The seamstress's needle pricked Isla's waist for the third time in as many minutes, drawing a sharp intake of breath that she quickly stifled. She stood motionless on the raised platform, arms extended like a scarecrow, while yards of ivory silk pooled around her feet. The Luna ceremonial gown—her Luna ceremonial gown—felt more like a costume than a dream come true.

"Could you hold still, dear?" Mrs. Hunt's voice carried that particular edge of disappointment Isla had learned to recognize before she could walk. Her mother sat in the velvet chair by the window, one hand pressed to her temple as if Isla's very existence caused her physical pain. "You're making this impossible for poor Margaret."

"Sorry," Isla whispered, though she hadn't moved. She never moved during these fittings. Three years of caring for a blind mate had taught her the art of becoming invisible, of taking up no space at all.

Chloe reclined on the fainting couch—because of course there was a fainting couch in the seamstress's room—one delicate hand draped across her forehead. Her adopted sister had arrived twenty minutes late, claiming a headache, yet somehow managed to commandeer all of their mother's attention.

"The neckline is too severe," Chloe murmured, her voice breathy and soft. "It makes Isla look so... harsh. Don't you think, Mother? A Luna should appear gentle. Approachable."

Isla caught her reflection in the full-length mirror. The dress was beautiful—intricate beadwork cascading down the bodice, sleeves that would catch the moonlight during the ceremony. But Chloe was right. The high collar did make her look stern. Unapproachable. Everything a Luna shouldn't be.

"You're absolutely right, darling." Mrs. Hunt rose from her chair, circling Isla like a vulture assessing carrion. "Margaret, can we soften this? Perhaps a sweetheart neckline instead? And the waist needs to be taken in another two inches. Isla, have you been eating properly? You look bloated."

Isla's wolf stirred restlessly beneath her skin. She hadn't eaten properly in weeks. The Fading Wolf Syndrome had stolen her appetite along with her energy, leaving her hollow and weak. But she couldn't tell them that. Couldn't admit that her mate's indifference was literally killing her.

"I'll adjust my diet," she said instead, keeping her voice level. Agreeable. The way a good Luna should sound.

Chloe sat up slightly, wincing as if the movement pained her. "Oh, Isla, I didn't mean to criticize. You know how I worry about you. You've been working yourself to exhaustion taking care of Alpha Orion. Perhaps you should rest more? Let others help?"

The suggestion was poison wrapped in silk. If Isla stepped back from caring for Orion now, weeks before their ceremony, the pack would whisper. They'd question her devotion. Her worthiness.

"I'm fine," Isla said, though her reflection in the mirror told a different story. Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her cheekbones had grown sharp, her collarbones prominent beneath pale skin. She looked like a ghost wearing a wedding dress.

"Well, you don't look fine." Mrs. Hunt's fingers dug into Isla's shoulder, turning her roughly. "Honestly, Isla, the entire pack will be watching. Can't you make an effort? For once?"

For once. As if Isla hadn't spent the last three years making nothing but effort. As if she hadn't abandoned her singing career—the voice that had made her famous throughout the werewolf territories—to become a full-time caretaker. As if she hadn't poured every ounce of her soul into a mate who could barely stand to touch her.

"I'll try harder," Isla heard herself say, the words automatic. Hollow.

Margaret cleared her throat uncomfortably, pins bristling from between her lips. The older woman had been the pack's seamstress for forty years. She'd seen everything, heard everything. The pity in her eyes made Isla want to scream.

"There now, almost finished," Margaret said gently, making one final adjustment to the hem. "You can step down, dear."

Isla descended from the platform carefully, her legs unsteady. The dress whispered against the hardwood floor as she moved toward the changing screen, desperate to escape the suffocating attention.

"Oh, before you go—" Chloe's voice stopped her. "Could you bring Alpha Orion his afternoon coffee? I know you make it just the way he likes. I tried yesterday, but he said it wasn't quite right."

