"That bite on your neck isn't real. It never was."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My hand flew to my throat, fingers tracing the raised scar tissue where Rowan had claimed me on our wedding night. The mark that had burned with phantom pain in the basement, that had felt hollow and empty instead of severed.

I shoved the car door open so hard it nearly slammed into Beckett's chest. He didn't flinch, didn't step back. Just stood there in the amber glow of the parking lot lights, his purple eyes steady on mine.

"Who the hell are you to tell me what my bond is?" My voice cracked despite my anger. Because even as the words left my mouth, my wolf was going quiet in a way that felt like recognition. Like relief.

Beckett Caine. Council Enforcer. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow caught the light as he tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

"I'm not telling you anything your wolf doesn't already know." His voice was rough velvet, controlled but with something wild underneath. Something that made my pulse spike.

He moved slowly, deliberately, giving me every chance to pull away as his hand rose toward my neck. His fingers stopped a breath away from Rowan's mark, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough that the air between us seemed to crackle.

He didn't touch me. But that single inch of space felt electric, like standing too close to a live wire. My mating mark—the one that should have been sacred, untouchable—tingled under his proximity. Not with the protective burn of a true bond being threatened.

With hunger.

"When did it stop feeling real?" he asked quietly. "When did you start feeling like you were wearing someone else's skin?"

My breath caught. Because he was right. God, he was right. For months now, I'd felt disconnected from my own body, like I was watching my life through frosted glass. I'd blamed it on stress, on the pressures of being Luna to a pack I'd never quite fit into.

"I don't—" I started, then stopped. My hands were shaking. "You're Council Enforcer. What does that have to do with my marriage?"

Beckett's expression darkened. "Everything. I specialize in bond fraud cases, Wren. Fake matings. And Silver Ridge Pack has had three suspicious reports in the last six months."

Bond fraud. The words made my stomach lurch. In wolf law, faking a mating bond was one of the highest crimes possible. It required blood magic, forbidden rituals that could destroy both wolves involved.

"That's impossible," I whispered. "I felt it happen. The ceremony, the bite, the—"

"The blood witch Rowan hired is very good at her job." Beckett pulled a sleek tablet from inside his jacket, the kind of encrypted device I'd only seen in movies. "But she's not perfect. And you're not just any wolf, Wren."

He tapped the screen, and files began appearing. Official Council documents with seals I recognized from my father's old pack records.

"Your mother's bloodline carries Moonborn genetics. One in every five generations, sometimes more. The Council's genealogy department flagged you eighteen months ago."

Moonborn. I'd heard whispers of it growing up—wolves born under certain lunar alignments who developed enhanced abilities. But those were legends, stories told around pack fires.

"Moonborn awaken on their twenty-fifth birthday," Beckett continued, his purple eyes never leaving mine. "Once awakened, they can see through any deception. Any glamour. Any—"

"Any fake mating bond." The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

He nodded grimly. "You turn twenty-five in two months. Rowan didn't marry you because he loved you, Wren. He married you to make sure you never woke up. A false bond suppresses Moonborn awakening. As long as you believed you were mated, your power would stay dormant forever."

The parking lot seemed to tilt around me. Seven years. Seven years of thinking I'd found my soulmate, my other half, the answer to every lonely night I'd spent as a packless wolf.

Seven years of being a prisoner in my own body.

"Show me." My voice was barely above a whisper. "Show me proof."

Beckett hesitated. "This violates protocol. These files are classified—"

"Show me."

Something in my tone made his pupils dilate. For just a moment, the careful control he wore like armor slipped, and I caught a glimpse of something feral underneath. Something that recognized me as more than just another case file.

He unlocked the tablet and turned it toward me.

The first document was a financial transaction. Two months before I'd met Rowan at Cosmic Coffee, he'd paid fifty thousand dollars to someone listed only as "Morgana Blackthorne, Ritual Specialist." The description made my blood run cold: "Bond mimicry ritual. Full sensory deception package."

The second file was worse. Rowan's real background. Not the tragic story of a Beta's son fighting his way to Alpha status, but the truth—born Alpha, heir to the Voss bloodline. A family name that had been struck from official pack records for practicing blood magic.

A family that had been exiled by the Council twenty years ago.

"He lied about everything," I breathed.

Beckett's jaw tightened. "It gets worse."

The third file was a photograph. Recent, taken with a telephoto lens through what looked like a basement window. The image quality was grainy, but clear enough to make my heart stop.

