The protection quilt took three days to complete.

Three days of my fingers cramping around the needle, three nights of staying up past midnight after my shifts at The Rusty Fang, carefully stitching ancient protection symbols into the fabric using the techniques my grandmother had taught me. Elder Martin's arthritis had been getting worse with the cold snap, and I'd seen her wince every time she reached for her tea.

The quilt was beautiful—deep blue cotton backing with silver thread forming interlocking moon phases along the border. I'd infused each stitch with chamomile and willow bark essence, following the old healing ways that didn't require a wolf to work. My grandmother always said the best magic came from the heart, not the shift.

I folded it carefully into my canvas bag and walked the two trailers down to Elder Martin's place. The afternoon sun felt warm on my shoulders, a rare kindness from the weather. Maybe today would be good. Maybe—

"Novalee! There you are!"

Alaiya's voice cut through my thoughts like nails on glass. She materialized on Elder Martin's porch as if she'd been waiting, her smile wide and bright and wrong. Behind her, I could see at least five neighbors had gathered—Mrs. Chen with her grocery bags, the Morrison twins taking a break from their yard work, even grumpy old Frank from the end unit.

"I was just telling everyone about our little project," Alaiya continued, her voice carrying across the small yard. She descended the steps with practiced grace, that gold anklet catching the light. Always catching the light.

Our project?

"It took so much work to source the right materials," she said, addressing the small crowd more than me. "But when I heard about dear Elder Martin's pain, I knew we had to do something special. I spent hours teaching Novalee the proper stitching techniques—she's getting so much better with guidance!"

The canvas bag suddenly felt heavy in my hands.

"I guided every stitch," Alaiya placed her hand on her chest, the picture of humble benevolence. "It's what a true Luna does—lifts up those beneath her station, helps them contribute to the pack's welfare."

Mrs. Chen nodded approvingly. The Morrison twins exchanged impressed glances.

"That's so generous of you, Alaiya," Mrs. Chen said. "We're lucky to have someone with your Luna qualities in the neighborhood."

My throat closed. I looked past Alaiya to Elder Martin's door, hoping to see the old she-wolf's knowing eyes, her steady presence that always cut through bullshit. But the door remained closed.

"Oh, it's nothing." Alaiya waved her hand dismissively, then reached for my bag. "Here, let me present it properly. Poor Novalee's been working such long shifts—she's exhausted."

Her fingers closed on the canvas strap. For a moment, we both held it, and her eyes met mine. They were cold and triumphant, daring me to object, to make a scene, to reveal myself as the ungrateful Omega who couldn't appreciate a Luna's generosity.

I let go.

She pulled the quilt from the bag with a flourish, and the neighbors gasped appropriately at its beauty. My three days of work. My grandmother's techniques. My healing magic woven into every thread.

"Isn't it lovely?" Alaiya's voice dripped sweetness. "I'll just take it inside to Elder Martin. You all have a wonderful day!"

She disappeared through the door, taking my gift, my effort, my purpose with her.

I stood there, empty bag hanging from my shoulder, while the neighbors dispersed with warm words about Alaiya's kindness. None of them looked at me. I was just the hands that stitched. The Omega who needed guidance.

The walk back to my trailer felt longer than it should have.

Cairo was waiting inside, pacing the small living room with an energy I hadn't seen in months. His eyes were bright, almost feverish, and he grabbed my shoulders the moment I walked through the door.

"I made contact," he said, his grip tight enough to hurt. "Novalee, I finally made contact with Uncle Marcus."

My brain struggled to shift gears from the theft I'd just witnessed to whatever this new development was.

"Your uncle? The one in New York?"

"The Alpha of the Eastern Seaboard Council." Cairo released me to run his hands through his hair, that old gesture of excitement from before the fall. "He responded to my messages. He wants to meet. This is it, Novalee. This is our way back."

Our way back. The words should have filled me with hope. Instead, they settled like stones in my stomach.

"When?" I asked.

"Two weeks. I need to make the right impression, show him I'm ready to reclaim my position." He turned to me, and something in his expression made me step back. "Start packing. The servant's trunk—you know, the small one."

"The servant's trunk?"

"You don't have the Alpha Aura to stand beside me as a mate in high society, Novalee. Be realistic." His voice carried that patient condescension that made my skin crawl. "You'll come as a pack Omega. It's a generous offer—most Alphas wouldn't bring their contract mistakes into their real territory. But I'm not heartless. You can work in the kitchens or the healing ward until I figure out a way to break the contract quietly. No scandal, no drama."

