The rain turns to sleet somewhere around midnight.

I'm on my knees in the mud, hands raw and bleeding as I scrub the training ground stones. My fingers are numb. The burn on my arm screams with every movement, the blistered skin splitting open in the cold. No coat. No gloves. Just me and the storm and the punishment that never seems to end.

Then I feel it.

A presence in my mind. Not the pack link—that's been silent for years, ever since Stefan's wolf went dormant and stopped recognizing me. This is different. Foreign. Warm.

*Maya.*

I freeze, my hands hovering over the stone.

*It's Jamison. Don't speak. Just listen.*

Alpha Jamison White. My childhood friend. The wolf who used to chase me through the woods before fate decided Stefan was mine. Before everything fell apart.

*I know what happened today. The hall. The child. The burn on your arm.*

How does he—

*I'm at the border. My warriors are ready. Say the word and we breach the treaty. We'll have you out in ten minutes.*

My heart lurches. War. He's offering me war.

The sleet stings my face as I shake my head, even though he can't see me. My thoughts tumble out in a desperate rush. *No. Please. Innocent wolves will die. The pack members who've been kind to me—they don't deserve to be caught in this. And Stefan... his wolf is still in there somewhere. I can feel it. If you attack, it might push him further away.*

*Maya—*

*Please, Jamison. Just wait. A little longer. I can't be responsible for bloodshed. Not yet.*

The silence stretches. Then: *You're too good for this world. But I'll wait. For now. But Maya—if he hurts you again, treaty be damned.*

The presence fades, leaving me alone in the storm.

I press my forehead against the cold stone and let myself cry. Just for a moment. Just until the sleet washes the tears away.

---

I don't know that while I'm freezing in the rain, Harlow is warm and dry in the woods.

I don't know she's meeting with Elara Vance, the rogue witch who's been supplying her scent-mimicking potions for years.

I don't know that Harlow's hands are shaking as she clutches a velvet pouch of gold coins.

"It's not working anymore," Harlow hisses, her perfect composure cracking. "His wolf is stirring. He looks at her and I see something in his eyes—recognition. Memory. I need something stronger."

Elara's smile is sharp in the moonlight. "Stronger comes with risks. The new batch is more volatile. If you use too much, he'll know it's artificial."

"I don't care. I need him bound to me. Permanently."

The witch produces two vials from her cloak. One is amber, swirling with an oily sheen. The other is clear as water but somehow darker, like liquid shadow.

"The amber is your new scent. Use it sparingly." Elara holds up the clear vial. "This is concentrated Wolfsbane. Liquid form. One drop can kill a wolf's connection to their inner beast. A full vial..." She trails off meaningfully. "It eliminates threats. Permanently."

Harlow takes both vials with trembling fingers. "How much?"

"Double your usual payment. And Harlow?" Elara's eyes glitter. "If this traces back to me, I'll make sure everyone knows who's been buying."

Harlow's jaw tightens. She drops the pouch and disappears into the trees.

The witch counts her coins and smiles.

---

The next morning, Stefan summons me to the master bedroom.

I'm still damp from the storm, my uniform clinging to my skin, the burn on my arm wrapped in a crude bandage I made from kitchen cloth. Every step up the stairs sends pain shooting through my knees.

Stefan is standing by the window when I enter. He doesn't turn around.

"The Luna Suite needs to be prepared," he says flatly. "Harlow wants it converted into a nursery. You'll handle the renovation."

The Luna Suite. The room at the end of the hall with the bay windows and the morning light. The room where Stefan first kissed me, years ago, when his wolf was whole and his eyes were warm.

The room that should have been ours.

"Understood, Alpha," I whisper.

"Paint the walls cream. Assemble the crib. Harlow has specific requirements—she'll provide a list." He finally turns to face me, and I see the dark circles under his eyes. The tension in his jaw. "I want it perfect. The future Alpha heir deserves perfection."

I nod and turn to leave.

"Maya."

I stop.

"Don't touch anything that isn't on the list. That room is sacred now."

Sacred. The word is a knife between my ribs.

---

I spend the afternoon in the Luna Suite, painting walls that used to echo with laughter. The cream color covers the soft blue we—I—chose years ago. Each brushstroke feels like erasing myself.

The crib arrives in pieces. I'm on the floor assembling it when Stefan appears in the doorway.

I don't look up. Just keep working, my burned arm protesting with every twist of the screwdriver.

He's silent for a long moment. Then he makes a sound—sharp, pained. I glance up and see him gripping the doorframe, his face twisted.

"Alpha?"