Rowan, kneeling. The stranger from tonight—Dominic something—standing behind him. But this photo captured something the video I'd taken hadn't. A second mark on Rowan's neck, hidden by the collar. Older than mine, scarred over with the distinctive pattern of a true mating bite.

"His what?" My voice came out sharp, cutting.

Beckett closed the tablet. "His original bond mate. The real one. Dominic Voss. Rowan's been mated to him for eight years."

The world went silent. Even the distant hum of Austin traffic faded to nothing as the implications crashed over me. Not just a fake bond. Not just a lie. I was the other woman in my own marriage.

My phone buzzed against my hip, and I realized I'd never turned off airplane mode. But this wasn't a text or call. This was something else—a pulling sensation in my chest, like someone had hooked a fishing line to my ribs and was reeling me in.

The fake bond. Rowan was calling me home through our artificial connection.

But this time, instead of the warm comfort I'd always felt, there was something cold underneath. Something that tasted like a threat.

My mating mark began to burn. Not the familiar ache of separation, but something sharp and wrong. I looked down and gasped.

Black blood was seeping through the scar tissue. Not red like normal blood, but something dark and viscous that smelled like copper and decay.

"Shit." Beckett grabbed my arm, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. His skin was fever-hot, burning through the fabric of my sweater. "He knows you know. We need to move. Now."

But the moment his hand closed around my wrist, something inside me shifted. My wolf, who had spent seven years in artificial submission to a mate who wasn't real, suddenly went quiet. Not the anxious quiet of fear or confusion.

The peaceful quiet of coming home.

My body swayed toward his without my permission, drawn by something primal and undeniable. And from the way Beckett's pupils dilated, the way his grip tightened just slightly on my wrist, I knew he felt it too.

Whatever this was between us, it was real.

And it was dangerous.

His hand was still on my wrist when the black blood hit his skin — and he hissed like it burned.

Beckett jerked back, staring at the dark stain spreading across his knuckles where my blood had touched him. The skin beneath was already blistering, angry red welts forming like he'd been splashed with acid.

"Shit," he muttered, then grabbed my shoulder with his uninjured hand. "Get in the truck. Now."

I didn't argue. The pain radiating from my fake mating mark had escalated from uncomfortable burning to someone driving a white-hot poker through my nerve endings. Every heartbeat sent another wave of agony down my spine, and I could taste copper in the back of my throat.

Beckett's vehicle was a sleek black Rivian R1T, the kind of electric truck that screamed government funding. He practically shoved me into the passenger seat before vaulting behind the wheel, his left hand already reaching for something in the center console.

With his teeth, he tore open what looked like a field dressing packet, then wrapped the gauze around his burned knuckles one-handed while his right hand gripped the steering wheel. The truck pulled away from my neighborhood with barely a whisper of sound.

I pressed both palms against my neck, trying to stem the flow of black blood seeping through Rowan's bite mark. The liquid was warm and viscous, nothing like normal blood. It smelled wrong too — metallic and sweet, with an underlying rot that made my stomach lurch.

"Don't try to stop it," Beckett said without looking at me. His voice was rougher now, strained. "The more you fight the purge, the worse the backlash."

"Purge?" The word came out as a whimper. I bit down on my knuckles to keep from screaming as another wave of pain crashed over me.

"Your body is rejecting the false bond. Seven years of accumulated magical toxins are working their way out of your system." He took a sharp right turn, heading away from Silver Ridge's residential areas toward the darker outskirts of town. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

The enclosed space of the truck cab was rapidly filling with his scent — black pepper and evergreen, with something underneath that reminded me of the electric charge in the air before a thunderstorm. My wolf, who should have been cowering in pain, was instead stretching toward that smell like a cat seeking sunlight.

The betrayal of my own body made me furious. How dare my wolf react to this stranger when I was literally bleeding out a fake marriage?

"Where are you taking me?" I managed to ask through gritted teeth.

Beckett's jaw tightened. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere Rowan can't track you through the bond residue."

Twenty minutes later, he pulled off the main road onto a dirt track that led to what looked like an abandoned fire lookout tower. The structure rose maybe forty feet into the sky, a skeletal metal frame with a small cabin perched at the top. Moonlight filtered through the pine trees, casting everything in silver and shadow.

Beckett killed the engine and turned to face me. In the sudden silence, I could hear both of our breathing — his carefully controlled, mine ragged and uneven.