Contract mistake.

The words hung in the air between us, and I realized with sudden, crushing clarity that this had always been his plan. I was never his mate. I was never his partner. I was a transaction that had outlived its usefulness, a burden to be managed and eventually discarded.

"I need to go to work," I heard myself say.

"Did you hear what I said? Start packing—"

"I heard you."

I walked past him, grabbed my purse, and left. I had four hours until my shift started, but I couldn't stay in that trailer another second. I couldn't breathe.

The streets of the rogue sector blurred past me as I walked without direction. When I finally stopped, I found myself at the small community garden where I grew my healing herbs. My hands moved automatically, checking the chamomile, the lavender, the moonflower that only bloomed at night.

My grandmother's voice echoed in my memory: "The moon sees everything, little one. Even when we can't see her, she's watching. She knows who we really are."

I knelt in the dirt, my fingers digging into the earth, and let myself feel it—all of it. The theft of my work. The casual cruelty of Cairo's dismissal. The three years of sacrifice that meant nothing. The gold anklet that glinted in the sunlight while I counted pennies for heating oil.

When I finally stood, the sun was lower in the sky. I needed to get to work. But first, I needed to go home and check on something.

The keepsake box. The one I kept hidden in the back of my closet, behind the winter coats we couldn't afford to replace. The one that held my grandmother's silver necklace with the strange stone she'd said would "awaken when the time was right." The one that contained her hand-bound Grimoire of healing salves, recipes passed down through five generations of wolfless healers who'd found their own kind of magic.

I needed to make sure it was still there.

Something cold settled in my chest as I walked back to the trailer, a premonition I couldn't name. The afternoon shadows stretched long across the gravel, and somewhere in the distance, a crow called out a warning I was only beginning to understand.

The closet door hung open like a broken jaw.

I stood frozen in the doorway of our bedroom, staring at the space where my grandmother's keepsake box should have been. The winter coats lay in a heap on the floor, yanked down in someone's hurry. Hangers scattered across the carpet. The small wooden box—hand-carved with moon phases, the only thing I had left of her—was gone.

My knees hit the floor. My hands tore through the coats, the shoes, the cardboard boxes of old clothes I'd been meaning to donate. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The silver necklace. The Grimoire.

Gone.

I was out the door before I could think, my feet pounding against gravel. One-Eyed Jack's Pawn Shop sat three blocks away, wedged between a liquor store and a closed-down laundromat. The neon sign flickered in the dying afternoon light—CASH FOR GOLD, QUICK LOANS, NO QUESTIONS.

I burst through the door, the bell jangling overhead. Jack looked up from behind the counter, his good eye widening slightly at my appearance. I must have looked wild—hair tangled, chest heaving, eyes probably red from the tears I didn't remember crying.

"Please," I gasped. "A wooden box. With a silver necklace and an old book. Did someone—"

The shop door opened behind me.

Cairo walked out of the back room, counting a thick stack of bills. He looked up, saw me, and his expression shifted from surprise to irritation in a heartbeat.

"What are you doing here?"

"What am I—" The words choked in my throat. "That was mine. That was my grandmother's. You had no right—"

"I had every right." He shoved the cash into his jacket pocket and moved toward the door. "I'm the Alpha of this household. Everything in that trailer belongs to me, including your little collection of worthless trinkets."

"The Grimoire isn't worthless. Those recipes—"

"Are useless." He pushed past me, his shoulder hitting mine hard enough to make me stumble. "Just like everything else about you. Alaiya needs a proper gown for our debut. Real silk, real embroidery, the kind that announces a Luna's arrival. That old book couldn't even fetch enough for the deposit, but it's a start."

He paused at the door, looking back with something like pity in his eyes. It was worse than his anger.

"Grow up, Novalee. This is pack politics. This is survival. You want to cry over some dead woman's scribbles? Fine. But don't expect me to apologize for doing what needs to be done."

The door slammed behind him.

I turned to Jack, desperate. "How much? How much did he get?"

Jack's good eye wouldn't meet mine. "Three hundred for the silver. The book... fifty. Nobody wants old recipe books, miss. I'm sorry."

Three hundred and fifty dollars. Five generations of healing knowledge. My grandmother's legacy. Gone for the price of a dress.

