The logbook was still in my lap when the door slammed open.

Beta Derek strode in with two enforcers flanking him, their faces blank masks. Briana went rigid beside me.

"Miss Snyder." Derek's voice was all business. "We need to have a conversation."

"About what?" My fingers tightened on the leather book.

He didn't answer. Just nodded to one of the enforcers, who moved to my wheelchair. His hands went to the storage pouch on the back—the one I never used because I couldn't reach it.

He pulled out a burner phone.

My stomach dropped.

"Well, well." Derek held it up like a trophy. "Care to explain this?"

"That's not mine."

"No?" He tapped the screen. Messages scrolled past, too fast to read, but I caught fragments. Pack patrol schedules. Guard rotations. Territory maps. "These texts to known rogues say otherwise."

"I've never seen that phone before in my life."

"Treason is a serious charge, Miss Snyder." Derek's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Alpha's orders. You're to be moved to the dungeon for interrogation."

Interrogation. The word hung in the air like a death sentence.

Briana stepped forward. "This is insane. She's been in this bed for two days. How could she—"

"You should leave, Miss Cook." Derek's tone went cold. "Unless you'd like to join her."

Briana's face went white. She looked at me, then at Derek, then fled.

The enforcers moved toward my bed.

Then the temperature in the room dropped.

Not literally. But something shifted in the air, thick and electric, raising every hair on my arms. The enforcers froze mid-step. Derek's hand went to his throat like he couldn't breathe.

The door opened again.

A man stepped through. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that looked almost silver in the fluorescent light. He wore simple clothes—jeans, a black shirt—but he moved like violence contained in human form.

Power rolled off him in waves.

"Alpha Lawrence." Derek's voice came out strangled. "This is Blood River territory. You have no—"

"Lycan Jurisdiction." The man's voice was quiet. Calm. Absolutely terrifying. "I'm invoking it."

Derek's face went from red to white. "You can't—"

"I can. And I am." Malcolm Lawrence—because that's who this had to be—moved between me and the enforcers. His aura expanded, pressing against them like a physical force. "When an Alpha is compromised by crimes against the Moon Goddess, a High Alpha may take custody of any suspect to ensure fair trial. Ancient law. Still binding."

"Jonah isn't compromised—"

"He nearly killed his own mate in front of witnesses." Malcolm's eyes flicked to my cast, my bruised face. "He's been poisoning her for seven years. And now he's framing her for treason to silence her." He held up his phone. The screen showed a photo of the logbook. "I have evidence. Do you really want to test me on this?"

The enforcers backed toward the door.

Derek stood his ground, but barely. "The Alpha will—"

"The Alpha will answer to the Lycan Council." Malcolm's voice dropped lower. "Get out of my way."

Derek moved.

Malcolm turned to me. His aura softened, the pressure easing until I could breathe again. "Can you travel?"

I nodded. Didn't trust my voice.

He lifted me from the bed like I weighed nothing. The logbook fell to the floor. One of the enforcers—the younger one—picked it up and handed it to Malcolm with shaking hands.

"Thank you." Malcolm's tone gentled. "Tell your Alpha I'll be filing formal charges by dawn."

Then he carried me out of the Healer's ward, out of the pack house, into the night.

***

The pain started an hour into the drive.

Not the broken arm. Not the bruised ribs. Something deeper. Something that felt like my bones were trying to tear themselves apart from the inside.

I bit back a scream.

"Almost there." Malcolm's voice came from the driver's seat. Steady. Calm. "Elena's waiting."

Elena. The Healer. She'd left with us, sitting in the back seat with medical supplies and a grim expression.

"It's the wolfsbane," she said quietly. "Her body's starting to purge it. It's going to get worse before it gets better."

Worse.

The Dark Forest territory was nothing like Blood River. No grand pack house, no manicured lawns. Just trees and darkness and a sprawling lodge that looked like it had grown from the forest itself.

Malcolm carried me inside. Up stairs. Into a room with soft lighting and a bed that smelled like pine and something else. Something that made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with broken ribs.

Elena started an IV. "This will help with the pain. A little."

It didn't.

The seizures started that night. My body convulsing, muscles locking, teeth chattering so hard I tasted blood. Elena held me down. Malcolm's hand found mine in the darkness.

"I'm here," he said. "You're safe."

Safe.

I didn't know what that word meant anymore.

The hallucinations came next. Jonah's face, twisted with rage. Luna's voice, calling my name. Shadows that moved like wolves, circling my bed with hungry eyes.

"Not real," Malcolm's voice cut through the nightmare. "Halle, look at me. Not real."

I tried. Failed. The shadows had teeth.

Then his aura wrapped around me. Not crushing like Jonah's. Gentle. Anchoring. Like a hand reaching through dark water, pulling me toward light.

I grabbed onto it and held on.

Three days. Elena said later it was three days, but it felt like years. Three days of my body trying to kill itself, purging seven years of poison one agonizing hour at a time.

