Three weeks. Twenty-one days of lying in the healing ward, watching my body slowly knit itself back together. The pain had become a constant companion, a reminder of each of the eighteen wounds that had nearly claimed my life.

I stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles for the hundredth time. My fingers traced the bandages covering my torso, feeling the ridges of healing flesh beneath.

"Your wolf is still dormant," Iris noted during her morning check-up. Her hands were gentle as she changed my dressings. "That's unusual after this much time."

I nodded, reaching inward to the empty space where my wolf should be. She was there, but weak—so weak I could barely feel her presence.

"She'll come back," I whispered, more to myself than to Iris.

The door opened, and Garrett Flynn stepped in, his expression brightening when he saw me sitting up.

"You're looking better," he said, placing a small bouquet of wildflowers on my bedside table.

"Thanks," I replied, managing a smile. "Did you just come from patrol?"

He nodded, pulling up a chair. "The northern border is secure. No sign of rogues since your mission."

Other warriors came and went throughout the day. Some brought small gifts, others just sat and talked about pack news. I appreciated their visits—they broke up the monotony of staring at the same four walls.

But Keaton never came.

"Has my mate inquired about me?" I asked Iris during her evening rounds, trying to keep my voice casual.

Her hands stilled momentarily. "Beta Keaton sent word that he trusts your care to us completely. He's been handling pack affairs."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Of course. The pack needs him."

Each day, I watched the door, expecting him to appear. Each night, I fell asleep alone, reaching through our bond only to find emptiness.

"He's busy," I told myself. "He's managing the crisis my mission revealed."

But doubt crept in like a shadow.

---

"Did you hear what happened with the rogue mission?" A voice drifted through my partially open door.

I froze, straining to hear.

"Keaton said she panicked," another voice replied. "Backup was only slightly delayed."

"That's not what I heard. My cousin in the patrol team said they never received extraction coordinates."

Their voices dropped lower, but my enhanced hearing caught every word.

"Keaton's report says she didn't follow protocol. Abandoned her position."

The door swung open, and the two pack members jumped apart guiltily when they saw me standing there, leaning heavily on a crutch.

"Eleanora!" One of them stammered. "We didn't mean—"

They hurried away, avoiding my eyes.

I limped back to my bed, my heart pounding. What were they saying about me?

Later, I cornered Iris. "What's the pack saying about my mission?"

She looked uncomfortable, her eyes darting away from mine. "It's just rumors, Eleanora. Focus on healing."

"Tell me," I insisted.

Iris sighed, setting down her medical tray. "The official report states the backup team arrived only minutes late. It... implies you had already fled."

"That's not what happened," I said, my voice shaking. "I fought alone for over an hour. Your documentation proves it."

"I know," she admitted quietly. "But Keaton's report is the official record."

I stared at her, unable to comprehend how such a lie could be accepted. "Why would he do this?"

Iris squeezed my shoulder gently. "Rest. Recover. Address these... misunderstandings... when you're stronger."

---

The den felt foreign as I stepped inside. Three weeks away had changed something—or perhaps I was the one who had changed.

I inhaled deeply, catching unfamiliar scents beneath heavy perfume. A pillow on our bed smelled wrong—like someone else had used it.

"Keaton?" I called out, but the den remained silent.

I found his note on the kitchen counter: "In meetings. Rest well."

I touched the paper, tracing his handwriting. Even this small connection felt strained.

When he finally returned that evening, his greeting was perfunctory. "You're home. Good."

"Thank you," I replied, searching his face for warmth. "I missed you."

He nodded, his eyes sliding away from mine. "I've been dealing with the aftermath of the rogue situation."

"I want to talk about what happened," I said, stepping closer. "The backup team—"

"There were communication errors," he cut me off. "We should discuss this when you're fully recovered."

That night, he slept with his back to me, a wall of coldness between us. I reached through our bond, seeking comfort, but found only emptiness.

As I lay awake staring at his back, my wolf stirred for the first time in weeks.

*Something is wrong*, she whispered faintly. *This is not our mate.*

I first heard the whispers during morning training. My body still ached from the eighteen wounds that had nearly claimed my life, but I'd insisted on returning to light exercises. The pack needed to see me recovering, needed to know their warrior was still standing.

"The Pack Honor Medal ceremony is next week," a young Delta whispered to her companion as they passed me.