The request landed like a slap. Chloe knew Orion's coffee preferences. Had been learning them, apparently. Practicing.

"Of course," Isla said, because what else could she say? She was the devoted mate. The selfless Luna-to-be.

Twenty minutes later, Isla carried a silver tray down the Alpha wing's corridor, the scent of dark roast coffee mixing with the lavender oil she'd added—Orion's favorite combination. Her hands trembled slightly, exhaustion pulling at her bones, but she steadied herself. She could do this. She'd done this a thousand times before.

She was three feet from Orion's study when his voice drifted through the heavy oak door. Her enhanced hearing picked up every word with crystalline clarity.

"I'm telling you, Marcus, I can't keep pretending." Orion's voice carried a frustration she'd never heard directed at her, but had often felt radiating from him during her care. "The ceremony is in two weeks, and I feel nothing. No spark. No desire. Nothing."

Isla froze, her wolf going utterly still.

"You accepted the bond," Marcus Sullivan's voice—Orion's father—was sharp. Impatient. "You have a duty."

"Duty." Orion laughed, the sound bitter. "Yes, that's all it is. Duty and gratitude. She took care of me when I was helpless, and now I'm trapped in a bond I never wanted. But my heart, my wolf—everything in me yearns for Chloe. Her gentle spirit, her softness. That's what a Luna should be. Not this... obligation."

The tray slipped from Isla's fingers.

The crash of shattering porcelain echoed through the corridor like a death knell, coffee spreading across the marble floor in a dark, bitter pool. Isla stared at the mess, her mind unable to process what her ears had just confirmed.

Her mate didn't want her.

Had never wanted her.

And he wanted her sister instead.

The study door flew open. Orion stood in the threshold, his newly restored eyes—Tommy's eyes, though she didn't know it yet—widening as he took in the scene. Isla, trembling and pale. The destroyed coffee service. The truth hanging in the air between them like smoke.

"Isla," he said, and even her name sounded like a burden in his mouth. "How long have you been standing there?"

The world tilted sideways before Isla's knees hit the marble.

She didn't remember falling. One moment she was staring at the coffee spreading across the floor like spilled blood, and the next the ground rushed up to meet her. Her skull cracked against the stone with a sound that echoed through the corridor—or maybe that was just inside her head.

"Isla!" Orion's voice came from somewhere above her, distant and distorted.

Her wolf was screaming. The sound tore through her mind, a howl of pure agony that had no physical voice. Every nerve ending in her body caught fire as the mate bond—that sacred connection she'd nurtured for three years—began to splinter like glass under pressure.

This was what rejection felt like from the inside.

Her back arched off the floor. Her fingers clawed at the marble, searching for something solid to anchor to as her body convulsed. Someone was shouting. Hands grabbed her shoulders, but she couldn't focus on faces. Couldn't focus on anything except the tearing sensation in her chest where the bond was trying to rip itself apart.

"Get Dr. Blackwood!" Marcus Sullivan's command cut through the chaos. "Now!"

Footsteps thundered away down the corridor.

Isla's vision went white, then black, then white again. Her wolf thrashed against her ribcage, desperate to break free, to run, to escape the pain that was consuming them both from the inside out. But there was nowhere to run. The bond was inside her. The betrayal was inside her. The truth was inside her, poisoning everything it touched.

She felt Orion's hands on her face, his newly restored eyes—Tommy's eyes—staring down at her with something that might have been concern. Or guilt. Or obligation.

Always obligation.

Never love.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

---

When Isla opened her eyes, fluorescent lights burned into her retinas. The infirmary. She recognized the antiseptic smell, the rough cotton sheets, the steady beep of the heart monitor that seemed too slow, too weak.

Dr. Elena Blackwood stood at the foot of the bed, a tablet clutched against her chest like a shield. The pack healer looked older than her forty-something years, her face drawn and pale, dark circles shadowing her eyes.

"You're awake." Elena's voice was carefully neutral, but Isla caught the tremor underneath. "How do you feel?"

