The rain in Seattle never washed anything clean; it only made the filth of the Darkmoon Pack stick to my skin like a second layer of shame.

"Kneel."

The command crashed into my shoulders, heavier than physical lead. It was the Alpha Tone. My knees hit the cold linoleum of the hospital floor with a sickening crack, my body betraying my will as it always did when Alpha Grayson Richardson spoke.

"Seven years, Wrenlee," Grayson’s voice was low, a rumble of thunder that vibrated in my chest, triggering the mate bond I loathed. He stood over me, his shadow swallowing my trembling form. "Seven years since you burned her. Look at her."

I couldn't look away. My head was forced up by the sheer pressure of his aura. On the pristine white hospital bed lay Sage, my sister. She looked like a sleeping princess, her chest rising and falling in the magical stasis that had held her since the fire. Her skin was glowing, pampered daily by nurses, while I... I looked like something the cat dragged in and the dog refused to eat. My hands were raw from scrubbing the pack house floors, my Omega uniform hanging loosely on my malnourished frame.

"Pray for forgiveness," Grayson spat, his polished dress shoes inches from my face. "And don't stop until I say so."

The pack guards stationed at the door snickered. To them, I wasn't the Alpha's fated mate. I was the jealous monster who tried to kill the future Luna. I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking out to mix with the grime on my cheeks. I didn't pray to the Moon Goddess for forgiveness. I prayed for death. Or at least, for silence.

Hours later, Grayson finally dismissed me for a fifteen-minute meal break. It was a calculated mercy—just enough time to keep his slave alive, but not enough to rest.

I didn't go to the mess hall. I ran through the pouring rain toward the servant’s quarters, my heart hammering against my ribs. I needed to see Buster. My golden retriever was the only living soul in this territory who didn't look at me with hatred. He was the only warmth I had left.

But as I rounded the corner to the shed where I slept, the air smelled wrong. It smelled of copper and wet fur.

"Buster?" I called out, my voice cracking.

A supply truck was idling near the loading dock, the driver arguing with a guard about a schedule mix-up. They ignored the heap of golden fur lying in the mud a few yards away.

"No... no, no, no!" I skidded to my knees, mud soaking through my thin pants.

Buster was whimpering, a sound so high and broken it shattered what little composure I had left. His back legs were twisted at an unnatural angle, crushed. Blood was pooling dark and thick in the rainwater. He tried to wag his tail when he saw me, but only managed a weak thump against the ground.

"I've got you, baby, I've got you," I sobbed, trying to scoop him up. He was heavy, dead weight, and he yelped in agony as I moved him. Panic overrode my fear of the Alpha. Panic overrode everything.

I dragged him to my rusted sedan—a piece of junk I’d salvaged from the scrapyard years ago. I shoved Buster into the backseat, his blood staining the torn upholstery. I didn't care. I jumped into the driver's seat, my hands shaking so hard I dropped the keys twice before the engine sputtered to life.

I floored it. The car fishtailed in the mud, roaring toward the pack gates. The vet clinic was only three miles out. I could save him. I had to save him.

I was fifty yards from the exit when a sleek black SUV swerved in front of me, blocking the road.

I slammed on the brakes, my head whipping forward. Through the rain-slicked windshield, I saw him. Grayson stepped out of the SUV, not a drop of rain seeming to touch his immaculate suit. He didn't look like a mate; he looked like a grim reaper.

I scrambled out of the car, falling into a puddle. "Move!" I screamed, hysteria clawing at my throat. "Please, Grayson! He's dying!"

Grayson walked toward me slowly, his eyes flashing amber—his wolf was near the surface, angry at my audacity. "You left your post, Omega. Your penance isn't over."

"It's Buster!" I pointed frantically to the car where the dog’s whimpers were growing fainter. "The supply truck hit him. I need to get to the vet! Please, I’ll do anything, just let me pass!"

Grayson glanced at the rusted car, his expression devoid of empathy. He looked at me, shivering and covered in my dog's blood, and sneered. "A slave's mutt isn't worth a vet bill."

"He's not a mutt! He's all I have!" I lunged for the car door, desperate to drive around him.

Grayson didn't even move. He just flicked his hand. "Gamma Marcus. Stop her."

Marcus, the pack’s Gamma, stepped out from behind the SUV. In one fluid motion, he drew a jagged combat knife and slashed my front tires. *Hiss.* The car slumped forward, just like my heart.