Malcolm never left.

I felt him there, even when I couldn't see him. His presence, steady and unshakable, keeping me tethered to reality when everything else dissolved into pain and madness.

On the third night, something shifted.

The pain didn't stop. But underneath it, I felt something else. Something stirring in the hollow place where my wolf should've been.

A heartbeat that wasn't mine.

A breath that came from somewhere deeper than lungs.

And a voice, faint as a whisper, that I hadn't heard in seven years.

*I'm still here.*

The fever broke on the fourth day.

I woke to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows, warm on my face. My body ached, but it was a clean pain. Not the poisoned agony I'd lived with for seven years.

Malcolm sat in a chair beside the bed, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. Dark circles shadowed his face. His shirt was wrinkled, like he'd been wearing it for days.

"Why?" My voice came out rough as gravel.

His eyes opened. Silver-gray, like storm clouds. "You're awake."

"Why did you save me?" I pushed myself up on one elbow. The IV tugged at my arm. "You don't know me."

Something flickered across his face. Pain, maybe. Or regret.

"I do know you." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I was Luna's foster brother."

The world stopped.

"Luna." Her name hurt to say. "My sister."

"She made me promise to protect you. Before she—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Before she died. She knew what Jonah was. What he'd do to you if he got the chance."

I stared at him. At this stranger who'd carried me out of hell.

"There's more." His voice went quieter. "You're my fated mate, Halle. I've known for years."

The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"Then why—" My throat closed. "Why did you let me stay with him?"

"Because you looked happy." The words came out raw. "Every time I saw you at pack gatherings, you were smiling. Jonah's hand on your shoulder, and you were smiling. I thought—" He stopped. Started again. "I thought you'd chosen him. That you were content. And I had no right to interfere with that."

I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or both.

"I wasn't happy. I was dying."

"I know that now." His hands clenched into fists. "And I'll regret not acting sooner for the rest of my life."

Silence stretched between us. Outside, birds sang. Normal sounds in a world that felt anything but.

"Jonah never gave me a choice," I said finally. "He took everything. My wolf. My legs. My future. He owned me."

"No one owns you." Malcolm's voice was fierce. "Not him. Not me. Not anyone."

I looked at him. Really looked. At the exhaustion in his face, the careful distance he kept between us. The way he'd sat in that chair for days, watching over me, never once touching me without permission.

Jonah would've climbed into the bed. Would've claimed it was his right.

Malcolm stayed in the chair.

"Thank you," I whispered.

He nodded. Didn't say anything else. Didn't need to.

***

A week later, I woke to pins and needles in my toes.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Seven years of nothing, and suddenly—sensation. Tingling. Real and undeniable.

I wiggled my toes.

They moved.

I sat up so fast the room spun. Threw back the blankets. Stared at my legs like they belonged to someone else.

"Malcolm!" My voice cracked. "Malcolm!"

He burst through the door, eyes wild. "What's wrong?"

"My legs." I couldn't stop staring. "I can feel them."

He went very still. Then he moved to the bed, knelt beside it. "Show me."

I flexed my foot. Just a small movement, but it was there. Real.

Malcolm's hand covered his mouth. His eyes were bright.

"Seven years," I said. The words tasted like ash and fury. "He stole seven years from me. Not the attack. Not some tragic accident. Him. He did this."

The grief I'd been carrying transformed. Hardened into something cold and sharp.

"I'm going to destroy him," I said quietly. "Not just expose him. Not just see him punished. I'm going to take everything he has and burn it to the ground."

Malcolm looked at me. Didn't flinch. Didn't tell me to be reasonable or merciful.

"I'll help," he said simply.

***

The physical therapy started the next day.

Malcolm had converted a room in the lodge into a training space. Mats on the floor, weights along the wall. It smelled like sweat and determination.

"We'll start slow," he said. "Your muscles have atrophied. It's going to hurt."

It did.

Every movement was agony. My legs shook trying to support my weight. I fell more times than I could count.

But I got back up.

Two weeks in, Malcolm suggested light sparring.

"Just defensive moves," he said. "I'll go slow."

We circled each other on the mat. He threw a punch, telegraphed and gentle. I blocked it. Threw one back. He dodged.

We moved through the forms. Muscle memory returning, even after seven years.

Then I overextended. My weak leg buckled.

I went down hard.

Malcolm's hand shot out, reaching for me.

I flinched. Couldn't help it. Jonah's hands, gripping too tight. Jonah's touch, always taking.

Malcolm froze. Then he dropped to his knees, putting himself below me. Vulnerable.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I should've asked first."

I stared at him. At this powerful Alpha, kneeling on the mat, giving me all the power.

Jonah never knelt. Never asked. Never gave.

"Help me up?" My voice shook.

Malcolm held out his hand. Palm up. Waiting.

I took it.

His grip was firm but gentle. He pulled me to my feet, then immediately let go.

"Again?" he asked.

I nodded.