"I need to treat that wound," he said, his purple eyes reflecting the dashboard lights. "The false bond backlash will intensify over the next forty-eight hours. If we don't purify the contamination now, the black blood will enter your bloodstream and permanently seal your Moonborn abilities."

He reached behind his seat and pulled out what looked like a leather tool roll, the kind mechanics used for precision instruments. But when he unrolled it on the center console, I saw silver needles, dried herbs that seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, and a small vial filled with liquid that pulsed with its own inner light.

"Council standard anti-curse kit," he explained, noticing my stare. "I need to touch the mark directly. It's going to hurt. And your wolf is going to..." He stopped mid-sentence, his hands stilling on the leather case.

"Going to what?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.

His eyes met mine, and something shifted in the air between us. Heavier. More charged.

"React," he said finally. In the dim light, his pupils were dilated enough that I could barely see the purple irises.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The pain in my neck was becoming unbearable anyway — whatever he needed to do couldn't be worse than this.

Beckett moved slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to. His fingertips found the edge of Rowan's bite mark, and the moment his skin touched mine, my entire body arched off the seat.

It wasn't just pain — though the silver needle he was using to trace the wound's edges definitely hurt. It was electricity, pure and shocking, racing from his touch down my spine and spreading to every nerve ending I possessed. My wolf didn't just react.

She howled.

Not in pain. In recognition.

The sound that tore from my throat was barely human, a keening cry that seemed to echo in the small space of the truck cab. Beckett's hand stilled against my neck, his breathing suddenly harsh and uneven.

"Wren." My name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a curse combined.

The glowing liquid from the vial was warm as he applied it to the wound, and I felt the black blood flow slow, then stop entirely. But his hand lingered on my throat longer than necessary, his thumb tracing the line of my collarbone with the barest whisper of pressure.

When he finally pulled away, we were both breathing like we'd been running. Beckett retreated to the driver's seat so fast he nearly hit his head on the roof, then gripped the steering wheel with both hands. I could see his knuckles go white even in the darkness.

"What just happened?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "That wasn't a normal purification reaction."

"No." He still wasn't looking at me. "It wasn't."

"We need to discuss logistics. You can't go back to Silver Ridge tonight. Rowan will have activated the pack's loyalty protocols—"

"Beckett." Something in my tone made him stop talking. "What did your wolf just do?"

The silence stretched between us, filled only with our uneven breathing and the distant sound of crickets outside. Finally, he turned to face me, and what I saw in his eyes made my breath catch.

Fear. Genuine, bone-deep fear.

"It recognized you," he said, each word forced out like he was speaking against his will. "But that's impossible because I don't have a fated mate. Council Enforcers are surgically stripped of their bond receptors at initiation. I literally cannot bond."

His purple eyes held mine in the darkness. "So either the surgery failed. Or you're something that breaks the rules."

That's when my phone screen lit up.

I'd never turned off airplane mode. There should have been no way for any signal to reach me. But there it was — an AirDrop notification.

Someone within thirty feet was trying to send me a file.

The filename made my blood run cold: "WrenCalloway_BloodlineReport_CLASSIFIED.pdf"

Beckett and I looked at each other, then simultaneously turned to check the mirrors. The road behind us was empty, nothing but pine trees and shadows.

But my wolf could feel it — something watching us from the darkness. Something that didn't smell like any shifter I'd ever encountered.

Something that had been waiting for us to arrive.

The file wasn't a report. It was my mother's autopsy — the one my father told me never existed.

My fingers trembled against the tablet screen as the PDF loaded. I'd expected the cold, clinical format of Council documentation. Official seals, bureaucratic language, sanitized conclusions.

Instead, I was staring at photographs.

Detailed, horrifying photographs of my mother's body on a steel table. Elara Calloway, age twenty-six, cause of death listed as "postpartum complications" — the story I'd been told my entire life. She died bringing me into this world, a tragic but natural consequence of a difficult birth.

But the conclusion at the bottom of the report told a different story entirely.

"Cause of death: Moonborn power extraction, forcible. Extensive internal hemorrhaging consistent with magical energy drain. Subject expired during active ritual."

The words blurred as my vision went white around the edges. Someone had murdered my mother. Not during childbirth — during a ritual designed to steal her abilities.

I scrolled to the final page with numb fingers, past detailed anatomical drawings that made my stomach lurch, past toxicology reports showing traces of blood magic in her system. At the bottom was a signature line.

"Extraction Authorized By:"

One name. A name I recognized with sickening clarity.

