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.

Isolde POV:

The smell of death cannot be faked.

As the blood continued to pool, thickening in the extreme cold, it permeated the seals of the glass cage. It drifted out into the ballroom. It was copper, salt, and the sweet, rotting scent of a bond snapping.

Austen smelled it.

His denial shattered. His nose twitched, his pupils dilated. He knew. That was his son's blood. That was his legacy washing away into the drains.

"Open it," Austen whispered. Then he screamed. "OPEN THE DOOR!"

He scrambled off the stage, rushing to the side of the glass cage where the control panel was. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped the magnetic key card.

"Give it to me!" Debra snatched the card from the floor.

I watched through the haze of my fading consciousness. My vision was tunneling, black vignette creeping in from the edges.

Debra jammed the card into the slot. But she didn't swipe it smoothly. I saw her wrist twist. A sharp, deliberate snap.

"Oh no!" Debra cried out, her eyes wide with fake terror. "The card! It snapped inside the reader!"

"What?" Austen shoved her aside, clawing at the slot. The piece of plastic was wedged deep inside.

"The manual override!" Austen yelled at the warriors. "Use the key!"

A warrior fumbled for a physical key on his belt and jammed it into the lock. He turned it.

Click.

Nothing happened.

"The mechanism is frozen!" the warrior shouted, panic rising in his voice. "The temperature is too low! The seals have fused shut!"

"Break the glass!" Austen roared, pounding his fists against the wall. "Break it!"

Three warriors rushed forward. They shifted into their partial forms, claws extending, muscles bulging. They slammed their bodies against the glass.

Thud. Thud.

The glass didn't crack. It was reinforced polycarbonate, designed to hold a raging Alpha. It was designed to be unbreakable.

"It won't break!" Marcus yelled. "We need the blowtorches! Get the maintenance crew!"

"She's dying!" Austen pressed his face against the glass. His eyes were wild, tears finally streaming down his face. "Izzy! Izzy, wake up! Don't you dare die on me! Open the door from the inside! There's a latch!"

I heard him. He sounded like he was underwater.

Open the latch...

I moved my head slightly. I saw the emergency latch on the floor. It was encased in a block of red ice-my frozen blood.

I dragged my hand across the floor. My fingers were stiff, blue claws. I dug my nails into the ice surrounding the latch, scratching, tearing. I poured every ounce of my remaining will into that movement.

But my strength was gone. The Wolfsbane had done its work. My hand slipped from the latch.

"She's doing this on purpose!" Debra screamed, pointing at my motionless body. "She locked it from the inside! She wants to frame us! She wants to die just to make you look bad, Austen!"

"Shut up!" Austen backhanded Debra, sending her sprawling. But then he turned back to me, his face twisting into that familiar, pathetic mix of blame and fear.

"Izzy, stop this!" he shouted, banging on the glass. "You're weak! You've always been weak! Get up and open the door!"

I looked at him one last time.

I summoned the last spark of energy in my dying brain. I pushed it through the Mind-Link, bypassing his walls because death clears all barriers.

My father... I projected the words into his skull, cold and heavy as a tombstone. ...will peel the skin from your bones.

Austen flinched as if I had slapped him.

The crowd behind him was in chaos. Some were fleeing, realizing the gravity of what had happened. Others, the sycophants, were shouting at me.

"Stop faking it!"

"Open the door, bitch!"

The darkness finally took the rest of my vision. The cold stopped hurting. It just became... nothing.

My heart gave one slow, sluggish beat.

Thump.

And then... silence.

The last thing I heard was the sound of the heavy ballroom doors exploding inward with the force of a bomb. And then, a roar. Not a man's roar.

A monster's roar.

Daddy.