Alana POV:

I dragged my broken body to my father's estate.

Every breath was a knife. Ribs definitely fractured. But rage is a potent anesthetic.

I walked into the dining room. My father, a Beta who sold me out for a socialite, looked up from his soup.

"You smell like a slaughterhouse, Alana," he said. "Have some decency."

Joyce sat across from him. My stepmother, Diana, sipped wine.

"Where is it?" I rasped.

Joyce pointed under the table with her foot. "Dropped it. Clumsy me."

The locket was shattered. Silver dust glittered on the rug.

I fell to my knees, picking up pieces. The silver burned my fingertips. I needed the back panel—the map.

"Look at her," Diana laughed. "Scavenging rat."

Joyce kicked my hand. The shard flew across the room.

"Oops," she giggled.

Something snapped. Not a bone. A restraint.

I stood up. Moved faster than an Omega should. I grabbed Joyce's hair and yanked.

Smack.

My hand connected with her cheek. Years of torture behind that blow. Joyce flew out of her chair.

"You bitch!" Diana shrieked, shoving me.

Weakened, I fell onto the silver shards. Metal sliced my palms.

"Lock her up!" my father roared. "Until Austen comes to collect this animal!"

Servants grabbed me. Dragged me to the basement.

"Wait!" Joyce yelled. She grabbed a vase of blue flowers. "Put these in with her."

Hydrangeas.

My throat tightened just looking at them. Deadly allergy.

They threw me into the dark basement. Tossed the flowers in. Door slammed. Lock clicked.

Darkness.

Flashback. Seven years old. Trunk of a car. Gasoline. Can't breathe.

"Let me out!" I screamed.

Panic triggered a forced shift. My body rebelled. Bones rearranged without permission. But I was too weak.

I was stuck halfway. Spine twisted. Jaw elongated. A monster of half-flesh, half-fur, suffocating on pollen.

Upstairs, the front door crashed open.

"Where is she?" Austen. Frantic.

"She attacked Joyce!" Diana screamed.

"I smell her fear!" Austen roared. "I smell... death."

Footsteps thundered. Door kicked open.

Light.

Austen stood there. He saw me. The twisted creature gasping for air.

He kicked the hydrangeas away, fell to his knees, and pulled me into his arms.

"Alana! Breathe!"

My vision faded to black edges. I looked up. In the dim light, I saw the boy from the wreck.

"Stellan..." I wheezed.

Austen froze. His body went rigid.

Stellan. His mother's nickname for him. Whispered in the wreckage fifteen years ago. Joyce didn't know it.

"What did you say?" he whispered, trembling. "How do you know that name?"

Realization dawned in his eyes. The scent. The memories.

He knows, my wolf whispered. Finally.

"Austen! My heart!"

A scream from upstairs. Joyce.

"It's stopping! Help!"

Austen flinched. The Alpha mask slammed back down. He looked at me, then the stairs. Confusion warred with panic.

"You hacked my personal journals," he said, voice hardening, trying to rationalize the impossible. "You found the name. You're trying to manipulate me."

"No..."

"Liar," he spat. He stood up. "Stay here. I'll send a doctor. But don't think this trick will work."

He ran up the stairs.

I lay on the cold concrete.

And with that, the last ember of love died.

Dalton, I called out mentally. Come get me.

I'm coming, Little Wolf, a deep voice echoed.

The White Wolf had a new pack.

Alana POV:

The lock clicked. A servant brought food.

I pushed past her. The air outside was stale, but better than the pollen-choked basement. Hives covered my skin.

I stumbled into the rain. The storm was torrential, washing away the blood and the scent of my father's house.

I walked toward the boundary.

Headlights cut the dark. Austen's SUV screeched to a halt. He jumped out, ruining his Italian shoes in the mud.

"Get in the car, Alana!"

I kept walking.

He grabbed my arm. Static shock. Painful. Wrong.

"Don't touch me," I whispered.

"You're going to die out here," he growled. He scooped me up. I was too exhausted to fight.

Back at the Pack House, the medical wing. Nurses tended to my hives and cuts.

I became a ghost. I blocked him from the Mind-Link, erecting a mental fortress.

One afternoon, I made it to the garden. My legs were shaky. I tripped.

"Careful, Luna!"

Toby, the young gardener, caught me.

A low, threatening growl vibrated through the air.

Austen. Standing on the patio. Eyes pitch black. Possessive rage.

"Get your hands off her," he roared. The Alpha Command dropped Toby to his knees.

Austen stormed over, lifting the boy by his collar.

"She is mine," Austen snarled. "Touching the Alpha's property is a death sentence."

"Stop it!" I screamed.

I slapped Austen. The sound cracked like a whip.

He dropped Toby. Touched his cheek. Shocked.

"He was helping me," I hissed. "I am not property, Austen. And you are nothing but a bully."

Austen straightened his jacket. His eyes went cold.

"You want to act like a jealous Luna?" he whispered. "Fine."

He walked away. Ten minutes later, he returned with Joyce hanging off his arm. She wore a dress I designed.

"Austen said we should take a stroll," she chirped.

Austen looked at me, challenging me. He wanted tears. He wanted a reaction.

I gave him nothing.

Joyce leaned in. "I told him I might have exaggerated about the vase," she whispered, venom dripping from every word. "He kissed me anyway. He said he chooses me, truth or lie."

She smiled. A shark baring teeth.

Suddenly, Joyce gasped. She clawed at her own neck.

"Ah! She's doing it!" Joyce shrieked, falling into Austen's arms. "She's using her Alpha pressure on me! She's crushing my throat!"

It was absurd. I was an Omega. I had no Alpha pressure.

But Austen didn't care about logic. He felt the spike in my emotional energy—my anger—and mistook it for aggression.

He turned to me, lips pulled back in a snarl.

"Enough," he roared.