"No!" I screamed, a raw, animalistic sound tearing from my throat. I tried to run to the car, to pick Buster up and carry him, but Grayson grabbed my arm. His grip was iron, bruising my skin instantly.

"You will learn your place, Wrenlee," he growled, his Alpha aura crushing the air out of my lungs. He spun me around, forcing me to face the backseat window. "Watch."

"Let me go! Let me save him!" I thrashed, scratching at his hand, but I was weak, wolfless, and starving. He held me there as the rain pounded against the roof of the car.

Inside, Buster lifted his head one last time. His brown eyes met mine through the glass. There was no accusation in them, only confusion. He let out a soft exhale, a puff of fog against the window, and then his head dropped.

The light in his eyes vanished.

I went limp in Grayson’s grip. The scream that had been building in my chest died, replaced by a cold, hollow silence. The rain washed the blood from my hands, but it would never wash this memory from my soul.

Grayson released me, shoving me toward the mud. "Clean yourself up. You have a vigil to keep."

I didn’t have a shovel. The Darkmoon Pack didn’t waste tools on slaves, even for a burial.

So, I used my hands.

The forest floor was a tangle of roots and unforgiving clay, made slick by the relentless Seattle rain. My fingernails broke, tearing down to the quick, and the mud that packed into the wounds stung like acid. I didn’t care. The physical pain was a distraction, a grounding tether that kept me from screaming until my throat bled.

Buster lay beside me, wrapped in my only blanket—a moth-eaten wool thing I’d had since I was sixteen. He looked small now. The life that had filled him, the unconditional love that had been the only thing keeping me sane in this hellhole, was gone. Extinguished because I wasn’t fast enough. Because I wasn’t important enough.

"I'm sorry, boy," I whispered, my voice a cracked ruin. "You deserved better than me."

I pushed the last mound of wet earth over his body, patting it down with trembling, bloody hands. I didn't mark the grave. Grayson would only desecrate it if he found it. This patch of woods, hidden behind the thorny brush near the border, would be our secret.

As I sat there in the mud, soaked to the bone, something inside me snapped. It wasn't a loud crack like a bone breaking; it was a quiet, final severance. For seven years, I had felt the pull of the mate bond toward Grayson—a pathetic, one-sided tug of longing that survived even his cruelty. My wolf might have been dormant, but my soul knew he was mine.

But as I looked at the dirt covering my dog, that pull froze. The heat that usually flared in my chest when I thought of the Alpha turned to ice. Absolute, shattering ice.

I stood up. My legs were numb, but my mind was crystal clear for the first time in a decade.

I walked back to the servant’s quarters, ignoring the stinging rain. Inside my small, damp shed, I knelt by the corner of the room and pried up a loose floorboard. Beneath it, wrapped in layers of plastic and an old t-shirt, was a burner phone and a solar charger. I had stolen it from a Rogue years ago, keeping it alive for a day I hoped would never come.

My hands shook as I powered it on. The screen flickered to life with 12% battery. I didn't hesitate. I dialed the number I had memorized a lifetime ago.

It rang once.

"Wren?" The voice on the other end was deep, calm, and laced with an authority that didn't need to shout to be heard. Calvin.

"He killed Buster," I said. My voice didn't sound like my own. It was devoid of emotion, hollowed out by grief.

There was a pause, a heavy silence that spanned an ocean. "I'm coming."

"No," I said, gripping the phone tight enough to crack the casing. "Not just to save me. I have a trade to make."

***

Twenty minutes later, I walked into the main Pack House.

The Gamma at the door wrinkled his nose at my scent—wet dog, mud, and death—but he didn't stop me. I wasn't moving like the cowering Omega they were used to. I walked with the dead-eyed focus of a ghost.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors to Alpha Grayson’s office without knocking.

Grayson was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand. He looked up, his lip curling in disgust as he took in my appearance. I was dripping muddy water onto his pristine Persian rug, my hands caked in dried blood and dirt.

"You have some nerve, Omega," Grayson growled, his Alpha aura flaring to fill the room. Usually, this pressure would force me to my knees. Today, I just stood there. The ice in my chest was a shield his aura couldn't penetrate.

"I'm done," I said. The words were quiet, flat.

Grayson set his glass down hard. "You're done when I say you're done. Get back to the hospital. Sage needs—"

"Sage needs a miracle," I cut him off. The interruption stunned him into silence. No one interrupted the Alpha. "And you know the pack doctor can't wake her. She's been asleep for seven years, Grayson. She's fading."