Isla tried to sit up. Her body refused to cooperate, heavy and unresponsive. "What happened?"

"You had a seizure." Elena moved closer, her movements stiff. Professional. "Your vitals crashed. We almost lost you."

Almost. The word hung in the air between them.

"I ran some tests while you were unconscious." Elena set the tablet down on the side table, her hands shaking slightly. "Isla, I need you to understand the severity of what I'm about to tell you."

Isla's wolf stirred weakly, a wounded animal curling into itself.

"You have Fading Wolf Syndrome."

The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples of cold dread through Isla's chest.

"It's a terminal condition," Elena continued, her voice growing quieter. "It occurs when a mate bond becomes too one-sided. When the emotional strain of an unrequited connection begins to poison the wolf's spirit. Your wolf is dying, Isla. And when she goes, you'll go with her."

Isla stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the small black dots in the acoustic panels. Forty-three in the panel directly above her head. She focused on that number, holding onto it like a lifeline while her world crumbled.

"How long?" Her voice sounded hollow. Empty.

"Without intervention? Six months. Maybe less." Elena picked up the tablet again, scrolling through results she clearly didn't want to share. "The bond is eating you alive from the inside out. Every day you spend connected to a mate who doesn't return your feelings, every moment of emotional neglect—it's killing you."

Three years. Three years of devotion and sacrifice and love poured into a bond that was poisoning her.

"There are treatments," Elena said quickly. "Bond suppression therapy. Counseling. If Alpha Orion were willing to work on strengthening the connection—"

"He won't." Isla's laugh came out broken. "He wants someone else."

Elena's face crumpled, guilt flashing across her features so quickly Isla almost missed it. But she caught it. That flicker of knowledge. Of complicity.

"You knew," Isla whispered. "Didn't you? You knew he didn't want me."

The healer's silence was answer enough.

Isla closed her eyes, exhaustion pulling at her bones. "I'd like to rest now."

"Of course." Elena's footsteps retreated toward the door. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

The door clicked shut.

Isla waited, counting her heartbeats. One hundred. Two hundred. When she reached five hundred, she opened her eyes.

The infirmary was empty. Late afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the linoleum floor. Isla's gaze fixed on Dr. Blackwood's white coat, hanging on the hook by the door. The access card clipped to the pocket glinted in the light.

Her wolf stirred, weak but determined.

Isla pulled the IV from her arm, ignoring the sting and the small bloom of blood that welled up. Her legs trembled as she swung them over the side of the bed, but she forced herself to stand. The room spun. She gripped the bed frame until her vision cleared.

Three years of questions. Three years of inconsistencies she'd been too devoted, too trusting to examine.

Why had Tommy died the same week Orion's surgery was scheduled?

Why had Dr. Blackwood looked so guilty every time Isla asked about the donor?

Why had Tommy's body been cremated so quickly, before Isla could say goodbye?

She crossed the room on unsteady feet and plucked the access card from Elena's coat. The plastic was warm in her palm, humming with possibility.

The Alpha's private archives were three floors down. Isla had cleaned those halls a thousand times during Orion's recovery. She knew which cameras had blind spots. Which corridors the night shift guards avoided.

She knew how to become invisible.

Isla slipped out of the infirmary, the stolen card pressed against her racing heart, and disappeared into the shadows of the pack house like a ghost hunting for the truth that would destroy her.

The lock on Marcus Sullivan's office safe clicked open at 2:47 AM.

Isla's hands shook as she pulled the heavy door wide, the stolen access card having granted her entry to the Alpha's private wing. The safe's interior light illuminated stacks of documents, leather-bound ledgers, and a single manila folder marked with red ink: Project Sight.

Her wolf whimpered, sensing danger in those two words.

Isla pulled the folder free. The paper felt obscenely normal beneath her fingertips—just standard office stock, nothing to indicate it contained the kind of secrets that shattered worlds. She flipped it open.

The first photograph stole the air from her lungs.