"Shut up." But his voice is strained. He presses his palm against his temple, and I see his hand shaking.

A migraine. He's been getting them more frequently.

Then his eyes go distant. Unfocused. Like he's seeing something that isn't there.

His lips move. "You were laughing. In this room. You were—"

He cuts himself off, and when his gaze snaps back to me, it's pure fury.

"You're pathetic," he snarls. "Kneeling on the floor like the Omega you are. You think you belong here? You think you ever belonged in this room?"

I keep my eyes down. "No, Alpha."

"You're nothing. A wolfless waste of space who can't even give me an heir. Harlow is everything you're not—fertile, strong, worthy."

Each word lands like a physical blow, but I don't flinch. Can't flinch.

"Get out when you're done," he says. "And don't come back unless you're summoned."

He leaves, and I'm alone with the half-assembled crib and the ghost of who we used to be.

I finish the work in silence.

But something has shifted. In the way Stefan looked at me. In the memory that flickered across his face before the cruelty returned.

His wolf is waking up.

And Harlow knows it.

The delivery truck idles in the service entrance, engine ticking in the afternoon heat. I'm hauling crates of supplies when I see him—my father, wearing a generic courier uniform, clipboard in hand.

He shouldn't be here.

Our eyes meet for half a second before I drop my gaze and keep working. Play the part. Always play the part.

"Sign here, miss." His voice is professionally neutral, but I hear the tremor underneath.

I take the clipboard. Our fingers brush, and I feel the paper he's palmed into my hand. I slip it into my pocket without looking.

"Thank you," I murmur.

He's staring at my arm. The bandage is visible beneath my rolled sleeve, the edges stained with dried blood and burn salve. His jaw tightens, and I see his wolf flash behind his eyes—just for a moment.

"Careful with those boxes," he says, louder now, for anyone listening. "Heavy load."

Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the crates and the note burning a hole in my pocket.

I wait until I'm in the storage room to read it.

*The Council is ready. One word and Silverclaw loses everything. Say when.*

My hands shake as I fold the paper into smaller and smaller squares. The Weaver family's true power, laid bare in my father's careful handwriting. One phone call and Stefan's pack crumbles. The financial backing, the trade agreements, the protection—all of it gone.

I could end this today.

But the faces flash through my mind. Beta Liam, who still nods respectfully when he passes me in the halls. The kitchen staff who slip me extra food when no one's watching. The young wolves who don't understand why their Alpha treats me like dirt but know something's wrong.

Innocent wolves. Good wolves.

I press my forehead against the cold storage room wall and make my decision.

Twenty-four hours. The full moon gathering is tomorrow night—the sacred ceremony where wolves honor the Moon Goddess and strengthen their bonds. If Stefan's wolf doesn't recognize me then, when the Goddess's power is strongest, it never will.

Twenty-four hours, and then I'm done.

---

The storm rolls in after midnight, turning the sky black and angry. Thunder shakes the Pack House windows, and lightning illuminates my small room in violent flashes.

I pack in the dark. One bag. The essentials. Clothes that aren't Omega gray. The few photographs I have left from before. My mother's necklace.

The Silverclaw communication device sits on my nightstand—the phone that links me to the pack network, tracks my location, marks me as property. I stare at it for a long moment, then leave it behind.

Severed. Finally severed.

The hallways are empty as I make my way toward the service exit. Everyone's asleep or sheltering from the storm. My footsteps are silent on the runner carpet. Almost there. Almost—

"Going somewhere?"

I freeze at the top of the grand staircase.

Harlow stands at the landing below, backlit by the foyer chandelier. She's wearing a silk robe, one hand resting on her belly, and her smile is pure venom.

"Just getting supplies," I say carefully, adjusting my grip on the bag.

Her eyes drop to the bag. To my civilian clothes. To the absence of the communication device on my belt.

"Liar." She takes a step up. "You're running."

I don't answer. There's no point.

"You think you can just leave?" Her voice rises, shrill and sharp. "After everything? After poisoning this pack with your presence? After trying to steal what's mine?"

"I never tried to steal anything," I say quietly. "I'm just leaving. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Something flickers across her face—triumph mixed with panic. Because she's right. This is what she wanted. But a loose end walking free is still a loose end.

She reaches into her robe pocket.

"Help!" she screams suddenly, her voice echoing through the Pack House. "Someone help me! She's attacking me!"

I don't move. Don't speak. Just watch as she pulls out a small vial—glass, filled with something dark and red.

Blood.

