Davis gave her the guest wing.

I stood in the corridor outside our bedroom and listened to him deliver the decision in that flat, final Alpha tone he used when he'd already made up his mind and was simply informing the room. Political pressure from the Lee family elders. A Truth Ritual to be arranged. Temporary accommodations until the matter could be resolved properly.

Temporary.

I said nothing. I let him finish, nodded once, and walked back inside.

The packhouse had always felt like a stage. Now it felt like a cage with two wolves in it.

Scarlett settled into the guest wing like she was reclaiming territory, which I supposed she believed she was. I could feel her moving through the corridors — not literally, but the way you feel a shift in pressure before a storm. The pack felt it too. I watched it in the way conversations stopped a half-second too late when I entered a room, in the careful neutrality on the Betas' faces, in the way the Omegas kept their eyes down a little harder than usual.

They were waiting to see which of us would break first.

Neither of us would. But only one of us knew that.

---

I found her in Davis's study on the second afternoon.

The door was ajar. I didn't rush. I stood in the hallway for exactly three seconds, listening to the low register of her voice — intimate, practiced, the tone of a woman who knew which frequencies worked on a particular man. Then I pushed the door open and walked in like I owned the room.

Because I did.

Scarlett was standing close to Davis's desk, one hand resting on the edge of it, her body angled toward him in a way that was calculated to look unconscious. Davis was behind the desk, his expression unreadable, his eyes moving to me the moment I appeared.

I didn't look at him.

"There you are," I said to Scarlett, pleasantly. "I've been looking for you."

She straightened. "This is a private conversation."

"This is my mate's study." I turned toward the doorway, where two of the packhouse guards had materialized at the sound of my voice. I hadn't called them. They'd simply come, the way guards do when a Luna projects the right kind of authority. "Please escort our guest back to the wing that's been prepared for her. She seems to have gotten turned around."

The guards stepped forward.

Scarlett's eyes went to Davis. Waiting. Asking.

Davis said nothing.

That silence cost him something, I think. I watched it register on Scarlett's face — the flicker of something raw and old, a wound that had never properly closed. Then her expression hardened back into the mask she wore, and she walked out between the guards with her chin up, not looking at me as she passed.

I waited until her footsteps faded down the corridor. Then I looked at Davis.

He was watching me with that unreadable expression, the one I'd spent four years cataloguing without ever fully decoding.

"Thank you," I said, and left before he could respond.

---

The kitchen was quiet when I went down that evening. I wanted tea. I wanted five minutes without performing anything for anyone.

I should have known better.

Scarlett was already there.

She was standing at the counter with a mug in both hands, and when she turned and saw me, something in her face shifted — all the careful control she'd been maintaining for two days cracking along a fault line I hadn't seen coming.

"You don't even have a scent," she said.

I kept moving toward the kettle. "Good evening."

"I mean it." Her voice was climbing. "You walk around this packhouse wearing my name, my title, my life — and underneath all of it, there's nothing. No wolf-scent. Nothing real. What are you?"

I set the kettle down. Turned to face her.

"I'm the Luna of this pack," I said. "Which is more than you are right now."

The mug left her hand before I finished the sentence.

I got my arm up in time. The coffee hit my forearm instead of my face — scalding, immediate, the kind of pain that whites out your vision for a half-second before your body catches up with what just happened. I heard the ceramic shatter on the floor. I heard Scarlett's breathing, ragged and too fast.

I looked down at my arm. The skin was already reddening.

Then I looked up at her.

Scarlett Lee, the woman whose name I had worn for four years, was shaking. Not with rage. With something that looked, underneath all the fury, a great deal like fear.

Good.

She should be afraid.

I was just getting started.

I didn't move.

The coffee was still burning through my sleeve, soaking into the skin beneath, and I stood there with my arm held slightly away from my body and watched Scarlett Lee realize what she'd done. The shaking in her hands. The way her breath came in short, uneven pulls. She'd lost control, and she knew it, and knowing it made her more dangerous, not less.

