf was suppressed by the strange, heavy atmosphere of the cage.

With a brutal rip, the back of my evening gown was torn away. The silk gave way with a sound like a scream. I was left in my undergarments, my swollen belly exposed to the freezing mist.

The shame was worse than the cold. In werewolf culture, forced exposure was a sign of total submission, a punishment reserved for traitors.

"Now," Austen said, his voice devoid of mercy. "The water."

The second warrior stepped forward with a large metal bucket. I could smell it before I saw it. The water smelled metallic, sharp, and dangerous.

Silver.

"Don't!" I shrieked, covering my belly with my arms. "Silver will kill the baby! Austen, stop this!"

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd. "Silver on a pregnant female?" an older woman whispered near the front. "That's forbidden."

Austen heard it. His jaw tightened. "She is a threat!" he barked at the crowd, then nodded to the warrior. "Do it."

The warrior didn't hesitate. He splashed the contents of the bucket over me.

It wasn't just water. It was ice water mixed with silver dust.

The moment it touched my skin, I screamed. It wasn't the burn of fire; it was the burn of corruption. Silver is anathema to wolves. It halts our healing, it burns our flesh, and it poisons our blood.

Smoke rose from my shoulders where the silver water landed. Blisters formed instantly.

I fell to my knees, curling into a ball on the freezing floor. "Austen... why?" I sobbed, my voice cracking. "I loved you. I gave you everything."

Through the glass, I saw Austen's face twitch. For a second, just a microsecond, his arrogance faltered. He looked at my belly, at the child he had claimed to want.

"Austen," Debra whispered, but her voice was amplified by the microphone she had snatched. "Look at her. She's attacking!"

"What?" Austen blinked.

Debra suddenly cried out in pain. She grabbed a silver letter opener from a nearby table-how convenient-and slashed her own palm. Blood welled up.

"She used her mind!" Debra shrieked, holding up her bleeding hand. "She's a witch! She tried to kill me through the glass! Oh, Austen, save me!"

It was so absurd, so obviously staged. But Austen needed an excuse. He needed to justify his cruelty to the doubting crowd.

"She attacked my mate!" Austen roared, his hesitation vanishing into a cloud of manufactured rage. "She attacked Debra!"

The crowd gasped. Attacking a pack member without provocation was a crime. The doubt in the room evaporated, replaced by the mob's thirst for justice.

"No!" I cried, but the silver was seeping into my pores, making me dizzy. "She's lying!"

"Silence the traitor!" someone in the crowd shouted. It was one of Austen's new business partners.

"Freeze the evil out of her!" another voice yelled.

The mob mentality took over. They wanted blood. They wanted a show.

Austen looked at me with pure hatred now. "Turn the cooling to maximum," he ordered. "And give her another bucket. Make sure she learns her place."

The warriors raised another bucket. This one was larger.

I looked at my stomach, blistered and red from the cold and silver. I'm sorry, little one, I thought, tears freezing on my cheeks. I'm so sorry.

Isolde POV:

"I hereby dissolve the Blackwell Pack!" Austen shouted, his voice reaching a fever pitch of hysteria. "From this night forward, we are the Nolan Pack! And I am your Supreme Alpha!"

Cheers erupted, shaking the glass walls of my coffin.

Inside, the warriors had retreated, sealing me in again. The second bucket had been dumped.

This time, the smell was different. Beneath the metallic tang of silver, there was something floral. Sweet. Deadly.

Wolfsbane.

It soaked into my hair, dripped down my spine, and pooled around my knees. Wolfsbane was a paralytic. It weakened the heart.

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't work. I collapsed onto my side, the freezing floor sapping the last of my body heat.

Then, the pain changed.

It wasn't on my skin anymore. It was deep inside. A cramping, twisting agony in my lower abdomen.

"No," I whispered. My hands flew to my stomach. It was hard as a rock. "No, no, no."

A contraction ripped through me, strong enough to make me arch my back and scream, a sound that tore my throat raw.

"Look!" Debra pointed, laughing. "She's putting on a show!"

But then, the color changed.

Warmth. Suddenly, there was warmth between my legs. But it was the wrong kind of warmth.

I looked down.

Bright, crimson blood was flowing out of me, mixing with the silver-laced water on the white floor. It swirled like oil in water, a horrific abstract painting of death.

The scent hit the air vents.

Wolves have noses sensitive enough to track a rabbit three miles away. The scent of an unborn pup's blood... the scent of a miscarriage... it is primal. It is the scent of a broken future.

The laughter in the ballroom died instantly. Even the music seemed to strangle itself into silence.

The older wolves covered their noses, their faces turning ashen. Silence crashed down like a falling ceiling. Even the most corrupt wolf knows that the death of a pup is a tragedy, a bad omen, a crime against the Moon Goddess.

I lay in the puddle of my own blood and the melted ice, gasping. I could feel the life draining out of me. The little kicks that had kept me company for eight months... they stopped.

One last flutter. Like a butterfly trapped in a jar.

Then... stillness.

My Inner Wolf let out a sound that wasn't a howl. It was a keen. A sound of total, shattering heartbreak. Gone. He is gone.

Outside, Austen lowered his microphone. He stared at the blood spreading across the floor of the cage. His face went pale. His phone buzzed in his pocket-probably the notification that the bank transfer of my assets was complete-but he didn't check it.

He looked horrified. Not because he cared, but because he realized he had gone too far. He felt the judgment of the room shifting against him.

"It's... it's a trick!" Debra shrieked, breaking the silence. Her voice was shrill, desperate. "That's not blood! It's paint! She had it hidden under her dress! She's trying to ruin your coronation, Austen!"

Austen looked at her, then at me. He was drowning in panic. He needed a lifeline, even a lie.

"Yes..." Austen stammered. "Yes! It's an illusion! A witch's trick!"

He slammed his hand on the glass. "Stop acting, Isolde! Get up! Prove you're not faking it!"

He motioned to the control booth. "Lower the temperature! Prove it's fake!"

The vents blasted again. The blood on the floor began to freeze into red crystals.

I didn't move. I couldn't. I stared at the red ice, my hand resting on my now-silent belly. The cold was welcoming now. It was numbing the pain of my broken heart.

Let me die, I prayed to the Moon Goddess. Take me to my baby.