We started over. And this time, when I stumbled, I didn't flinch when he caught me.

The alarm went off at three in the morning.

Not the lodge's security system. Something older. Malcolm's wolf, howling a warning through the pack bond that made every hair on my arms stand up.

I was out of bed before I fully woke, grabbing the bow Malcolm had given me last week. My legs held. Steady. Strong.

Footsteps in the hallway. Malcolm appeared, already dressed, eyes glowing silver in the darkness.

"How many?" I asked.

"Six. Maybe seven." His voice was calm, but his hands were shifting, claws extending. "Rogues. Professional."

Professional meant hired. Hired meant Jonah.

"Where?"

"East perimeter. Heading for the safe house."

The safe house. Where three wolfless she-wolves and their children were sleeping.

I was moving before he finished speaking.

"Halle—"

"I'm not hiding." I nocked an arrow, muscle memory taking over. "Not anymore."

He looked at me. Something fierce and proud flashed across his face.

"Stay behind me," he said.

We ran.

The forest was dark, but my eyes adjusted fast. Faster than they should have. My wolf, still dormant, lending me her senses. I felt her there, just beneath my skin, waiting.

The safe house came into view. A small cabin, lights off, surrounded by trees.

And shadows. Moving shadows with glowing eyes.

Malcolm's growl rumbled through the clearing. The shadows froze.

Then they attacked.

Malcolm shifted mid-leap, his massive silver-black wolf tearing into the first rogue. I raised my bow, tracking movement, waiting for a clear shot.

There. A rogue breaking away from the pack, heading for the cabin's back entrance.

I released.

The arrow caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled, snarled, kept moving.

I ran after him.

My legs burned, but they held. I was faster than I'd been in seven years, stronger, and the rage that had been building since I saw that logbook was a living thing inside me.

The rogue reached the door. Started to break it down.

I tackled him.

We went down hard, rolling across the ground. He was bigger, heavier, but I'd trained for this. Years ago, when I was whole.

I wasn't whole now. But I was close enough.

He threw me off. I hit a tree, pain exploding through my back. He lunged, claws extended, going for my throat.

I grabbed the knife from my belt and drove it up.

It caught him under the ribs. He made a choking sound, eyes going wide.

Then he collapsed.

I shoved him off me, gasping. Blood covered my hands. His blood.

Behind me, the sounds of fighting faded. Malcolm's howl, victorious and fierce.

I looked down at the dead rogue.

And saw the dagger on his belt.

Silver. Ornate. With a crest etched into the hilt.

A crest I'd seen before. Seven years ago, in the evidence photos from Luna's death.

My hands shook as I pulled it free.

***

Malcolm found me sitting beside the body, the dagger in my lap.

"Halle." He was human again, pulling on a shirt someone had brought. "Are you hurt?"

I held up the dagger.

He went very still.

"That's—"

"Luna's killers." My voice came out flat. Dead. "Same crest. Same design."

He knelt beside me, took the dagger carefully. Turned it over in his hands.

"We need to search him," he said quietly.

We did.

The rogue had a phone. Encrypted, but Malcolm's tech specialist cracked it in under an hour.

Payment records. Wire transfers from a shell company. I didn't recognize the name, but Malcolm did.

"Armstrong Holdings," he said, his voice tight. "Jonah's private account."

More digging. More files.

And then we found it.

Emails. Seven years old. Jonah's personal address to a contact listed only as "V."

*The Luna knows about the funds. She's threatening to go to the Council. Handle it. Make it look like a rogue attack.*

The response: *Understood. It will be done.*

I stared at the screen. At proof that Jonah had ordered my sister's death.

"He killed her," I whispered. "Luna found out he was stealing from the pack, and he killed her."

Malcolm's hand found mine. Squeezed.

"We have him," he said. "This is enough for the Council. Enough to—"

His phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen. His expression went dark.

"What?"

He turned the phone so I could see.

An official summons from the Lycan Council. Jonah had filed a formal complaint, claiming Malcolm had kidnapped his mate and was holding me against my will.

And more. A declaration of intent to hold a Mating Confirmation Ceremony at the Great Gathering in three days.

"He's going to use a proxy," Malcolm said. "Claim you're too ill to attend and have someone stand in your place. Once the ceremony's complete, you'll be legally bound to him. Even without the mark."

"Can he do that?"

"If you don't show up to contest it." Malcolm's jaw was tight. "It's an old law. Rarely used. But legal."

I looked at the dagger. At the emails. At seven years of lies and poison and death.

Jonah thought I was broken. Thought I'd hide here, too afraid to face him.

He was wrong.

"Then I'll be there," I said.

Malcolm looked at me. "Halle—"

"I'll be there," I repeated. "And I'm going to end this."

His eyes searched mine. Then he nodded.

"We'll go together," he said.

I stood. My legs were steady. My hands didn't shake.

For the first time in seven years, I felt like myself.

"Three days," I said. "That's all he has left."