I was calculating my next move when the kitchen door opened.

Not Davis.

The aura that filled the room was different — not the flat, crushing weight of an Alpha command, but something denser, more deliberate. A Beta's authority, fully deployed. It pressed against the walls like a held breath, and I watched Scarlett's knees buckle before she could stop them. She caught herself on the counter's edge, her face going white.

Carlos West stood in the doorway.

He wasn't looking at Scarlett. He wasn't looking at the shattered mug on the floor, or the coffee spreading across the tile, or any of the wreckage of the last thirty seconds. He was looking at my arm.

He crossed the kitchen in four steps and took my wrist in both hands — carefully, the way you handle something that's already been hurt enough. His touch was light. His scent hit me at the same moment: pine and cold river water, clean and immediate, and something in my chest did a thing I didn't have a name for and didn't want to examine.

"Let me see," he said quietly.

I let him look. I didn't know why.

Behind him, Scarlett straightened, her chin coming up, her voice finding its edge again. "This is a private pack matter. The Silverfang envoy has no standing here —"

"Sit down," Carlos said, without turning around.

He said it the way he said everything — once, quietly, without repetition. Scarlett sat down. I don't think she meant to. I don't think she could help it.

I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

---

He found me in the North Woods at midnight.

I'd told him not to come. He'd come anyway, which I was learning was simply how Carlos West operated — not in defiance, but with the calm certainty of someone who had already decided what mattered and wasn't interested in being argued out of it.

He had a small tin with him. Silverfang healing salve, he said. Rare. Made from plants that only grew in their northern territory. He opened it and the smell was sharp and green and cold, and he applied it to my forearm with the same careful attention he'd shown in the kitchen, his fingers moving slowly around the edges of the burn.

The pain eased. I hated how much I noticed that.

"You didn't have to come," I said.

"I know."

The trees were dark around us. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once and went quiet. I watched his hands on my arm and thought about how long it had been since anyone had touched me like I was worth being careful with.

"Hope." He said my real name so rarely, and always like it cost him something. "You don't have to keep bleeding for a dead man."

My fingers found the inside of my wrist before I could stop them — pressing down, the old reflex, the one that meant I was holding something in that wanted very badly to come out. I felt him notice it. He didn't say anything about it.

"You don't know what I have to do," I said.

"No," he agreed. "I just know what it's costing you."

I pulled my arm back. Gently, so it wouldn't seem like retreat. It was retreat.

"Go back to the packhouse," I said. "Before someone sees you out here."

He went. He didn't argue. That was somehow worse.

---

Davis was awake when I got back.

He was standing near the window, still dressed, and the moment I stepped through the bedroom door I felt it — the shift in his aura, that particular frequency that meant he was working very hard to stay controlled. His eyes moved over me, and I watched them catch on something. A hesitation. A narrowing.

"You smell different," he said.

Pine. River water. I'd been careful, but not careful enough.

"I went for a walk."

"In the North Woods." Not a question.

I set my jacket down and didn't answer.

His Alpha tone came down like a hand on the back of my neck. "You will not speak to the Silverfang Beta again. Not alone. Not at all, if I decide it."

The command pressed against my skull, looking for the compliance it was designed to produce. I breathed through it.

Then he was closer, his hand at my jaw, tilting my face up. His scent — cedar, darkness, possession — wrapped around me, and I understood exactly what he was doing. Reclaiming. Reasserting. The mate bond pulling taut between us like a wire.

"Davis." I let my voice go soft. Scarlett's voice, worn smooth with practice. "The exile left marks that don't heal quickly. You know that. Please."

A long silence. His thumb moved once against my cheekbone.

Then he stepped back.

I kept my face still and my breathing even, and I did not press my fingers to my wrist, because he was watching, and some tells you cannot afford to give away.

