Trevor didn't wait for me to shift. He knew I couldn't.

His hand clamped around my upper arm and he hauled me forward, his grip tight enough to bruise. The warriors fell in around us without a word. I recognized their boots. Steel-toed, standard issue. I had ordered them two years ago after a rogue attack left half the patrol limping.

"Move," Trevor said.

I moved.

We left the square behind. The humans with their phones. The inn owner standing in her doorway. The square got smaller and smaller until the trees swallowed it whole.

The wilderness opened up cold and silent. Pine and granite and the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat. Trevor set a brutal pace. My legs were human. His were not. Every few minutes he would yank me forward when I stumbled, his fingers digging into the same bruise.

I didn't beg. I didn't ask where we were going. I memorized the route.

Left at the split pine. Right where the creek cuts under the trail. Elevation climbing. North-northwest by the position of the sun through the canopy. We were heading into the mountains, into the old rogue containment zone that Ironvale maintained for prisoners too dangerous to hold near populated pack land.

No one went up there unless they wanted someone to disappear.

The cold bit through my jacket. My breath came in clouds. Trevor's didn't. He wasn't even winded.

After two hours we reached the outpost.

It was small and ugly. Concrete reinforced with steel, half-buried in the mountainside like something that had tried to hide and failed. A single door. No windows. The kind of place that gets used once every few years and then locked up again.

Trevor shoved me inside.

The interior was worse than the exterior. A narrow hallway. A storage room. And at the end, a trapdoor set into the floor with a heavy iron ring.

Marcus pulled it open. The smell hit me first—damp stone and something bitter and green that made my eyes water. Wolfsbane. Fresh, not dried. Someone had prepared this.

Trevor pushed me toward the opening. I looked down into darkness and the top of a ladder that disappeared into it.

"Climb," he said.

I climbed.

The ladder was iron and freezing under my palms. Twelve rungs. I counted them. At the bottom my boots hit stone. The cellar was small—maybe ten feet by ten feet. The walls were damp. The only light came from the trapdoor above, and then Marcus slammed it shut and the light died.

I heard Trevor coming down behind me.

He had a flashlight. The beam cut through the dark and landed on the far wall, where silver chains hung from an iron ring bolted into the stone. The chains were old but functional. The cuffs at the ends were open and waiting.

I didn't fight. There were two of them and one of me, and fighting would only make it worse.

Trevor locked the cuffs around my wrists.

The silver bit immediately. It burned cold and then hot, the way silver always does against wolf skin. I pulled in a breath through my teeth and held it.

"Wolfsbane in the walls," Trevor said. His voice was flat. "Concentrated. It'll keep your wolf down. Not that you have much of one."

The poison was already working. I could feel it—a low, creeping numbness spreading up my arms from the points where my skin touched the damp stone. My wolf, the one that had howled and died at the banquet, didn't stir. There was nothing left of her to stir.

But underneath, in the place where that older, bigger thing had rolled over in the dark, something shifted. Just once. Then it went still again.

Trevor stepped back and looked at me. His face was hard. His jaw was set. He looked like a man who had made a decision and was going to see it through no matter what it cost him.

"You stay here until you confess," he said.

I met his eyes. "I didn't do it."

"Then you'll die here."

He turned and climbed the ladder without looking back. Marcus followed. The trapdoor slammed shut. I heard the bolt slide home.

Then I was alone.

The dark was absolute. No light. No sound except my own breathing and the faint drip of water somewhere in the corner. The silver burned my wrists. The wolfsbane crept through my skin like cold fingers pressing into muscle.

I catalogued my injuries the way I always do.

First-degree burns on both wrists where the silver sat. Mild hypothermia beginning—I could feel it in my fingers and toes. Dehydration would set in within twelve hours without water. The wolfsbane concentration was high enough to suppress a shift but not high enough to kill outright. That was deliberate. Trevor wanted me alive long enough to break.

I pulled against the chains once, testing them. The silver seared deeper. I stopped.

The cold settled in fast. Mountain cold. The kind that gets into your bones and doesn't leave. I could feel it creeping up from the stone floor, through my boots, into my legs.

I thought about the nine years I had given to Ironvale. The treaties. The alliances. The warriors I had trained. The nights I had stayed up fixing things Trevor broke during the day. I thought about the ceremonial banquet and the pendant I had placed on the table.

I thought about Stormi standing in the study window with her phone pressed to her ear, saying "Thornridge."

Then I stopped thinking and started counting.

