I wake up in a room that smells like bleach and other people's laundry.

For one merciful second, I don't remember. I just stare at the water-stained ceiling above a cot that's two inches too short, listening to pipes knock inside the walls. Then my neck throbs where the needle went in, and everything comes back in a single, crushing wave.

The servants' quarters. He put me in the servants' quarters.

I'm still cataloging the bruises on my arms when the door opens. Marcel doesn't knock. Alphas never knock.

He's dressed for his morning run—dark clothes, hair still damp. Clean. Unbothered. He looks around the small room like he's assessing a property dispute, not facing the woman his pack nearly destroyed twelve hours ago.

"You're awake." He says it like he's relieved about something minor. Like a delayed shipment finally arrived.

"Marcel." My voice comes out rough. I sit up, and the room tilts. "Last night—"

"Was unfortunate." He cuts me off without raising his voice. That's the thing about Marcel—he never needs to shout. "Your constitution is weaker than I anticipated. The stress of the ceremony preparation clearly overwhelmed you."

I stare at him.

"My constitution," I repeat.

"The ceremony is postponed." He adjusts his watch. "Indefinitely, until we determine whether you're suited for the demands of the Luna role. In the meantime, you'll resume your household duties. It will keep you occupied."

Something in my chest goes very still and very cold.

"I was injected with wolfsbane," I say. "Raquel—"

"Macy." His eyes finally meet mine, and the Alpha Command in them is a wall. "Let it go."

The words hit me like a closed fist. Not the Command—he doesn't bother using it this time. Just the casual certainty that I will obey. That I always will.

He leaves without closing the door all the way.

I sit on the cot for a long time after that, listening to the sound of the pack moving through its morning. Somewhere above me, someone laughs.

---

By evening, I am standing behind a serving cart, pouring Riesling into crystal glasses that cost more than my mother makes in a month.

The visiting delegation from Granite Ridge Pack fills the long dining table—six wolves in tailored jackets, radiating the easy confidence of people who have never once questioned whether they belong in a room. Their Alpha, a broad-shouldered man named Reeves, has been talking for the better part of an hour. Laughing loud. Making himself comfortable.

At Marcel's right hand, Raquel leans forward in her chair, fingers brushing his arm when she makes a point. She's wearing green tonight—the color of someone who feels safe.

The wolfsbane is mostly out of my system. Mostly. My hands only shake a little as I move down the table.

"Taylor, I have to ask." Alpha Reeves swirls his glass, watching Marcel with the amused curiosity of someone who has heard rumors. "Word on the circuit is you had a Luna candidate. What happened with that?"

I go still behind Marcel's chair.

A half-second pause. The length of a decision being made.

Then Marcel laughs—an easy, sociable sound I've never heard him use in private. "Still searching, I'm afraid. You know how it is. The bond makes fools of all of us."

I reach forward and fill his glass.

My hand is perfectly steady. I make it be perfectly steady, because I will not give him the satisfaction of shaking, and I will not give Raquel the satisfaction of watching me fall apart at the table she's stolen from me. The wine pours in a smooth, thin arc. Deep gold in the candlelight.

Marcel doesn't look at me.

Neither does anyone else.

That's the part that's hardest to explain—the invisibility. How someone can hollow you out entirely and still expect you to refill their glass.

I move to the next chair.

---

The hospital at night smells like antiseptic and something older underneath. Grief, maybe. The particular exhaustion of bodies that have stopped fighting.

Mama's room is at the end of the Omega ward, behind a door with a broken latch that she's propped shut with a folded piece of cardboard. I ease it open and slip inside.

She's smaller than I remembered. That's the fading aura—it doesn't just weaken the wolf, it seems to shrink the person. She's sitting up against the pillow with a book she isn't reading, and when she sees me, her face does something complicated.

"Macy." She reaches out, and I go to her, and I arrange myself on the edge of the bed the way I have since I was small, and I try to angle my arms so she won't see the bruising.

She sees it anyway. Of course she does.

"Baby." Her voice cracks on the word. Her fingers find my wrist, feather-light, and she turns my arm carefully in the dim light. I watch her read the evidence the way only a mother can—not just the bruise, but everything it means.

"It's nothing," I say.

"Macy." She says my name like a prayer and a warning at once. "Leave. Leave tonight. It doesn't matter where—rogue territory, the eastern border, anywhere that isn't here."

"I won't leave you."

"You have to."

"Mama." I take her hands in mine, careful of the IV line taped to her forearm. Her fingers are cold. "I'm not going anywhere without you. We're going to figure this out together, okay? I just need a little more time."