I paused mid-stretch, my attention caught. The Pack Honor Medal—our highest decoration for bravery and sacrifice. My heart quickened. After what I'd endured, after nearly dying to bring back crucial intelligence that would protect our territory...

"Alpha Marcus will present it during the full moon gathering," another voice added. "It's been years since anyone earned it."

I smiled to myself, continuing my exercises with renewed vigor. The medal would be a fitting acknowledgment of what I'd sacrificed. My wolf stirred weakly within me, the first movement I'd felt from her in weeks.

Later that day, I overheard two senior warriors talking near the pack house.

"Nyomi deserves it," one said, his voice carrying through the open window. "The intelligence support she provided was crucial."

"Keaton said her bravery during the rogue mission was exceptional," the other replied. "Took real courage to step up like that."

I froze mid-step. Nyomi? Nyomi Torres? The junior warrior I barely knew?

"That's not..." I whispered, but they'd already moved away.

I hurried toward the training grounds, my still-healing body protesting the sudden movement. There, surrounded by admiring pack members, stood Nyomi—wearing the gleaming silver medal that should have been mine.

"Congratulations," someone was saying. "Your contributions to the rogue mission were invaluable."

Nyomi smiled, her hand resting protectively on the medal. "I just did what was needed for the pack."

I stood rooted to the spot, unable to process what I was seeing. Nyomi hadn't been anywhere near rogue territory. She hadn't fought for her life for hours against impossible odds. She hadn't nearly bled out on the border.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears. "I think there's been a mistake."

The crowd parted, faces turning toward me with expressions ranging from pity to discomfort.

"Eleanora," Nyomi said, her smile faltering slightly. "You should be resting."

"This medal," I said, gesturing toward her chest. "It's for the rogue mission."

"Keaton explained everything," she replied, her hand still covering the medal. "My intelligence support made the mission possible."

I stared at her, then at the others. No one would meet my eyes.

---

I found Keaton in his office later that afternoon.

"The Pack Honor Medal," I said without preamble. "It's being given to Nyomi."

He looked up from his paperwork, his expression carefully neutral. "Yes."

"That's... wrong," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I nearly died bringing back that intelligence."

Keaton sighed, setting down his pen. "The pack needed a morale boost after the... incident."

"Incident?" I echoed incredulously. "I was abandoned during a critical mission!"

"Your extraction was delayed," he corrected coldly. "Nyomi's contributions were significant in ways you don't understand."

"What contributions?" I demanded. "She wasn't even there!"

His eyes narrowed. "This isn't about you, Eleanora. Sometimes the pack's needs come first."

"My needs?" I stepped closer, anger building. "I fought alone for over an hour! I have eighteen wounds to prove it!"

"Perhaps if you'd followed protocol more closely," he said, his voice taking on a sharp edge, "you wouldn't have needed extraction at all."

The implication hit me like a physical blow. "You're saying this was my fault?"

"Your failure to extract cleanly," he said, emphasizing each word, "reflected poorly on the mission overall."

"I almost died!" My voice cracked. "Because you—"

"That's enough." Keaton's voice dropped into the Beta tone, the command vibrating through my bones. "This discussion is over. Accept the decision and move on."

---

Days passed in a haze of confusion and growing suspicion. My wolf stirred more frequently now, her senses sharper than before.

"Your hearing seems better," Garrett remarked during a training session. "And your sense of smell."

I nodded absently, my attention drawn to Keaton across the grounds. He was speaking with Nyomi again, their heads bent close together. Something about their posture—the intimacy of it—sent a chill down my spine.

That night, I caught a trace of unfamiliar floral perfume on Keaton's jacket when he returned home.

"You're back late," I said, trying to keep my voice casual.

"Pack business," he replied dismissively.

I nodded, but my wolf growled within me. *Lies*, she whispered. *He carries her scent.*

The next day, I mentioned to a fellow warrior how often Keaton seemed to be with Nyomi lately.

He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight. "You know how it is. Nyomi's... popular."

"Popular enough to wear my medal," I said flatly.

His eyes widened slightly before he looked away. "I should get back to patrol."

As he hurried off, I realized with growing horror that everyone knew something I didn't. And whatever it was, it explained everything—the stolen medal, Keaton's coldness, the whispers that followed me.

My wolf stirred again, stronger this time. *Find out*, she urged. *Before it's too late.*