The night of the Gala arrived with a steady rain that matched my tears. I stood in my small room, staring at the rogue's body on my bed—a young female wolf with dark hair like mine. Marcus had been thorough in his selection.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to her, though I wasn't sure why. She was already dead, a victim of pack warfare, now to become my substitute in death.

I changed quickly into the plain grey dress I'd worn to the announcement ceremony, then carefully dressed the corpse in my best clothes—the ones I'd hoped to wear to my own Mating Ceremony. The fabric stretched awkwardly over her frame, but in death, she would burn down to bones and ash. No one would notice the difference.

My fingers trembled as I fastened my mother's silver locket around her neck—the only piece of my family I had left. The moonstone pendant caught the dim light, seeming to pulse with a life of its own.

"It has to be convincing," I murmured, arranging her limbs in a natural position.

The Wolfsbane pills waited in a small vial on my nightstand. I'd counted them carefully—enough to stop my heart temporarily and mask my scent completely, but not enough to kill me permanently. At least, that was the theory.

"Three minutes without oxygen after consumption," I reminded myself, tucking the vial into my pocket. "Just long enough to get away."

I dragged the body to Dante's private cabin while the pack celebrated in the main hall. The rain soaked through my clothes, but I welcomed the cold—it kept me alert, focused on each step of my plan.

The cabin was empty, as I knew it would be. Dante would be at the Gala, showing off Amaya to the neighboring packs. I positioned the body on his bed, arranging it as if I'd been surprised during a nap.

"Forgive me," I whispered again, though I wasn't sure who I was asking forgiveness from.

In the kitchen, I found the gas line easily—Marcus had marked it on the diagram he'd given me. One swift cut with the wire cutters, and the sharp smell of gas filled the air.

I returned to the bedroom, struck a match, and touched it to the curtains. The flame caught quickly, spreading up the fabric to the ceiling.

"Now," I told myself, pulling out the vial.

I swallowed the pills in one gulp, feeling them burn down my throat. Immediately, my heart stuttered, then slowed dramatically. My vision blurred at the edges as I stumbled toward the door.

Behind me, the fire roared to life, consuming everything in its path. I made it to the tree line just as the gas ignited with a deafening explosion. The shockwave knocked me to my knees, but I didn't stop.

"Goodbye, Eva," I whispered as darkness claimed me.

---

I woke to screaming. Not mine—his.

Dante's howl of agony cut through the night as I watched from the shadows of the forest edge. The pack had returned from the Gala to find flames engulfing the Alpha's cabin. Now they stood in a circle, watching as their leader clawed through smoldering debris.

"Find her!" he roared, his Alpha tone making several wolves drop to their knees. "Find Eva!"

But there was nothing to find—at least, not the living version of me.

"Alpha," Marcus's voice was steady as he approached. "The fire's too hot. We can't get closer."

"Get out of my way!" Dante shoved him aside, his hands already blistered from digging through the ashes.

I should have felt something—guilt, perhaps, or satisfaction. Instead, I felt hollow as I watched him discover the charred remains of the rogue wolf wearing my locket.

"Eva," he whispered, dropping to his knees beside the body. The locket had fused to the neck bone in the heat, creating a permanent bond between my past and this anonymous corpse.

The mate bond snapped—or so he thought. The sound was audible even from where I hid, a crack in the air that made every wolf within hearing distance whimper in sympathy.

Dante's howl rose again, this time wordless and primal. Windows shattered in the main house as his grief exploded outward in waves of Alpha power.

"No one touch her!" he snarled when two Delta wolves tried to approach. "No one touch my mate!"

He cradled the blackened remains against his chest, rocking back and forth as rain mingled with his tears.

"Alpha," Marcus tried again, his voice gentle. "You need to let her go."

"She's mine," Dante growled, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Mine!"

I watched Marcus nod to someone behind Dante—the pack healer. A syringe glinted in the firelight as he approached cautiously.

"This will help you rest," Marcus said, plunging the needle into Dante's neck.

Dante's eyes widened, then rolled back as the sedative took hold. His grip on the charred remains loosened just enough for Marcus to pry them away.

As they carried Dante's unconscious form back to the pack house, I slipped away into the darkness, my heart beating steadily again—stronger than it had in years.

Eva Dunn was dead. And I was free.

The rain fell in sheets, soaking through my clothes as I watched from the shadows. One year had passed since I'd burned away Eva Dunn and risen as someone new. One year since I'd watched Dante Ross cradle a stranger's charred remains and howl my name into the night.