Tommy. Sweet, gentle Tommy with his amber eyes and shy smile. But this wasn't the Tommy she remembered. This Tommy lay on a surgical table, his face slack and lifeless, his chest marked with precise incision lines. Medical instruments gleamed in the background. A date stamp in the corner: three years ago. The same week Orion's surgery had been scheduled.

Isla's vision blurred. She flipped to the next photo with trembling fingers.

Close-up shots of Tommy's eyes. Those beautiful amber eyes flecked with gold, the ones that had lit up whenever she brought him books to read. Someone had photographed them from multiple angles, documenting the color match with clinical precision. Notes in the margins: "Perfect donor match. Proceed with extraction."

The folder slipped from her hands, papers scattering across Marcus Sullivan's expensive carpet. Isla lunged for the trash bin beside the desk and vomited, her body rejecting the truth her mind couldn't process.

They hadn't just let Tommy die. They'd murdered him. Harvested him like he was nothing more than spare parts.

And Orion—

Isla retched again, bile burning her throat. Every time Orion had looked at her with those restored eyes, every time he'd gazed at her with what she'd desperately wanted to believe was love, he'd been seeing her through Tommy's stolen sight.

Her brother's eyes in her mate's face.

The door to the office opened.

Isla's head snapped up. Dr. Elena Blackwood stood in the threshold, still wearing her white coat, her face pale as death in the dim light from the hallway.

"I knew you'd come here eventually," Elena whispered. "I've been waiting."

Isla pushed herself upright, her legs unsteady. "You did this. You killed him."

"Yes." The word fell like a stone. Elena stepped into the office and closed the door behind her, leaning against it as if she needed the support. "Marcus Sullivan came to me three years ago. Said his son needed a transplant. Said they'd found a donor."

"Tommy wasn't a donor. He was a child."

"I know." Elena's voice cracked. "I know what he was. I know what I did."

Isla crossed the space between them in three strides, her wolf surging forward with a snarl. She grabbed Elena by the collar of her coat, slamming her back against the door. "Then why? Why would you—"

"Because they had my daughter!" Elena's composure shattered. Tears streamed down her face, her words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "Marcus threatened her. Said if I didn't perform the extraction, if I didn't keep it quiet, they'd make sure she had an 'accident' during her next border patrol. She's only nineteen, Isla. She's my only child."

Isla's grip loosened. She stepped back, her wolf torn between rage and a terrible understanding.

"I've been living in hell for three years," Elena continued, sliding down the door until she sat crumpled on the floor. "Every time I see you, every time I treat you, I see what I've done. I see Tommy's face. I see the bond killing you because of the monster I helped create."

The room fell silent except for Elena's ragged breathing.

Isla stared down at the scattered photographs, at Tommy's lifeless face frozen in time. Her wolf keened, a sound of pure grief that had no voice.

"I need your help," Isla heard herself say. The words came from somewhere cold and distant, a part of her that had survived the fall and was already planning the climb back up. "As penance."

Elena looked up, hope and fear warring in her expression. "Anything."

"I need to die." Isla met the healer's eyes. "Not really. But everyone needs to believe I'm dead. Can you do that?"

Elena was quiet for a long moment, her medical mind clearly working through possibilities. "There's a procedure. High-risk. We'd sever the mate bond surgically—it would trigger cardiac arrest. I could revive you after, but the pack would believe you died on the table. It's dangerous, Isla. You might not wake up."

"I'm already dying." Isla gestured to the photographs on the floor. "At least this way, I choose how."

Elena pushed herself to her feet, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. After the pack gathering." Isla's voice was steady now, her decision made. "I want them all to see me reject him first."

Elena nodded slowly. "I'll prepare everything."

Isla bent down and gathered the photographs, sliding them carefully back into the folder. Evidence. Proof. Justice for Tommy would come, but first, she needed to survive.

She pressed the folder against her chest, feeling the weight of her brother's stolen life, and walked out of Marcus Sullivan's office without looking back.