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His eyes flashed amber. "Watch your tongue, or I'll remove it."

"I can wake her."

The lie—or rather, the promise—hung in the air. Grayson narrowed his eyes, searching my face for the deceit he always claimed to see. "You? You're a wolfless curse. You can't even heal a scratch, let alone a magical coma."

"I can't," I agreed, stepping forward. I placed my muddy hands on the edge of his expensive desk, leaning in. "But Calvin O'Brien can."

Grayson froze. The name hit him like a physical blow. Calvin O'Brien wasn't just a doctor; he was the Head Healer of the Royal Lycan Pack in Europe. He was a legend. He was unreachable for a mid-tier Alpha like Grayson.

"You're lying," Grayson breathed, though doubt flickered in his eyes. "How would a slave know the Royal Healer?"

"That doesn't matter," I said coldly. "I have him on speed dial. He owes me a favor. I can have him here by tomorrow morning. He can bring Sage back to you."

Grayson stared at me, his chest heaving. The desperation to have his beloved Sage back was warring with his hatred for me. Desperation won. It always did.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Money? A better room?"

"I want out."

I held his gaze, my brown eyes clashing with his glowing amber ones. "I will bring Calvin here. He will wake Sage. And the moment she opens her eyes, you will accept my formal Rejection."

The room went silent. For a werewolf, rejection was the ultimate shame, a scarring of the soul. But for me, it was the only key to the cage.

Grayson let out a harsh, barking laugh. He looked at me with pure contempt. "You want me to reject you? You think that's a punishment? Wrenlee, being mated to you has been the greatest shame of my life. Breaking that bond would be a gift."

"Then do we have a deal?" I didn't flinch at his cruelty. His words couldn't hurt me anymore. You can't break something that's already dust.

"Fine," Grayson sneered, sitting back down and waving his hand dismissively. "Bring the Lycan. If Sage wakes up, you get your rejection. I'll throw you out of the territory myself."

"And if you're lying," he added, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "I will bury you in the woods right next to your mutt."

I turned around and walked to the door, leaving muddy footprints on the hardwood. I didn't look back.

"Deal," I whispered to the empty hallway.

The clock was ticking. Sage would wake up. And when she did, I would burn this pack to the ground with the truth.

The rain in Seattle was usually a chaotic, drumming noise that drowned out the world. But today, the silence was deafening.

The entire Darkmoon Pack stood in formation along the winding driveway leading to the Pack House. Alpha Grayson stood at the front, his posture rigid, his suit immaculate despite the damp mist clinging to the air. Beside him, Gamma Marcus shifted his weight nervously. Behind them, the Deltas and Omegas had their heads bowed, terrified of making a mistake.

And then there was me.

I stood ten feet away from Grayson, separated by a puddle of muddy water that felt like an ocean. I was wearing my best uniform—which was still a ragged, gray scrub set two sizes too big. My hands were clean, scrubbed raw to remove the dirt from Buster's grave, but I could still feel the phantom weight of the earth under my fingernails.

Two days. That’s how long it had taken for the convoy to cross the border. Two days of Grayson pacing his office, barking orders, trying to figure out if I was bluffing.

I wasn’t.

The rumble of engines broke the silence first. Then, the headlights cut through the gloom. Six black SUVs, sleek and armored, rounded the bend. On their hoods, small diplomatic flags snapped in the wind—the crest of the Royal Lycan Pack. A golden wolf on a field of crimson.

A collective shiver went through the Darkmoon ranks. We were a strong pack, but we were wolves. These were Lycans. They were bigger, faster, and ancient. Their bloodline was closer to the Moon Goddess herself.

The lead SUV rolled to a stop right in front of Grayson. The engine cut. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the back door opened.

The aura hit us before his boots even touched the pavement. It wasn't the crushing, suffocating weight of an Alpha’s command. It was heavier, denser, like the pressure at the bottom of the ocean. It didn't demand submission; it simply existed, and your soul instinctively wanted to kneel before it.

Calvin O’Brien stepped out.

He looked exactly as I remembered from the brief video calls we’d shared over the years, only more imposing in the flesh. He was tall, with broad shoulders filling out a dark charcoal coat. His hair was a sandy blond, cropped short, and his eyes were a piercing, intelligent blue.

Grayson stepped forward, his chest puffed out, trying to project his own Alpha dominance to counter the Lycan pressure. "Welcome to Darkmoon territory, Beta O'Brien. I am Alpha Grayson."

He extended his hand.

