I managed to walk back to the Pack House without collapsing, though my legs felt like they were made of water. Every step sent a jolt of nausea through me, not from illness, but from the horrific image burned into my mind: Jameson’s hand on Giana’s stomach. My mate, poisoning me.

When I entered our suite, Jameson was already there, pouring the green sludge from a carafe into my crystal goblet. The smell hit me instantly—kale, apples, and death.

"You're late for your dose, Juliet," he said, his voice laced with that fake concern that used to make me feel cherished. Now, it just made my skin crawl.

"I... I was feeling faint," I lied, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I went for fresh air."

He walked over, the glass extended. "Then you need this more than ever. Drink up. For our future."

I took the glass. My hands trembled, and he mistook it for weakness. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—a sharp, demanding sound. As he turned to check it, probably a message from her, I tipped the contents of the glass into the dense fern potted by the window. The soil drank the poison greedily.

"All gone," I whispered as he turned back.

"Good girl." He took the empty glass, satisfied.

That night, hell found me.

Without the fresh dose of wolfsbane to suppress my system, my body went into violent withdrawal. I lay curled in the guest room—I couldn't bear to sleep in his bed—shaking so hard my teeth chattered. It felt like my blood was boiling, like my bones were trying to rearrange themselves. Sweat soaked the sheets, cold and sticky.

But beneath the agony, something stirred.

For months, my inner space had been a silent void. Now, through the haze of pain, I felt a flicker. A growl. It was weak, distant, like a radio signal cutting through static, but it was there. My wolf was fighting back. She wasn't dead; she was angry.

By morning, the fever broke, leaving me exhausted but mentally sharper than I had been in years. I needed to know the extent of his betrayal.

I waited until Jameson left the estate in his black SUV. Usually, the Luna stays to tend the pack, but today, I grabbed the keys to my old sedan and followed him. I kept my distance, masking my scent as best I could, trailing him into the human city.

He stopped at a high-end jeweler, the kind with armed guards and velvet ropes. I parked across the street, pulling my hood up. Through the large glass display window, I watched him.

Jameson leaned over the counter, inspecting something with a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in a long time. The sales clerk handed him a small object. Even from this distance, my enhanced wolf vision—slowly returning—caught the glint of silver.

It was a charm. A tiny, delicate silver wolf pup, curled up in sleep.

My breath hitched in my throat. A pup charm. In our tradition, a male gave this to his mate when they were expecting, a promise of protection for the unborn.

A treacherous, foolish hope bloomed in my chest. Had he stopped the poison? Was he planning to confess? Maybe he had realized what he was losing. Maybe, just maybe, he had bought it for me, a symbol that we would try again, for real this time.

I drove back to the territory with my heart in my throat, that silver charm dangling in my mind like a lifeline.

The monthly Pack Gathering was held that evening in the Great Hall. Long wooden tables were laden with roasted meats and wine. The air was thick with laughter and the scent of shifting bodies. As Luna, I sat at the head table beside Jameson. He played the part of the benevolent Alpha perfectly, gripping my hand on top of the table for everyone to see.

"Tonight, we celebrate the strength of the Dark River!" Jameson bellowed, raising his goblet. The pack cheered, banging their fists on the tables. "Our future is bright. Our legacy is secure!"

His other hand, the one hidden beneath the tablecloth, moved.

I felt the shift in his posture. I glanced down, just a fraction. His hand was passing a small velvet box to someone passing by the head table.

Giana.

She paused, ostensibly to pick up a dropped napkin. Her fingers brushed his, snatching the box with practiced ease. She didn't look at him. She looked at me.

I froze, my blood turning to ice.

Giana walked back to her seat at a lower-ranked table, surrounded by her giggling friends. With slow, deliberate movements, she opened the box. She pulled out the silver charm—the sleeping pup I had seen in the city.

She clipped it onto her charm bracelet, the silver glinting under the chandelier lights. Then, she raised her eyes to meet mine across the crowded hall.

She didn't say a word. She didn't have to. She stroked the charm, then rested her hand on her stomach, a smirk curling her red lips.

The noise of the hall faded into a dull roar. The hope I had nursed in the car shattered, the shards piercing my lungs. The charm wasn't a promise of a new beginning for us. It was a trophy for her.

Jameson squeezed my hand on the table, smiling at his pack, oblivious to the fact that he had just severed the last thread holding me to him.

"Smile, Juliet," he murmured out of the side of his mouth, his tone commanding. "The pack is watching."

I looked at him, then at Giana, who was now laughing, flaunting the symbol of my stolen future.

"Yes," I whispered, my voice hollow. "They are watching."