She looks at me for a long moment with the eyes of someone who loves me more than I understand.

"You have so much of your father's stubbornness," she says finally, her voice gone soft.

I almost smile. Almost.

I stay until she falls asleep, and then I sit in the dark beside her bed, listening to her breathe, trying to think of a plan that doesn't require me to be someone I'm not.

I haven't found one yet.

But I'm still looking.

I'm scrubbing the marble floors in the east wing when I hear the elevator ding in the hospital basement.

It's past midnight. The Omega ward is supposed to be locked down—no visitors, no staff except for emergency calls. But I've learned not to question things that don't make sense in this pack. Learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut.

The mop sloshes in the bucket as I wring it out. My arms ache from twelve hours of serving dinner, clearing plates, and pretending I don't exist while Marcel entertained another delegation. Another round of handshakes and territorial agreements that I'll never be part of.

Footsteps echo down the corridor. Heels clicking against linoleum with purpose.

I freeze.

Raquel's laugh drifts through the air, followed by a man's voice I recognize—Dr. Cross, the pack's head healer. Their conversation is too quiet to make out words, but the tone is wrong. Conspiratorial. Like they're planning something.

I abandon the mop and press myself against the wall, following the sound. They're heading toward the isolation wing. Toward Mama's room.

My chest goes tight.

"—cameras will be off for exactly one hour," Dr. Cross is saying as I creep closer. "After that, I can't guarantee—"

"One hour is all I need." Raquel's voice carries that familiar edge of cruelty. "When Marcel sees what needs to be done, he'll understand. The Hart bloodline has been a burden on this pack for too long."

They stop outside Mama's door.

I duck behind a supply cart, my heart hammering against my ribs. Through the metal shelving, I watch Dr. Cross pull out a keycard and swipe it. The lock clicks open.

"Remember," Raquel says, her hand on the door handle. "You never saw me here."

Dr. Cross nods, pocketing something that looks like cash. "The security footage will show a malfunction. Nothing more."

They disappear inside.

I should run. Should find help, call someone, do something. But who would I call? Marcel? The same Alpha who left me bleeding on the floor while his Beta's daughter held a camera?

The pack warriors who held me down?

There is no help coming. There never was.

I creep closer to the door, pressing my ear against the wood.

"Wake up, Martha." Raquel's voice is sing-song, almost playful. "We need to have a little chat."

Mama's voice, weak and confused: "Raquel? What are you—it's the middle of the night—"

"I have something to show you." The sound of a tablet being powered on. "Something about your precious daughter."

My blood turns to ice.

"No," Mama whispers. "Please, whatever this is—"

"Watch."

I hear it then—the audio from that night. My own voice, small and terrified, begging for help that never came. The sound of fabric tearing. Raquel's laughter.

Mama makes a sound I've never heard before. Like something breaking inside her chest.

"Stop," she gasps. "Please, stop—"

"This is what your bloodline produces," Raquel says conversationally. "Weak. Pathetic. Unable to defend herself against a simple pack initiation. Is this really what you want representing our Alpha?"

"She's just a girl," Mama sobs. "She didn't choose this—"

"No, but you did." Raquel's voice goes cold. "You chose to burden this pack with your inferior genetics. You chose to saddle Marcel with a mate who can't even shift. Every day she remains here, she weakens us all."

I press my forehead against the door, tears streaming down my face.

"But I have good news," Raquel continues. "Marcel has found a solution. There's a Rogue ring in the eastern territories—they pay well for breeding stock. Especially young, unshifted females. It would clear your family's debt and remove the burden from our Alpha's shoulders."

Mama's breathing becomes ragged, panicked.

"Unless," Raquel says, and I hear something metallic being placed on the bedside table. "The burden removes itself. Sometimes the Moon Goddess requires us to make difficult choices for the greater good."

"You're talking about my daughter," Mama whispers.

"I'm talking about setting her free." Raquel's footsteps move toward the door. "The debt dies with the bloodline, Martha. Think about it."

The door opens.

I barely have time to duck behind the supply cart before Raquel emerges, smoothing down her hair like she's just finished a pleasant conversation. She walks past me without a glance, her heels clicking toward the elevator.

Dr. Cross follows a moment later, avoiding eye contact with the empty hallway.

I wait until the elevator dings before I move.

Mama's room is dark except for the glow of the tablet, still playing that horrible video on repeat. She's staring at the ceiling, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks.

On the bedside table, a surgical scalpel gleams under the fluorescent light.

I understand then what Raquel has done. What choice she's trying to force.