She smashes it against her dress, and the smell hits me immediately. Blood and pheromones, the scent of distress and injury. She staggers backward, one hand flying to her stomach.

"No," I whisper. "Don't—"

Harlow throws herself down the stairs.

Not all the way. Just the last few steps. Controlled. Calculated. She hits the landing with a cry, curling around her belly, and the blood spreads across the marble like an accusation.

Doors slam open. Footsteps thunder through the halls.

Stefan appears first, wild-eyed and barefoot, and the sound that rips from his throat when he sees Harlow is pure animal anguish.

I'm still standing at the top of the stairs, bag in hand, frozen in the perfect position of guilt.

His eyes meet mine.

And I see my death in them.

The dungeon smells like rot and old fear.

I'm chained to the wall, wrists raw where the iron bites into skin. The stone is damp against my back, cold seeping through my clothes and into my bones. There's no light down here except what bleeds through the crack under the door—a thin, sickly yellow line that does nothing but make the darkness feel heavier.

My bag is gone. My escape is gone. Everything is gone except the sound of my own breathing and the distant thunder still rolling through the night.

Footsteps echo in the corridor above. Heavy. Pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal.

Stefan.

I close my eyes and try to find something inside me that isn't terror. Some reserve of strength or dignity or rage. But there's nothing. Just the hollow knowledge that this is how it ends. In the dark. Alone. Blamed for a crime I didn't commit by the man who was supposed to love me.

The door slams open.

Light floods the cell, blinding after so long in blackness. I squint against it and see Stefan's silhouette filling the doorway. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, and even from here I can see the tremor in his hands.

"You killed my son." His voice is raw. Broken. "You killed my heir."

I don't answer. What's the point? He won't hear me. Won't believe me. The truth died the moment Harlow threw herself down those stairs.

"Say something!" He's shouting now, and the Alpha Command in his voice makes my wolf—what's left of her—whimper and curl into nothing. "Defend yourself! Tell me why!"

"There's nothing to say," I whisper. "You've already decided."

He crosses the cell in two strides and grabs my face, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are black, pupils blown wide, and there's something fractured behind them. Something screaming.

"I gave you everything," he hisses. "A place in this pack. A roof over your head. And you repay me by murdering my child?"

I taste blood where my teeth cut into my cheek. "I didn't—"

"Liar!" He releases me so violently my head cracks against the stone. Stars burst across my vision. "Harlow saw you. The whole pack saw you standing there with your bag, running away like the coward you are."

"She staged it," I say, even though I know it's useless. "She threw herself down the stairs. She's been lying to you for years, Stefan. About everything."

His hand connects with my face before I finish. The slap echoes through the cell, and I taste more blood. My cheek throbs, hot and swelling.

"Don't you dare speak her name." His voice drops to something deadly quiet. "Don't you dare try to poison me against the mother of my child."

"Your child is fine," I say through split lips. "She was never pregnant. Or if she was, she ended it herself. Check the blood, Stefan. Check the scent. It's not—"

He hits me again. Harder this time. My vision goes white.

When I can see again, he's pacing. Back and forth in the small cell, hands in his hair, muttering to himself. I catch fragments: "...can't be... wolf is screaming... doesn't make sense..."

Then he stops. Goes very still.

"A life for a life," he says slowly, like he's working through a puzzle. "That's the law. You took my heir. My future. My bloodline."

I feel ice slide down my spine.

"So I'll take yours." He turns to face me, and his smile is terrible. "You'll never bear children, Maya. Never carry a pup. Never know what it means to create life. That's your sentence."

"Stefan—" My voice cracks. "Please. Don't do this."

"Harlow provided the medicine." He pulls a vial from his pocket. Clear liquid that catches the light like water but feels wrong somehow. Darker. "Concentrated Wolfsbane. Enough to burn out your womb. Enough to sever whatever pathetic connection you have left to the Moon Goddess."

I'm shaking now, chains rattling against stone. "You'll kill me."

"No." He crouches in front of me, and his eyes are empty. "You'll live. You'll live knowing you can never be what Harlow is. Never be a mother. Never be worthy."

He uncorks the vial.

The smell hits me immediately—bitter and chemical and wrong. My wolf, already so weak, recoils in my mind. Whimpering. Dying.

"Open your mouth," Stefan says.

I press my lips together. Shake my head.

The Alpha Command slams into me like a physical force. My jaw unlocks against my will, mouth opening, and I'm screaming inside my own head but my body won't obey.

Stefan's hand grips my jaw. Tilts my head back.

"This is justice," he whispers.

And he pours the Wolfsbane down my throat.