The female changing rooms were thick with the scent of excitement and synthetic spandex. The pack was preparing for the ceremonial full moon run, a tradition that used to be the highlight of my month. Now, it felt like a funeral procession. I moved mechanically, opening my locker to retrieve my running gear, trying to make myself as small as possible.

"You're not actually running, are you?"

The voice was like syrup laced with arsenic. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Giana. The chatter in the room didn't die down—no one paid attention to the barren Luna anymore—but the air around us grew heavy.

I turned slowly. Giana stood just inches from me. She wasn't wearing her running gear yet. She wore a loose oversized shirt, and her eyes danced with a malicious secret.

"I am the Luna," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "I run with my pack."

Giana let out a soft, pitying laugh. She stepped closer, invading my personal space, forcing me to smell the cloying mixture of vanilla and... Jameson. His scent was all over her. It was stronger than it had ever been on me.

"You really don't get it, do you?" she whispered. With a slow, deliberate movement, she gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it down over one shoulder.

I gasped, the sound sucked out of the room by the sheer horror of what I saw. There, marring the smooth skin of her neck, was a bite mark. It was angry, red, and swollen. It wasn't just a love bite; it was a Claiming Mark.

Jameson’s mark.

My knees buckled, and I grabbed the locker door to stay upright. He hadn't just bred with her. He had claimed her. He had bonded with her while I slept in the guest room, shaking from his poison.

"He says you're too fragile to break," Giana hissed, leaning in until her lips brushed my ear. "But I'm strong enough to breed. You're just a pretty doll he keeps on a shelf, Juliet. A decoration. I am the reality."

She pulled her shirt back up, patting her slight baby bump with a smirk, and sauntered away. I stood frozen, the metal of the locker biting into my palms. I wasn't a wife. I wasn't a mate. I was a pet he was slowly euthanizing.

If I stayed, I would die. It was that simple. Once her pup was born, Jameson would have no use for his 'pretty doll.'

I didn't run that night. I feigned a migraine—a lie Jameson accepted with a dismissive wave of his hand—and retreated to the Pack House.

The weather forecast promised a torrential downpour by midnight. It was my only chance. The rain would wash away my scent, and the thunder would hide the sound of my escape. I moved with a frantic energy, ignoring the lingering aches in my joints.

I grabbed a nondescript backpack, stuffing it with cash I had squirreled away from the household budget, a first aid kit, and every pouch of scent-masking herbs I could find in the pantry. I didn't pack clothes. I didn't pack photos. I took nothing that belonged to the life of Luna Juliet.

My gaze fell on the ceremonial Luna robes hanging in the closet—heavy velvet embroidered with the Dark River crest. I had worn them on my mating day. I had worn them to every ceremony, standing proudly beside the man who was killing me.

I ripped them off the hanger. They felt heavy, like chains.

The fire in the hearth was dying, but I stoked it until the flames roared. With a sob that tore through my chest, I threw the robes into the fire. The velvet caught instantly. I watched the silver thread of the crest turn black and crumble into ash. The symbol of my enslavement, burning away. I wasn't Luna anymore. I was just Juliet.

Midnight came with a crack of thunder that shook the house. The rain hammered against the roof, a deafening drumbeat of freedom.

I walked into Jameson’s bedroom one last time. He was still out on the run, hunting with his mistress. The room smelled of him—cedar and rain—a scent I used to crave.

On his nightstand sat a vintage wooden box. It was where he used to keep the love letters I wrote him during our courtship. I opened it. The letters were gone, replaced by pack reports and receipts.

I pulled the folded document from my pocket. It wasn't a letter. It was a formal rejection paper, signed in my own blood, a ritualistic severance of ties. I placed it inside the box and snapped the lid shut.

*Goodbye, Jameson.*

I slipped out through the servant’s entrance at the back of the kitchen. The storm hit me like a physical blow. The wind howled, and the rain was freezing, soaking me to the bone in seconds. The mud in the garden was ankle-deep, sucking at my boots with every step.

I dropped to my knees near the garden’s edge, scooping up handfuls of the wet, dark earth. I smeared it over my arms, my neck, and my face, mixing it with the scent-masking herbs. It was cold and gritty, but it was necessary. I had to become part of the earth. I had to disappear.

My body screamed in protest. The withdrawal from the wolfsbane had left me weak, and my legs burned with exertion. But the image of Giana’s marked neck flashed in my mind, fueling a fire in my belly that the rain couldn't extinguish.

I forced myself up and ran. I ran into the dark, churning mouth of the storm, leaving the ashes of my past behind me.