The headlights cut through the rain before I hear the engine. I'm still stuck, wheels buried axle-deep in mud, when Jaxson's truck skids to a stop twenty feet from where I sit. The door slams. His boots hit the ground with a sound that carries even over the storm.

I don't look up. I keep my hands on the wheels, even though they won't move, even though my arms are shaking so hard I can barely grip the metal.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

His voice cuts through the rain. Not the Alpha Tone—not yet—but close. I can hear the edge of it, the warning.

'Leaving,' I say. My voice is steadier than I expected.

He's in front of me now, close enough that I can see the rain running down his face, the way his jaw is locked tight. 'You don't get to leave.'

'I'm not your prisoner.'

'You're my mate.' He spits the word like it's poison. 'You're bound to this pack. You don't just—' He gestures at the mud, at my pathetic attempt at escape. 'You can't even make it fifty yards without getting stuck.'

The truth of it burns worse than the cold. He's right. I'm trapped by my own body as much as by him.

He grabs the handles of my wheelchair and yanks it backward. The wheels come free with a sucking sound, and the sudden movement throws me forward. I catch myself on the armrests, but barely. He drags me back toward the Pack House, not walking, not helping—just pulling the chair like it's a piece of luggage he's annoyed to be carrying.

'Jaxson—'

'Shut up.' The Alpha Tone, finally. It hits me like a physical force, and my mouth closes against my will. My wolf is gone, but the bond still responds to his command. I hate it. I hate him.

We reach the service entrance. He shoves the chair through the doorway hard enough that I have to grip the wheels to keep from tipping. Martha is there, her face pale, her hands twisting in her apron.

'Get her cleaned up,' Jaxson says. He doesn't look at me. 'And make sure she understands she doesn't leave this building without my permission.'

He turns to go, and that's when I see it—the way his eyes drop to my left hand. To the ring.

My mother's ring. The one she wore as Luna. The one the pack elders gave me when they forced Jaxson to accept the bond. It's simple—silver band, small moonstone—but it's mine. The only thing I have left of her.

Jaxson's hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is iron.

'You don't deserve this,' he says.

He pulls. The ring catches on my knuckle, and for a second I think it won't come off, but then it does. He holds it up between us, and the moonstone catches the light.

'This belongs to a Luna,' he says. 'Not a crippled pretender who can't even make it to the border.'

He pockets the ring and walks away.

I sit there, dripping rainwater onto the floor, staring at my bare finger. Martha's hand touches my shoulder, but I can't feel it. I can't feel anything.

---

Two days later, I'm alone in my room when I pull out the burner phone Martha smuggled to me last week. My hands are steady as I dial the number I memorized.

'Thorne Hospice.' Dr. Marcus Thorne's voice is calm, professional.

'It's Liliana Anderson,' I say quietly. 'I need to arrange a transfer.'

There's a pause. 'Are you in immediate danger?'

'Not the kind you're thinking.' I take a breath. 'I have an inheritance. My mother's estate. I want it liquidated and transferred to your facility. For the Wolfless Pups program.'

Another pause. 'Liliana—'

'After,' I say. 'It goes into effect after. Martha will bring you a letter. You'll know when.'

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: 'I understand.'

I end the call and destroy the SIM card. Martha will dispose of the pieces. She's good at that—at making things disappear.

---

The scream comes from the Luna Suite just after dawn.

I'm in the medical wing, restocking supplies, when I hear it. High, panicked, followed by Jaxson's roar. My hands freeze on the bandage roll.

Footsteps thunder down the hallway. The door to the medical wing slams open.

'You.' Jaxson's eyes are wild. 'What did you do?'

I turn slowly. 'I don't—'

'Gia's sick. Vomiting. Shaking.' He crosses the distance between us in three strides. 'She said you brought her tea last night.'

My blood goes cold. 'I didn't—'

'She said you poisoned her.'

The accusation hangs in the air between us. I see it in his eyes—he believes her. He doesn't even question it.

'I haven't been near the Luna Suite in weeks,' I say. My voice is calm. Too calm. 'You know that.'

'You're lying.'

His hand closes around my throat.

The world narrows to the pressure of his fingers, the way my airway collapses, the burning in my lungs. I claw at his wrist, but he's too strong. His eyes glow gold—his wolf is surfacing.

'If anything happens to my heir,' he growls, and his voice is layered now, human and wolf speaking together, 'I will kill you myself.'

The edges of my vision go dark. I can't breathe. Can't think. There's only the pressure and the gold of his eyes and the certainty that this is how I die.

He releases me.

I collapse against the medical cabinet, gasping, my hands at my throat. He stands over me, chest heaving, and for a moment I think he's going to do it anyway. Finish what he started.

