The grip of the Gamma warriors on my arms was iron-tight, bruising flesh that was already tender from surgery. My feet dragged against the plush carpet of Nicolas’s office, leaving faint scuff marks—the only evidence I was fighting for my life.

"Get her out of here," Nicolas growled, his hand pressed to his temple as if my very existence gave him a migraine. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Simone, his eyes glazed with that drug-induced devotion that made my stomach churn.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of my grief. If they dragged me to the isolation ward now, I would never come out. Simone would make sure of it. An "unfortunate complication" from my surgery, or perhaps a "suicide" born of postpartum madness. I would die in a padded room, silenced forever, while she played house with my mate and my pack.

No.

Adrenaline surged, borrowing strength I didn't have. I didn't shift—I couldn't, not with my body so broken—but I used the element of surprise. I stomped hard on the instep of the warrior to my left. He grunted, his grip loosening just a fraction. I twisted my body, ripping my arm free, and shoved him into the other guard.

They stumbled, tangled in a heap of limbs.

I didn't run for the door. I ran for him.

I slammed my hands onto his desk, leaning over the scattered paperwork, forcing him to look at me. His eyes were dark, swirling with irritation and that unnatural fog, but for a split second, I saw a flicker of the boy I saved from the fire ten years ago.

"Look at me!" I screamed, my voice raw and scraping like gravel. It wasn't a whisper. It was a command.

Nicolas flinched, his lip curling back to reveal teeth. "Silence, Cecilia!"

"I will not be silent!" I gasped, the air burning my lungs. "You want to be rid of me? You want her? Then take her. But you will know what you are losing."

I drew a deep breath, the kind that rattles in your chest before death. The ancient words rose up, heavy and final. They tasted like ash.

"I, Cecilia Anderson..."

The air in the room shifted instantly. The temperature dropped, frost creeping across the window pane. The magic of the Moon Goddess recognized the ritual beginning.

Nicolas froze. His eyes widened, the blackness receding for a moment to reveal terrified amber. "What are you doing? Stop!"

"...reject you, Alpha Nicolas Blackwood..."

A groan ripped from his throat. He doubled over, clutching his chest as if an invisible arrow had pierced his heart. The bond—that golden, twisted thread that had tethered us for years—began to vibrate, humming with the tension of a snapping violin string. The pain hit me too, a phantom blade slicing through my soul, but I welcomed it. It was better than the numbness.

"...as my mate!"

CRACK.

The sound wasn't physical, but we all heard it. A thunderclap in a quiet room. Nicolas fell to his knees, a guttural roar of agony tearing from his throat. He clawed at the carpet, gasping, his Alpha aura flickering and dying out like a suffocated candle.

I stood there, trembling, tears streaming down my face. It was done. I was breaking us to save myself.

But Simone was faster.

She saw her prize slipping away. If the bond snapped completely, Nicolas would be weakened, perhaps even killed by the shock, and her puppet would be broken. Her eyes darted to the silver letter opener on the desk—a sharp, gleaming blade meant for envelopes, not flesh.

"She's killing him!" Simone shrieked, her voice reaching a pitch that shattered glass. "She's using dark magic!"

Before I could react, Simone snatched the letter opener. She didn't lunge at me. She turned the blade on herself.

With a sickening slice, she dragged the silver edge across her own forearm. Blood, bright and metallic-smelling, sprayed across the desk and onto Nicolas’s face.

"Help me, Alpha! She's trying to kill me!"

The scent of blood hit Nicolas like a physical blow. His head snapped up. The amber in his eyes was gone, swallowed instantly by the void of the feral wolf. The beast didn't see logic. It didn't see the woman who had loved him for a decade. It only smelled blood. It only heard the distress call of the woman he had been brainwashed to protect.

He didn't even stand up fully. He launched himself from the floor, a blur of muscle and violence.

"No!" I raised my hands, a futile gesture against an Alpha's rage.

He collided with me, the impact driving the air from my lungs. I felt the searing heat of claws before I felt the pain. They tore through the silk of my blouse, through skin and muscle, raking across my chest and throat in a vicious, diagonal slash.

I was thrown backward like a ragdoll. My spine collided with the heavy mahogany bookshelf, books tumbling down around me like falling masonry. I slid to the floor, my hands instinctively clutching my throat.

Warmth. So much warmth, soaking my hands, my chest.

I tried to inhale, but all I could do was gurgle. Blood bubbled past my lips, metallic and hot. My vision swam, the edges turning dark and fuzzy.

Across the room, the silence returned. Heavy. Final.

Nicolas stood over the desk, his chest heaving, his claws dripping crimson onto the pristine carpet. The scent of my blood—his mate's blood—finally pierced through the drugs and the rage.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The blackness in his eyes receded, leaving him staring at his own hands in horror.