Alpha Marcus Calloway. Silver Hollow Pack.

My father.

The tablet slipped from my hands as my body rebelled against the information. I shoved the truck door open and stumbled onto the dirt road, falling to my knees as my stomach emptied itself violently. Dry heaves wracked my body even after there was nothing left to expel.

Beckett's boots appeared in my peripheral vision, but he stopped three steps away. He didn't touch me, didn't offer empty comfort. He just stood there, his scent forming a warm barrier between me and the cold night air.

When I could finally breathe again, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and looked up at him. "Who sent this file? And why now?"

His purple eyes were unreadable in the moonlight. "Someone who knows you're about to awaken. Someone who knows Rowan's real mission."

"Which is?"

"Think about it, Wren." Beckett's voice was carefully controlled, but I could hear the fury underneath. "Moonborn abilities don't just disappear when they're extracted. They have to go somewhere."

The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. "A container. An artifact."

"According to this report, your mother's power was transferred to something called a lunar focus stone. And the blood magic signature used to create it..." He gestured toward the tablet. "It matches the signature on Rowan's fake mating bite."

The Voss family. The same bloodline that had been exiled for practicing forbidden magic. The same family that Dominic belonged to.

"Rowan wasn't just sent to suppress me," I said, my voice eerily calm. "He was sent to extract me. Just like they extracted her."

Beckett nodded grimly. "The fake bond was Phase One. It kept your abilities dormant while they prepared. Phase Two is—"

"My twenty-fifth birthday." The words came out flat, emotionless. "They're going to drain me when I awaken. Just like they drained her."

I stood slowly, my legs shaky but functional. The rage building in my chest was clean and cold, burning away the last traces of nausea. For twenty-four years, I'd mourned a mother I thought had died in childbirth. I'd carried guilt for being the cause of her death.

Now I knew the truth. She'd been murdered. By my own father. To feed some twisted magical ritual.

Beckett was watching me carefully, like I might shatter or explode at any moment. "We need to get you somewhere safe. The Council has safe houses—"

"No." The word came out harder than I'd intended. "I'm going back to Silver Ridge."

His eyes widened. "Wren, that's suicide. If Rowan suspects—"

"If I run, they'll find another Moonborn in the next generation." I turned to face him fully, and something in my expression made him take a step back. "This ends with me."

"You're walking back into a cage with the man who—"

"Who what? Faked a bond with me? Served a master who killed my mother?" I felt that strange silver light flicker behind my eyes again, stronger this time. "I've been in that cage for three years, Beckett. The only difference is now I know where the lock is."

Beckett ran both hands through his dark hair, his careful composure finally cracking. "This is insane. You have no backup, no training—"

"I have two weeks before the fake bond completely collapses." I was surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "Two weeks where Rowan can still sense my emotions through the artificial connection. He needs to think I only discovered the affair, not the deeper conspiracy."

The plan was forming as I spoke, crystallizing with frightening clarity. "I go back. I play the heartbroken wife who wants to save her marriage. I make him believe his cover is intact."

"And then?"

"Then I find out exactly how they killed my mother. And I make sure they never do it to anyone else."

Beckett stared at me for a long moment, conflict warring across his features. Finally, he sighed. "If you're determined to do this, you'll need backup. I can enter Silver Ridge officially as a Council investigator. It'll give you a legitimate reason to have contact with me."

"Rowan will be suspicious."

"Let him be. Council investigations are routine after bond fraud reports. He'll have to cooperate or risk exposing himself." Beckett pulled out his phone. "But we need a way to communicate that he can't monitor through the fake bond."

He reached into his jacket and withdrew something small and silver — a coin about the size of a quarter, engraved with the Council's lunar crescent symbol.

"Bite it," he said, holding it out to me.

I stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Your wolf's saliva will activate the enchantment. It'll let us communicate through dreams. Rowan won't be able to detect it through the fake bond."

I took the coin, surprised by how warm it felt against my palm. The metal seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.

When my canine teeth pressed into the coin's edge, two things happened simultaneously.

The lunar crescent on its surface shifted and rearranged itself into a different symbol — one I recognized from old photographs in my mother's jewelry box. The Calloway family crest.

And Beckett made a sound that was barely human. A low, rumbling growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. Not pain.

Possession.

The sound an Alpha made when his fated mate touched something that belonged to him.

His purple eyes met mine in the darkness, and the fear was back. But underneath it, burning like molten silver, was something that made my breath catch.

Hunger.