I walked home in a daze. The ceremonial robe. I still had the ceremonial robe commission. The visiting dignitary from the Northern Pack was paying two hundred dollars for the custom embroidery work. If I could finish it by tomorrow, if I could get that money, maybe I could buy back the Grimoire. Maybe Jack would hold it for me. Maybe—

I worked through the night, my fingers flying over the white silk. The protection symbols formed under my needle—ancient patterns meant to guard the wearer from harm. The irony wasn't lost on me.

By morning, my eyes burned and my hands cramped, but the robe was nearly finished. Just the final border work left. I stood to stretch, my back screaming in protest, and stumbled toward the bathroom.

The sound of the trailer door opening barely registered through my exhaustion.

I was washing my face when I heard it—Jakari's laugh, high and careless. Then Alaiya's voice, sweet as poisoned honey: "Oh, Jakari, be careful with that—"

I ran.

The white silk lay across my work table, no longer pristine. Purple liquid spread across the fabric like a wound, soaking into the delicate embroidery I'd spent hours perfecting. Grape juice. The bottle lay on its side, still dripping onto my floor.

Jakari stood there, his mouth forming an 'O' of fake surprise. "Oops."

"You—" I couldn't breathe. "You did that on purpose."

"It was an accident," Alaiya said, examining her nails. "Boys will be boys, Novalee. Surely you can just... wash it or something?"

"It's ruined. This was a commission. I needed—" My voice cracked. "I needed that money."

Alaiya's eyes met mine, and I saw the truth there. She knew. She knew exactly what she'd done.

"Well, that's unfortunate," she said. "But these things happen. Come on, Jakari. Cairo's taking us to look at venues."

They left. Just like that. Left me standing over the ruins of my last hope.

That night, Cairo brought Alaiya home for dinner.

He didn't ask. He simply walked in with her on his arm, both of them dressed like they were attending a gala instead of entering a rundown trailer. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and vanilla—filled our small space, making everything smell wrong.

"Set another plate," Cairo said, not looking at me.

I moved like a puppet, my hands going through the motions while my mind screamed. I served the pasta I'd made for myself, watched them eat food I'd bought with my tips, listened to them discuss color schemes for their New York apartment.

"The penthouse has floor-to-ceiling windows," Alaiya said, twirling pasta on her fork. "Perfect for morning yoga."

"Uncle Marcus promised us the east wing," Cairo added. "Close to the Council chambers. Strategic."

I stood against the kitchen counter, not eating, not sitting. Not invited to.

Cairo finally looked at me. He pulled a folded paper from his jacket and slid it across the table.

"Sign this."

My hands shook as I picked it up. Legal terms I barely understood. Relinquishment of mate status. Dissolution of contract. Release of all claims.

"You want me to—"

"Before we leave for New York," he interrupted. "Sign it, and you can stay in the trailer until you figure something out. Don't sign it..." He shrugged. "The trailer's in my name. Everything here is in my name. You'll have nothing."

Alaiya smiled at me over her wine glass—my wine glass, from the set I'd bought at a yard sale.

"It's really the kindest option," she said. "This way, there's no scandal. You just... fade away. Like you were never really here at all."

The paper crumpled in my fist.

Cairo's eyes narrowed. "Don't be stupid, Novalee. You have until we leave. Two weeks. Sign it, or lose everything."

They left together, Alaiya's laugh echoing in the hallway.

I stood alone in my kitchen, surrounded by their dirty dishes, holding a document that would erase three years of my life.

Outside, the moon rose full and bright, and somewhere in the distance, I heard a wolf howl.

It sounded like a warning.

Elder Martin's fever spiked on a Tuesday.

I found her slumped in her armchair when I stopped by with her morning tea, her skin burning hot enough to make me drop the cup. It shattered across her floor—cheap ceramic scattering like my composure—but I barely heard it over the rasp of her breathing.

"Martin." I pressed my palm to her forehead, my heart hammering. "Martin, can you hear me?"

Her eyes cracked open, unfocused and glassy. "Storm coming," she mumbled. "Big storm."

"Don't talk. Save your strength." I was already moving, my hands reaching for my canvas bag where I kept my emergency supplies. The fever-breaking salve. I always carried the fever-breaking salve because elders were fragile, because winters were harsh, because—

My fingers closed on an empty tin.

No.

I tore through the bag, my breath coming faster. Chamomile oil. Willow bark tincture. Lavender compress. But the specific salve—the one my grandmother had perfected over decades, the one that required exact ratios of moonflower extract and elderberry reduction—that was in the Grimoire.

The Grimoire Cairo had sold for fifty dollars.