"Cecilia?" he whispered, his voice trembling.

I couldn't answer. I couldn't breathe. I slumped sideways, my cheek pressing against the cold floor, watching the red pool spread around me like a halo. The last thing I saw was Simone, clutching her arm, a look of pure, satisfied malice on her face as the darkness finally swallowed me whole.

The world didn't fade to black like in the movies. It faded to red. A thick, suffocating crimson that smelled of iron and betrayal. I was floating, drifting away from the pain in my throat and the hollow ache in my womb, but the sounds of the emergency room kept dragging me back.

"BP is dropping! She's crashing!"

"Get the defibrillator! Now!"

I felt the cold press of pads against my chest, then a jolt that lifted my broken body off the table. But I didn't want to go back. Why would I? Back there, I was silent. Back there, my mate had looked at me with eyes full of murder because a liar told him to. Back there, my baby was gone.

Through the glass of the observation window, I saw him. Nicolas. He was slumped against the wall, sliding down until he hit the floor. His hands were gripping his chest, clawing at his dress shirt as if trying to rip out his own heart. The bond. He felt it. He felt the light of my soul flickering out.

Good.

I hoped it hurt. I hoped it burned him the way his rejection had burned me.

"We're losing her! Time of death..."

The machine let out a long, high-pitched whine. A flatline. The sound of freedom.

Dr. Elena Frost looked up at the monitor, then at the window where Nicolas was now pounding on the glass, screaming silently, his Alpha composure shattered. Elena’s eyes met mine—or rather, the empty shell I had left behind. She gave a microscopic nod.

"Call it," she whispered to the nurse, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing. "Luna Cecilia Anderson. Time of death: 11:42 AM."

Darkness finally took me, but it wasn't the end. It was just the intermission.

***

I woke up to the sensation of cold. Bone-deep, shivering cold. The smell of antiseptic was gone, replaced by the scent of pine and exhaust fumes.

"Easy, Cece. Easy now."

The voice was rough, familiar. It smelled like old leather and rainstorms. I forced my heavy eyelids open. I was in the back of a van, strapped to a gurney. Wires were hooked up to a portable machine that beeped rhythmically next to my head.

"Dad?" The word was a mangled croak. My throat felt like it had been shredded.

"Don't speak," Arthur Anderson said, his face looming over me. He looked older than the last time I’d seen him, the silver streaks in his hair more pronounced. He adjusted the IV drip hanging from the van's ceiling. "Your throat... Nicolas did a number on you. Elena stitched it up before we moved you, but you need to rest."

I tried to sit up, panic flaring. "Nicolas... he thinks..."

"He thinks you're dead," my father said grimly. He placed a warm hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down. "They're burying an empty casket right now. A closed casket, out of 'respect' for the damage the Alpha did."

A bitter laugh bubbled in my chest, turning into a cough that rattled my ribs. A funeral for the Luna he killed. I wondered if Simone was there, fake-crying into a handkerchief, or if she was already measuring the windows for new drapes in the Alpha's suite.

"Why?" I rasped. "Why save me?"

Arthur’s expression hardened. The mask of the businessman fell away, revealing the Rogue King beneath. His eyes flashed with a dangerous, predatory light. "Because you are my daughter. And because the Anderson line does not bow to broken Alphas."

The van hit a bump, and I winced. Through the small rear window, I saw snow-capped mountains in the distance. We weren't in New York anymore. We weren't even close.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"The Alps," he said softly. "My stronghold. It’s the only place his reach cannot extend. We have healers there—real ones, not witches like that Whitehall woman. They will fix your throat. They will fix your body."

He paused, looking down at my hands. They were pale, trembling, stained with dried blood under my fingernails. My wedding ring was gone. Elena must have taken it off.

"But the rest," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of a promise, "the rest is up to you. You died today, Cecilia. The silent, obedient girl who let them break her is gone."

I closed my eyes, feeling the vibration of the road beneath me. He was right. That girl had died on the floor of the Alpha's office, choking on her own blood while her mate watched.

I reached up and touched the thick bandages around my neck. Underneath, I knew there would be a scar. A jagged, ugly line to match the one on my womb. But scars were just reminders.

"I want to kill him," I whispered. The thought didn't scare me. It grounded me.

My father smiled, a cold, terrifying expression that mirrored the ice in my own heart. "Good. But death is too easy for Nicolas Blackwood. First, we make him regret he ever learned to howl."

The van sped up, carrying me away from the Blood Moon Pack, away from the pain, and toward a future where I would no longer be the victim. I let the darkness take me again, but this time, I wasn't falling. I was waiting.