The Shadow Ridge Pack was crumbling.

I shouldn't have returned. Shouldn't have risked everything to see what became of the man who broke me. But some wounds never heal, and some bonds—even broken ones—pull you back like gravity.

"What happened to him?" I whispered to myself, watching Dante emerge from the rebuilt cabin.

He was a ghost of the Alpha who once commanded respect with a single glance. His clothes hung loose on his frame, unwashed and torn. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his once-immaculate beard now reached his chest in wild disarray.

"Alpha," a young Delta approached cautiously, clutching a stack of papers. "The northern border reports are ready for your review. Three more rogues were spotted near the river."

Dante didn't acknowledge him. His eyes remained fixed on the cabin door as he stepped inside.

The Delta looked helplessly at Marcus Chen, who merely shook his head. "Leave them on my desk," Marcus said quietly. "I'll handle it."

I followed Dante's path into the cabin—or what I could see of it through the windows. The exterior matched the original structure, but inside had been transformed into something else entirely.

A shrine.

My shrine.

Dozens of canvases covered every wall, each bearing my face—or attempts at it. Some showed my profile, others my eyes, others my hands. None captured me correctly.

"Again!" Dante's voice echoed through the cabin as he slashed another canvas from its frame. "Her eyes weren't like that! They were... they were..."

The artist cowered in the corner, paints scattered at his feet. "I've tried, Alpha. I can't—"

"Get out!" Dante roared, his Alpha tone making the man's knees buckle. "Get out and don't return until you can see her properly!"

I pressed myself against the building as the artist fled past me, trembling.

Inside, Dante sank to his knees amid the ruined portraits. He clutched a charred locket in his palm—my mother's locket that had fused to the rogue's bones in the fire.

"Eva," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Where are you? Why can't I find you?"

A door opened somewhere inside the cabin. Amaya appeared, her figure silhouetted against the hallway light. She wore a silk robe that clung to her curves, her hair artfully tousled.

"Dante," she purred, approaching him with calculated grace. "Let me help you forget, just for tonight."

She reached for him, her fingers trailing down his chest. I expected him to pull away—he always had before—but this time he grabbed her wrist with such force that she gasped.

"You're not her," he snarled, his eyes flashing amber. "You'll never be her."

Amaya's face contorted with rage and humiliation as he released her with a shove. "She's dead!" she hissed. "Dead and gone! What kind of Luna am I when my Alpha mourns a corpse?"

"The only kind that matters," Dante replied coldly. "The kind that stays out of my way."

---

Three years later, sunlight streamed through gauzy curtains, painting golden patterns across silk sheets. I stretched lazily, feeling my wolf stir contentedly within me.

*Lylah,* she whispered in my mind. *Morning.*

*Good morning, Silver,* I replied, reaching out to touch the bond that had once been severed.

The door opened quietly as Kenzo entered, carrying a tray with two steaming cups of coffee. His dark hair was still damp from his morning shower, and his smile—that same smile that had saved me when I was at my lowest—lit up his entire face.

"Bonjour, ma reine," he said, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Coffee for the most beautiful Lycan Queen in all the territories."

I laughed, accepting the cup he offered. "Flatterer."

"Truth-teller," he corrected gently, sitting beside me on the bed. His fingers traced the silver crescent moon pendant at my throat—the one containing a drop of my original wolf's essence.

"The Summit preparations are nearly complete," Kenzo said, his tone shifting to business. "We leave for New York in three days."

My hand stilled on the coffee cup. "New York."

"The Global Alpha Summit," he reminded me. "All packs will be represented."

Including Shadow Ridge.

"Dante will be there," I whispered.

Kenzo's hand covered mine, warm and steady. "You are not Eva anymore," he said firmly. "You are Lylah Rodriguez, Lycan Queen of the Parisian Crescent Pack. Your aura alone will make him bow."

"But—"

"No buts," Kenzo interrupted, his eyes softening. "You've built a new life. You have me, you have Isabella. Your past cannot hurt you unless you let it."

A small sound from the doorway made us both turn. Isabella stood there, her golden eye and silver eye blinking sleepily, her tiny fingers clutching a wooden wolf carving.

"Maman," she called, toddling toward me. "Papa says it's time for breakfast."

I opened my arms as she climbed onto the bed, her giggles filling the room as Kenzo tickled her ribs.

"See?" Kenzo whispered against my hair as we watched our daughter play. "This is your true strength."