But he just turns and walks out.

I sit there on the floor, my throat burning, my hands shaking, and I feel it—the last thread of the bond, the one I've been holding onto despite everything, finally snap.

He would have killed me. He wanted to.

And I don't care anymore.

I stop taking the medication on Tuesday morning.

Martha notices immediately. She sets the pill bottle on my nightstand with that look she gets—the one that says she knows exactly what I'm doing and won't try to stop me.

'You'll need your strength,' is all she says.

She's wrong. I don't need strength. I need clarity. The pills dull the pain, but they also dull everything else. The edges of my thoughts go soft, my memories blur. I can't afford that. Not now.

The migraine hits by Wednesday afternoon. It's a living thing behind my right eye, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. I press my thumb against my wrist and count to eight. Then sixteen. Then thirty-two. The pain doesn't stop, but the counting gives me something to hold onto.

I spend the hours mapping the Pack House in my mind. I know every patrol route, every guard rotation, every blind spot in the security system. I've had years to learn them—years of sitting in corners, being invisible, watching.

The East Gate is the answer. It's the most dangerous exit—the path that runs closest to rogue territory, the one that opens onto unstable ground. Jaxson never patrols it himself. He sends the Deltas, and only during daylight hours. After dark, it's considered too risky. Which makes it perfect.

On Wednesday night, I'm in the garden when I hear it. Gia's voice, high and bright, drifting through the open window of the Luna Suite. She's on a phone—not her regular one. I can tell by the way she's speaking, clipped and careful.

'...the full moon,' she's saying. 'Yes. East side. The sensors will be down.'

My hands still on the Moon Lily stem I'm trimming.

She's coordinating something. A rogue attack, most likely. Timed for when the pack is most vulnerable—during the transformation, when everyone's focus is internal, when the Alpha is consumed by his wolf.

She's going to use the chaos to solidify her position. Maybe stage another 'threat' to the pregnancy. Maybe frame someone else. It doesn't matter. What matters is the timing.

I finish with the flowers and wheel myself back inside. Martha is waiting in my room with a bundle wrapped in cloth.

'What you asked for,' she says quietly.

I unwrap it. The herbs inside are pungent, sharp—bloodroot, black cohosh, and something else I don't recognize. Martha's older than she looks. She knows things the younger wolves have forgotten.

'This will mask your scent?' I ask.

'Not mask,' she corrects. 'Change it. Make you smell like...' She hesitates.

'Like I'm already gone,' I finish.

She nods. Her eyes are wet, but she doesn't cry. 'When?'

'Full moon. Stay in the kitchens. Don't come looking for me.'

'Miss Lily—'

'Promise me, Martha.'

She looks at me for a long moment. Then she takes my hand—the one with the bare ring finger—and squeezes it once.

'I promise.'

---

The full moon rises on Friday night. I can feel it even without my wolf—a pull in my chest, an ache in my bones. The pack is restless. I hear them moving through the Pack House, their voices pitched higher, their footsteps faster.

I wait until the transformation begins. The howls start just after midnight, echoing through the walls. Jaxson's is the loudest—a sound that used to make me feel safe. Now it just sounds empty.

I apply the herb mixture to my pulse points. The smell is wrong—decay and earth and something metallic. It makes my stomach turn, but I force myself to breathe through it. This is what I need. This is what will buy me time.

The hallways are empty. Everyone's either transformed or gathered in the main hall, waiting. I wheel myself toward the security room, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

The door is unlocked. Of course it is. No one expects a threat from inside.

The control panel is old—older than Jaxson's reign, probably older than his father's. I've watched the Gammas use it enough times to know the basics. I find the East Gate sensors and flip the manual override.

The screen flickers. Zone 7: OFFLINE.

I stare at it for three seconds. Four. Five.

This is real. I'm doing this.

I turn my chair and head for the service exit. The wheels are silent on the tile. My hands are steady. The migraine is a white-hot spike drilling through my skull, but I don't care. I'm past caring.

The East Gate is a quarter mile from the Pack House. The path is rough—roots and rocks and mud from yesterday's rain. My arms burn with the effort of pushing through it, but I don't stop.

I'm halfway there when I hear the first explosion.

The rogues. Right on schedule.

Behind me, the howls shift—from transformation to alarm. I hear Jaxson's Alpha command cutting through the chaos, rallying the pack. He'll be focused on the attack. He won't notice I'm gone. Not yet.

The East Gate looms ahead, rusted and ancient. I reach for the latch.

My hand freezes.

Because standing on the other side, backlit by moonlight, is a figure I don't recognize.

And they're holding a silver blade.