"No, no, no." My hands shook as I grabbed what I had. I could remember some of it. Most of it. The base was coconut oil and beeswax. The moonflower extract was three parts to one part elderberry. Or was it four to one? My grandmother's voice echoed in my memory, but the words blurred together, fragments of lessons I'd assumed I'd always have written down to reference.

I mixed what I could remember, my fingers clumsy with panic. The paste looked right. Smelled close. I smoothed it across Martin's temples, her wrists, her chest, whispering prayers to a Moon Goddess I wasn't sure listened to wolfless girls.

"Please," I breathed. "Please work."

Martin's breathing evened out slowly—so slowly I thought I was imagining it. Her skin cooled degree by degree. By the time the sun reached its peak, her eyes opened clear.

"You saved me," she said, her voice weak but steady.

I slumped against her chair, my own hands trembling. "Barely. I barely remembered the recipe. If it had been worse, if I'd gotten the ratios wrong—"

"But you didn't." Her weathered hand found mine. "The wolf you saved hasn't forgotten you, child. When the storm comes, remember that."

"What wolf? Martin, you're not making sense—"

"I'm making perfect sense." Her grip tightened with surprising strength. "The wolf you pulled from the winter trap. The one you nursed back to health when he was feral and bleeding. He remembers. And he's coming."

Before I could ask what she meant, voices erupted outside—excited, urgent. The full moon gathering. I'd forgotten it was tonight.

I helped Martin to her bed, made sure she had water and a blanket, then stepped outside into chaos.

The communal yard blazed with light—strings of bulbs crisscrossing between trailers, casting everything in harsh yellow. Wolves gathered in clusters, some already shifting, their forms rippling between human and beast. The full moon hung overhead, bloated and accusing.

Alaiya stood on the wooden stairs leading to the Morrison twins' trailer, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo. She was mid-shift, her body caught in that awkward in-between state that should have been private. But Alaiya never did anything private.

"Watch this!" she called out, her voice pitched to carry. Her bones cracked and reformed, her face elongating. She was showing off, preening, demanding attention even in her most vulnerable moment.

I looked away. I couldn't watch her anymore without feeling sick.

That's when I saw Tommy Chen.

The pup—barely eight years old—was climbing the same stairs, probably trying to get a better view of the shifts. He was small for his age, all gangly limbs and gap-toothed smile. Mrs. Chen's pride and joy.

Alaiya's shift stuttered. Her wolf form wasn't stable yet, her balance off. She teetered on the step, her front paws scrambling for purchase.

And instead of steadying herself, instead of shifting back, she shoved.

Tommy's small body flew backward. He hit the concrete steps with a crack that made my stomach drop. Once. Twice. Three times his body tumbled, each impact a sickening thud that silenced the yard.

He lay at the bottom, whimpering, his leg bent at an angle that made my healer's instincts scream.

I was running before I could think, my feet pounding across the gravel. But Cairo was faster.

His hand clamped around my arm like a vice, yanking me forward with enough force to make me stumble. I crashed into him, and he spun me around to face the crowd.

"It was Novalee!" His voice boomed across the yard, carrying that Alpha tone that made wolves freeze. "She was jealous of Alaiya's shift and pushed the boy! I saw it!"

The world tilted.

Every face turned toward me. Mrs. Chen's expression crumbled from concern to horror. The Morrison twins stepped back like I was diseased. Even the wolves mid-shift paused, their eyes—human and beast—locking onto me with predatory focus.

"What?" The word came out strangled. "No. I didn't—Cairo, I wasn't even near—"

"I saw you." His eyes bored into mine, and I saw the calculation there. The cold, deliberate choice. "You've been unstable lately. Jealous. Everyone's seen it."

"That's a lie!" My voice cracked. "Alaiya pushed him! She lost her balance and—"

"How dare you." Alaiya had shifted back, standing at the top of the stairs wrapped in someone's jacket, tears streaming down her face. "I would never hurt a child. Never. Tommy, sweetie, I'm so sorry I couldn't catch you when she—"

"Stop it!" I wrenched my arm from Cairo's grip. "Stop lying! All of you saw—"

But they hadn't. They'd been watching Alaiya's shift, mesmerized by her performance. By the time Tommy fell, their eyes had been on her, not on what caused it.

Mrs. Chen knelt beside her son, her hands hovering over his broken leg, her face twisted with rage and grief. When she looked up at me, I saw my death in her eyes.

"You monster," she whispered.

The crowd closed in.