Guard rotation intervals. I could hear boots overhead every forty-three minutes. Two guards, based on the weight of the footsteps. They would change shifts. I would learn the pattern.

I had time. That was the one thing Trevor had given me.

Time, and cold, and dark, and the silver burning my wrists raw.

I closed my eyes and waited.

I lost track of time in the dark. Hours bled together. The cold crept up from the stone floor and settled into my bones. The silver burned my wrists in steady, relentless waves. The wolfsbane pressed down on everything—my lungs, my thoughts, the empty place where my wolf used to be.

I counted guard rotations. Forty-three minutes. Then forty-three more. The boots overhead were steady and predictable. Two guards. They never spoke. They just walked their circuit and left.

Then the pattern changed.

Lighter footsteps. Slower. Deliberate. Someone who wasn't in a hurry.

The bolt scraped. The trapdoor opened. Light flooded down—not much, just the pale wash from the single bulb in the hallway above—but after hours in the dark it felt like knives in my eyes.

I squinted up through the glare.

Stormi Hayes stood at the top of the ladder, backlit and perfect. She was wearing a cream sweater that probably cost more than my truck. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. The Luna pendant sat against her collarbone, catching the light.

She smiled down at me.

Then she started to climb.

Her boots hit each rung with a soft, precise tap. She took her time. When she reached the bottom she stood there for a moment, just looking at me. Her head tilted slightly to one side.

"Oh, Camila," she said softly. "You look terrible."

I didn't answer. My throat was too dry. My lips were cracked. I just stared at her.

She crouched down in front of me, careful to keep her knees off the damp stone. Her fingers drifted up to the Luna pendant and touched it—once, twice, a little self-soothing gesture I recognized from years of watching her manipulate Trevor.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was different. Stripped. No warmth. Just cold, clean precision.

"Did you really think he was ever going to mark you?" she asked. "After nine years? You were the help, sweetheart. You fixed his mistakes and trained his warriors and made him look competent. That's not love. That's labor."

I pulled in a breath. It rattled in my chest. "You framed me."

"I protected my position." She said it like it was obvious. Like I should have seen it coming. "You were always going to be a problem. The fated mate. The one he was supposed to choose. I couldn't let that story have a happy ending."

She leaned forward slightly. Her perfume—something floral and expensive—cut through the damp and the wolfsbane. It made my stomach turn.

"The patrol routes were so easy," she continued. "I just copied your files, added a few messages to a Thornridge operative, and left them where Marcus would find them. Your scent was already all over everything. You did half the work for me."

I lunged.

It was stupid. I knew it was stupid even as I did it. But rage moved faster than sense. My arms jerked forward and the silver cuffs bit down—deep, searing, the burn shooting up both forearms like live wire. I gasped and fell back against the wall.

Stormi didn't even flinch. She just watched me with that same small smile.

"There it is," she murmured. "I was wondering if you still had any fight left."

She stood up, brushing off her knees. Her hand went back to the pendant. She held it up slightly, letting it catch the light.

"This should have been yours," she said. "If you'd been better at playing the game. If you'd made yourself irreplaceable in the right ways. But you didn't. You just worked. And now Trevor doesn't even remember your name when he wakes up in the morning."

She turned toward the ladder.

"The pack moved on the day after the banquet," she added over her shoulder. "No one asked about you. No one cared. You were already gone before you left."

She climbed back up. The light from above framed her silhouette—perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect cruelty.

The trapdoor slammed shut. The bolt slid home.

The dark swallowed me whole again.

I sat there with my wrists burning and my chest hollow and the cold pressing in from all sides. I closed my eyes. Not to sleep. There was nothing left to see anyway.

Stormi was right about one thing. I had been the help. Nine years of labor with no title, no mark, no claim. I had built my entire identity around service, and service was all I had ever been given in return.

The wolfsbane pressed down harder. My breathing slowed. The cold crept deeper.

Then something moved.

Deep. Underneath the empty place where my wolf had died. Underneath the numbness and the poison and the cold.

A single hot pulse detonated in my chest where the mate bond used to live.

It wasn't warmth. It was detonation.

It radiated outward—through my ribs, my spine, my arms, my legs—like something vast waking up after a very long sleep. My bones cracked. Not breaking. Reforming. My muscles seized and then released, and the release felt like expansion, like I was suddenly too big for my own skin.

The silver cuffs started to glow red.

A voice spoke inside my mind. Feminine. Ancient. Unhurried.

*"Hello, Camila,"* it said. *"I am sorry I took so long."*

My eyes snapped open.

They were glowing silver-white in the dark.