As Isabella's laughter echoed through our bedroom, I wondered if Dante would recognize the sound of happiness in the voice of the woman he thought he'd lost forever.

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with the official mark of the Global Alpha Summit. I watched from the shadows as Dante's hands trembled, breaking the wax seal with unnecessary force.

"The Global Alpha Summit," Marcus read over his shoulder, his voice carefully neutral. "All pack leaders are required to attend."

Dante's laugh was hollow, echoing through the empty room that once held my shrine. "What does it matter? The Shadow Ridge Pack is crumbling anyway."

"You need alliances," Marcus insisted, his eyes meeting mine briefly as I stood in the corner of the room—invisible to them both. "The northern territories are vulnerable. Three more attacks last week."

I shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have returned to Seattle after three years. But some bonds pulled harder than reason.

"I heard something," Dante murmured, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering on the invitation. "There's a witch in New York. Someone who can communicate with the dead."

Marcus's jaw tightened. "Alpha, you need to accept that Eva is—"

"Don't say it," Dante snarled, his eyes flashing amber. "Don't you dare say it again."

I stepped back as Marcus bowed his head in submission, though I could see the guilt etched into every line of his face.

"I'll go," Dante said finally, rising from his chair. "Not for alliances. For answers."

He crossed to a locked cabinet, pulling out a velvet-wrapped package with reverent care. Even from where I stood, I could smell the faint metallic scent of my own blood—the portrait he'd commissioned for Amaya's coronation.

---

The private airstrip hummed with activity as our jet touched down. Kenzo's hand rested protectively at the small of my back as we descended the stairs.

"Ready?" he whispered, his breath warm against my ear.

I nodded, adjusting the delicate veil that partially obscured my face. "Ready."

The welcoming committee waited at the bottom of the stairs—lower-ranking Alphas from neighboring territories, their postures already shifting as my aura expanded outward. One by one, they lowered their gazes, necks baring instinctively before the Lycan Queen.

"Welcome to New York," said Victor Blackwood, the nearest Alpha, his voice strained as he fought against his body's natural submission.

I stepped forward, feeling Silver—my wolf—rise within me, adding her strength to my own.

"Thank you for the welcome," I replied, my voice carrying the subtle French accent I'd acquired during my years in Paris.

Isabella's tiny hand slipped into mine as she descended behind me, her heterochromia—one golden eye, one silver—drawing curious glances.

"Maman," she whispered, "does Papa know we're here yet?"

"Of course, little one," I assured her, squeezing her hand gently. "He's waiting for us at the hotel."

The air around us seemed to vibrate with power as our Lycan warriors formed a protective circle. I could feel the lower Alphas struggling against the instinct to kneel.

"The car is ready," announced Jean-Luc, my head warrior, gesturing toward the waiting limousine.

As we moved toward the vehicle, I caught a familiar scent on the wind—rainwater and iron, though masked now by expensive French perfume. My own scent. The one Dante had once claimed would be etched in his memory forever.

---

The opening reception glittered with crystal and silver, the hotel ballroom transformed into a showcase of wealth and power. I stood near the entrance, Kenzo at my side, watching as pack leaders from around the world mingled and maneuvered.

And then I saw him.

Dante stood alone in the corner, a glass of whiskey clutched in his pale hand. His once-commanding presence had diminished to a hollow shell—clothes hanging loose on his frame, dark circles shadowing his eyes, beard unkempt and wild.

He ignored Amaya completely as she attempted to network with other Lunas, her smile brittle as she tried to maintain the facade of her position.

"He looks terrible," Kenzo observed quietly.

"He destroyed himself," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me.

Across the room, Dante lifted his head suddenly, nostrils flaring as if catching a scent. For one heart-stopping moment, his gaze swept directly toward me.

I held his stare, my expression cold and detached, though my heart hammered against my ribs.

"Does he recognize you?" Kenzo asked, his hand tightening around mine.

"No," I said, though uncertainty flickered through me. "Eva Dunn died in that fire."

As if summoned by her name, Dante's fingers reached for the velvet-wrapped package at his side—the portrait painted with my blood.

Our eyes locked across the crowded room, and for just a moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze—recognition? Impossible.

I turned away, focusing instead on the gathering before us. Let him wonder. Let him suffer.

The memory of the needle in my arm—of his hands holding me down as he took my blood for his new Luna's portrait—surged through me, extinguishing any flicker of pity.

Eva Dunn was dead. And I was here to bury her forever.