And I know, with terrible certainty, that my mother is already deciding.

The bucket hits the floor before I do.

One second I'm scrubbing the same three tiles I've been working on for the past hour, mind blank and body numb. The next, something in my chest snaps—not breaks, snaps, like a rope pulled too tight finally giving way.

The pain is instant and absolute. Not physical. Worse than physical.

I know, before I even understand what I'm knowing, that my mother is gone.

I'm running before the mop hits the ground. My shoes slip on the wet marble and I go down hard on one knee, but I don't stop. Can't stop. The hospital is three corridors away and I take them at a sprint, my lungs burning, that severed bond screaming in my chest like an open wound.

The elevator takes too long. I slam the button six times, seven, then abandon it for the stairs. My legs are shaking—twelve hours of serving and scrubbing and pretending to be invisible—but I force them to move. Three flights. Two. One.

The ground floor opens into chaos.

Pack members crowd the main entrance, their voices a dull roar that makes no sense. Someone's crying. Someone else is on their phone. I shove through them, using my elbows, my shoulders, anything to get past the wall of bodies blocking my path to the courtyard.

"—jumped, I swear, I saw her—"

"—third floor window—"

"—call the Alpha—"

No.

No no no no no.

I break through the crowd and the world stops.

Mama is lying on the pavement in a position that bodies aren't supposed to make. Her hospital gown is bunched around her waist. One of her slippers is missing. Her eyes are open, staring up at the night sky like she's searching for something she'll never find.

The scream that comes out of me doesn't sound human.

I collapse onto her, my hands hovering over her broken body because I don't know where to touch, where it's safe, how to fix this. Her skin is still warm. Still warm, like maybe if I just—if I could just—

"Mama." The word is a sob. "Mama, please, wake up, please—"

Her eyes don't blink.

I press my forehead to hers, and the bond that's supposed to be there—that golden thread connecting mother to daughter—is just gone. Severed. Empty space where her presence used to live in my chest.

Someone tries to pull me away. I snarl at them, actually snarl, and they back off.

I don't know how long I stay there. Could be seconds. Could be hours. Time has stopped meaning anything.

Then I hear his voice.

"What the hell is going on out here?"

Marcel pushes through the crowd with four warriors at his back. He's still in his dinner clothes—the treaty delegation must have just finished dessert. His eyes scan the scene with the detached efficiency of someone assessing property damage.

They land on me. On Mama's body beneath me.

His jaw tightens.

"Macy." He says my name like a command. "Get up."

I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except hold my mother's cooling hand and wish I'd been faster, smarter, strong enough to stop this.

"Macy." He's closer now. "I said get up."

His hand locks around my upper arm and he hauls me to my feet. I stumble, my legs refusing to hold me, but his grip is iron.

"You're making a scene," he hisses, low enough that only I can hear. "The Granite Ridge delegation is fifty feet away. Do you understand what this looks like?"

I stare at him.

At this man who is supposed to be my mate. My protector. The one the Moon Goddess chose for me.

He's worried about appearances.

"She's dead," I whisper.

"I can see that." He releases my arm and turns to the warriors. "Get this cleaned up. Now. I want the body removed and the courtyard cleared in the next ten minutes."

"Alpha," one of them says carefully. "Shouldn't we wait for the Council investigators? Suspicious death protocol—"

"It was a suicide." Marcel's voice carries Alpha Command, making it truth by decree. "An Omega with a fading aura. It happens. There's nothing suspicious about it."

He looks at me then, and his eyes are flat. Empty.

"Burn the bedding from her room," he adds. "All of it. I don't want any trace of this incident lingering."

Incident.

He called my mother's death an incident.

The warriors move past me, lifting Mama's body with the casual efficiency of people removing furniture. Her head lolls to the side. Her arm dangles.

I watch them carry her away, and something inside me that was already broken shatters into pieces too small to ever put back together.

Marcel is saying something else—something about discretion and pack image and controlling the narrative—but I'm not listening anymore.

I'm looking at the window three stories up. The one that's still open.

And I'm thinking about the scalpel Raquel left on the bedside table.

The choice she forced my mother to make.

The video she made her watch.

Marcel's hand is on my shoulder now, steering me away from the courtyard, away from the crowd, back toward the servants' quarters where I belong.

"You'll stay in your room tonight," he's saying. "No contact with other pack members until this blows over. Understood?"

I don't answer.

Because I'm realizing something.

Raquel didn't just kill my mother.

She killed the last reason I had to stay alive.

And Marcel—my fated mate, my Alpha, my supposed protector—just helped her cover it up.