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.

The dress lay on the bed like a pool of midnight water. It was silk, long-sleeved, and high-necked—a garment designed to hide every scar, burn, and bruise Grayson had inflicted on me over the last seven years.

"Put it on," Calvin said from the doorway, his back turned to give me privacy. "Tonight, you are not a slave. You are my guest."

My hands trembled as I shed the hotel robe and slid the silk over my skin. It felt alien. For years, I had known only rough cotton and wool that scratched against my raw skin. The silk was cool, smooth, and forgiving. I looked in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the woman staring back. My cheeks were still hollow, my eyes haunted, but the dress gave me an armor of elegance. I looked like the Luna I was born to be, not the Omega I had been forced to become.

I stepped out into the hallway. Calvin offered me his arm. "Ready to make him squirm?"

"More than anything," I whispered.

We walked down the grand staircase to the dining hall. The scent of roasted venison and rosemary wafted up, a smell I knew intimately because I had cooked this meal a thousand times for the pack. But tonight, I wouldn't be serving it.

The double doors swung open.

Grayson was already seated at the head of the long mahogany table. He was laughing at something Gamma Marcus said, a glass of wine in his hand. But when we entered, the laughter died in his throat.

He stood up slowly, his chair scraping against the floor. His amber eyes locked onto me, widening in shock. He scanned me from head to toe, his gaze lingering on the curve of my waist in the silk dress. For a second, I saw the flash of his wolf—pure, possessive hunger. He took a step toward me, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled my scent, which wasn't masked by mud and blood for the first time in years.

Then he remembered who I was.

His face hardened, the desire replaced by a mask of cold fury. He looked at Calvin’s hand on my arm, and a low growl vibrated in his chest.

"Sit," he barked, gesturing to the far end of the table.

Calvin ignored him, pulling out the chair to Grayson’s immediate right—the seat of honor. "She sits here."

Grayson’s jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He sat back down, his eyes flicking to the empty chair at the other end of the table. Sage’s chair. It had been set with a full place setting, as if she might wake up and walk in at any moment. It was a macabre shrine to the ghost that haunted us all.

The dinner was suffocating. The clinking of silverware sounded like sword strikes. Grayson downed his wine in one gulp, his eyes never leaving my face. He looked like a man starving, furious that the food he wanted was forbidden.

"The ritual begins at dawn," Calvin said, cutting his steak with precise, surgical movements. "I will need access to the patient's medical history."

"You have it," Grayson grunted. He reached for the wine bottle, but it was out of reach. Without thinking, he snapped his fingers at me.

"Wine. Now."

It was the Alpha Command. It hit me like a physical slap. My body jerked, my muscles contracting to obey before my mind could protest. I reached for the bottle, my hand shaking violently. The old conditioning was too strong; the fear was too deep.

"Stop," Calvin said.

"She is an Omega," Grayson snarled, his voice rising, layering the command with more pressure. "Pour the damn wine, Wrenlee!"

My fingers brushed the cold glass of the bottle. I couldn't breathe. The command was crushing my lungs.

*Smash!*

Grayson’s empty wine glass exploded. Shards of crystal flew across the table, some embedding in the expensive tablecloth. Red wine splattered onto Grayson’s pristine white shirt like a gunshot wound.

Silence fell over the room. Grayson froze, wine dripping from his chin. He looked at his hand, then at Calvin.

Calvin hadn't moved. His hand was resting flat on the table, but the air around him was crackling with raw Lycan energy. It was a warning shot, powerful enough to shatter glass without lifting a finger.

"Wrenlee is under Royal protection," Calvin said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "If you use your Alpha Tone on her again, the next thing to shatter will be your jaw."

Grayson wiped the wine from his face, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. But he didn't speak. He couldn't. The power gap was too wide.

"I... lost my appetite," Grayson hissed. He threw his napkin onto the table and stormed out of the hall, Gamma Marcus scrambling to follow him.

As soon as the heavy doors slammed shut, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Calvin looked at me, a small, triumphant smile playing on his lips.

"Now," he murmured. "Go."

I nodded. While the pack was distracted by their Alpha’s temper tantrum, the corridors would be empty.

I slipped out the side door, moving like a shadow in my silk dress. I didn't head to the Blue Suite. I headed down, to the basement levels where the hum of cooling fans filled the air.

The server room.

The keypad was old, a model installed ten years ago. Grayson never updated the security; he thought physical strength was the only defense that mattered. He didn't understand the power of data.

I punched in the code: *0-5-0-5*. My birthday. I had set up the admin backdoor when I was thirteen, just a bored kid trying to bypass the parental controls to watch movies. I prayed the account was still active.

*Access Granted.*

The green light blinked in the darkness. I pushed the door open and hurried to the main terminal. My fingers flew across the keyboard.

*Username: Admin_Wren*

*Password: B-u-s-t-e-r-1*

The screen flickered, and then the desktop appeared. I nearly sobbed with relief. I navigated quickly through the folders. *System Logs. Security Archives. Year: 2017.*

There it was. The folder labeled "INCIDENT_FIRE_CORRUPTED". Grayson’s tech team had tried to delete it years ago, but they were incompetent. They had only corrupted the index file. The raw footage was still there, sitting in the backup partition.

I pulled the USB cable from my pocket, connecting my phone to the terminal. I found the file from Camera 04—the hallway outside Sage’s room on the night of the fire.

*Copying... 45%... 78%...*

Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Heavy boots. A guard on patrol.

*99%...*

"Come on," I whispered, sweat beading on my forehead.

*Transfer Complete.*

I yanked the cord out just as the doorknob turned. I ducked behind the server rack, holding my breath. The beam of a flashlight swept over the terminal, then the empty chair. The guard grunted, seemingly satisfied, and the door clicked shut.

I slumped against the warm metal of the server, clutching my phone to my chest. On that screen was a video of Sage Harrison pouring gasoline on her own bedroom floor.

I had the match. Now, all I had to do was wait for the right moment to light the fuse.