I heard the commotion before I reached the training field.

Voices — too many, too loud, the particular pitch of a pack that had just been handed something to be afraid of. I came through the tree line and saw them: a cluster of warriors around Gamma Reed, their faces tight, their eyes moving between the ground and each other. Scarlett stood at the edge of the group with her arms crossed and her expression arranged into something that looked like reluctant duty.

I knew that look. I'd worn it myself.

Reed turned when he heard my footsteps. In his hand was a small evidence bag, and inside it, catching the afternoon light, was my signet ring. Scarlett's signet ring. The one I'd been wearing for four years, the one I'd left on my dresser this morning because the training run didn't call for it.

The one that was now sitting at the site of a rogue breach in the perimeter sensors.

'Luna.' Reed's voice was careful. Neutral. The tone of a man who hadn't decided anything yet but was watching very closely. 'Can you explain how this ended up here?'

I looked at the ring. I looked at Scarlett.

She met my eyes and held them, and I saw it — the satisfaction underneath the performance, clean and cold as a blade. She'd planned this carefully. The timing, the witnesses, the ring. She'd been patient in a way I hadn't expected from her, and I felt a grudging flicker of something almost like respect before I buried it.

'I can't,' I said. 'Because I didn't put it there.'

---

The tribunal convened in the great hall within the hour.

Davis sat at the head of the long table with his Beta on his left and Reed on his right, and the warriors lined the walls, and I stood in the center of all of it and kept my spine straight and my hands still. The ring sat on the table between us in its evidence bag like an accusation that didn't need words.

Scarlett had positioned herself near the far wall, just inside my sightline. Close enough to watch. Far enough to look uninvolved.

Davis's mother stood near the door.

I hadn't noticed her come in. I noticed her now — the way she held herself, composed and still, her eyes on her son rather than on me. She wasn't watching the tribunal. She was watching Davis. Waiting to see which way he'd move.

I understood then that this wasn't Scarlett's plan alone.

'The perimeter sensors were manually disabled,' Reed said. 'The breach allowed three rogues through the eastern boundary. Two were neutralized. One escaped. The ring was found at the primary breach point.' He paused. 'The sensors require a Luna-level access code to override.'

Every eye in the room came to me.

Davis looked at me. Just looked, for a long moment, and I watched him do the thing I'd seen him do a hundred times — go still and internal, processing, calculating, weighing pack safety against everything else. His Alpha instincts and his mother's quiet presence and the mate bond pulling in one direction while his duty pulled in another.

I waited for him to ask me directly. To give me the floor. To do the one thing that would have cost him nothing and meant everything.

He didn't.

'Until the investigation is complete,' he said, his voice flat and final, 'the Luna title is suspended. You'll be confined to the holding cells.' A pause that felt like a door closing. 'Silver-lined. Standard protocol for a treason inquiry.'

The room went very quiet.

I didn't look at Scarlett. I didn't look at Eleanor Meyer. I looked at Davis, and I let myself feel it — the full weight of what he'd just done — and then I folded it away somewhere deep and locked it there.

'Understood,' I said.

Scarlett's exhale was almost inaudible. Almost.

---

The silver lining in the cell walls didn't burn unless you touched them directly, but their presence was a constant low hum against my skin, like a frequency just below hearing. I sat on the narrow cot and pressed my fingertips to my wrist and breathed.

Somewhere outside the packhouse walls, I knew, Carlos had already heard.

I didn't know how I knew. I just did — the same way I'd always known when he was nearby, that faint clean scent of pine and cold water that my body had apparently decided meant safety whether I'd given it permission to or not.

He would move. He always moved, quietly and without announcement, and he would not ask Davis's permission first.

I closed my eyes and listened to the silver hum and waited.

Outside, somewhere near the Black Moon border, a rogue who knew exactly who had paid him was about to have a very difficult conversation with the Beta of the Silverfang Pack.