Calvin didn't even look at it. He didn't look at Grayson at all. His gaze swept over the line of trembling wolves, over the grand facade of the Pack House, and landed squarely on me.

He walked right past the Alpha.

A murmur of shock rippled through the pack. To ignore an Alpha’s hand was a grave insult. Grayson’s hand dropped to his side, curling into a fist. A low, vibrating growl started in his chest—his wolf, insulted and agitated.

Calvin didn't care. He stopped in front of me. I must have looked pathetic—a soaking wet, shivering Omega with hollow cheeks and dead eyes. But Calvin’s expression softened. The icy authority vanished, replaced by a warmth that made my throat tight.

"Wren," he said softly.

"Calvin," I whispered, my voice cracking.

He didn't care about the mud. He didn't care about the pack watching. He pulled me into a hug, his arms wrapping around me like a shield. For the first time in seven years, I wasn't being shoved, hit, or dragged. I was being held.

I didn't cry. I had no tears left. I just buried my face in his expensive coat, breathing in the scent of pine and old magic.

*Grrrroooowl.*

The sound ripped through the air, loud and aggressive. Grayson had turned around, his eyes flashing a dangerous amber. His lips were pulled back, baring his teeth. Even though he had rejected me in his heart, his wolf was furious seeing another male touching his fated mate.

"That is enough," Grayson barked, his Alpha Tone lashing out. "Step away from the Omega."

Calvin released me slowly, but he didn't step back. He turned to face Grayson, his expression bored. He adjusted his cuffs, his movements languid and unbothered.

"Your hospitality needs work, Alpha Richardson," Calvin said, his voice smooth and cool. "I greet an old friend, and you growl at a Royal emissary?"

"She is a servant," Grayson spat, pointing a shaking finger at me. "And a criminal. She is not your friend."

"She is the reason I am here," Calvin corrected, his blue eyes hardening into steel. "Without her, your sister rots. Remember that."

Grayson’s jaw worked, grinding his teeth together. He was trapped. He needed Calvin, and Calvin knew it.

"Fine," Grayson snapped, straightening his jacket. "Gamma Marcus will show you and your men to the VIP wing in the Pack House. Wrenlee, get back to the servants' quarters. You’re dismissed until—"

"No," Calvin interrupted. It wasn't a shout, but the word landed with the weight of a gavel.

Grayson blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Wrenlee stays with me," Calvin said calmly, gesturing to the Lycan guards who were now flanking us. "The healing ritual requires a tether. She is the connection to the patient's past. She needs to be close by."

"The servants' quarters are behind the main house," Grayson argued, his face flushing red. "That is close enough for a slave."

Calvin took a step forward. The Royal Beta aura flared, sharp and suffocating. The Darkmoon warriors behind Grayson stumbled back, whining involuntarily. Even Grayson had to brace his legs to keep from buckling.

"I do not sleep in a house where my key to the ritual sleeps in the mud," Calvin said, his voice dropping an octave. "She takes the suite next to mine. Or we leave now, and you can explain to your pack why their beloved Sage never woke up."

The silence stretched, tense and brittle. Rain dripped from Grayson’s nose. He looked from Calvin to me, hatred burning in his amber eyes. He hated that I had power. He hated that he was losing control.

"Fine," Grayson choked out, the word tasting like bile. "Give her the Blue Suite. But if she touches anything of value, I'll take it out of her hide."

"I'd like to see you try," Calvin murmured, too low for the pack to hear, but loud enough for Grayson.

Calvin placed a hand on the small of my back, guiding me toward the massive oak doors of the Pack House—the front entrance, which I hadn't been allowed to use since I was sixteen.

"Walk with your head up, Wren," he whispered to me. "You aren't a prisoner today."

Ten minutes later, I stood in the center of the Blue Suite. It was bigger than the entire shed I had lived in for seven years. There was a king-sized bed with white linens, a fireplace crackling with warmth, and a bathroom that smelled of lavender soap.

I walked into the bathroom and turned the handle. Steam rose instantly. Hot water.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was gaunt, my eyes shadowed, but there was something else there now. A spark. A tiny, dangerous ember that hadn't been there before Buster died.

I stripped off the gray rags and let them drop to the floor. As the hot water hit my scarred skin, washing away the mud and the scent of the grave, I made a silent vow.

Grayson thought this was just a housing dispute. He didn't realize that by letting me in here, by letting me feel human again, he had made a fatal mistake.

He had given me a taste of strength.

And I was hungry for more.