Ellery POV:

The walk-in closet was bigger than my first apartment. It smelled of him-cedar, power, and the suffocating weight of ownership.

I huddled in the corner behind the winter coats, the burner phone slick in my sweating palm.

I dialed a number whispered in the darkest corners of the Rogue networks.

"Evans," a voice rasped. Sounded like gravel in a blender.

"It's the Weaver," I whispered.

"The Obsidian Luna? You're far from your ivory tower."

"I need the package," I said. "The Tabula Rasa."

Silence. Even a black witch respected that name.

"Do you know what you're asking for?" Evans asked, his tone shifting from mockery to caution. "It doesn't just make you forget. It scours the neural pathways. For a wolf... it's acid. It dissolves the spirit. It hunts down your inner wolf and melts her while she screams."

"I know."

"It severs the Mate Bond by burning the connection points in the soul. You'll be left a hollow shell. A human. Defenseless."

"I am already defenseless," I said, looking at my trembling hands.

"The price is steep."

"Silver," I said. "High purity. Minted coins from the pre-war treasury. Enough to buy a small country."

I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Done. Tomorrow night. Midnight. The abandoned vet clinic in Queens. Come alone. If I smell an Alpha, I'll boil your blood before you cross the threshold."

"He won't be there," I said. "He's busy building his future."

I hung up.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I had just ordered my own execution.

The bedroom door opened.

I froze.

Brendan stumbled in, reeking of brandy and exhaustion. He stripped in the dark, tossing his suit onto the floor like shed skin.

I waited until his breathing deepened into the rhythm of sleep. Ten minutes. Twenty.

I crept out. Moonlight washed over him. He looked peaceful. Innocent.

I stood by the bed, watching him.

His hand shot out, clamping around my wrist like a bear trap.

I gasped.

His eyes were still closed. Sleep-reflex. His Alpha instincts sensing property in motion.

"Mine," he growled, a low rumble that vibrated through the mattress.

The Alpha's Command hit me. My knees hit the carpet. My head bowed, exposing my neck. It wasn't a choice; it was biology.

He pulled me closer, still asleep. His hand was a brand.

"Mine," he mumbled, nuzzling the air where my neck should be.

It wasn't love. It was inventory control. Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Wife? Check.

A wave of revulsion crashed over me, hot and acidic.

I bit my tongue. Hard.

The copper taste of blood snapped the trance.

I yanked my wrist back. It took everything I had to fight the Command, like wading through waist-deep mud.

I scrambled backward, crawling to the bathroom. I locked the door and slumped against the cold tile.

My wrist throbbed. A red handprint was already blooming on my skin.

I can't do this, my wolf whined. He is Mate. Leaving is death.

Staying is erasure, I told her.

I closed my eyes and visualized a brick wall. I took the memory of him pulling me from the fire and shoved it behind the bricks. I took the memory of our wedding and bricked that up too.

I was building a tomb for my past. Because when I drank that poison, I needed Brendan Wiggins to be dead to me before I was dead to myself.

Three days until the full moon.

Three days to kill the wolf.

Ellery POV:

Queens was a sensory overload of noise and grime. Perfect cover.

I pulled my hoodie up. I wasn't wearing silk today. I was in thrift store jeans and boots two sizes too big. To a human, I was invisible. To a wolf, I still reeked of high-status Pack-moonflowers and ozone.

That's why I'd arranged the courier months ago.

I ducked into an alleyway. A man waited by a dumpster, shivering in a heavy coat despite the July heat.

"Payment?" he asked, not looking up.

I handed him the envelope. Fifty thousand in untraceable cash, skimmed from Brendan's petty cash over six months.

He handed me a manila folder and a spray bottle.

"June Bennett," he said. "Ohio birth certificate. Clean history. The spray is skunk musk and sulfur. It'll hide your scent from God himself for six hours."

"Thanks."

I doused myself in the foul spray and headed for the clinic.

It looked abandoned, windows boarded up. I pushed inside.

Evans stood behind a metal table. Milky eyes, scarred skin.

On the table sat the vial. Electric blue, swirling with a light that looked radioactive.

"I placed the order six months ago," I said, stepping forward. "It took you long enough."

"Ingredients for soul-poison aren't easy to come by, Weaver," Evans rasped. "Remember: once you drink it, there is no antidote. You will bleed from your eyes. Your wolf will die screaming. And the Bond will snap like a dry twig."

"Good."

I reached for the vial. My phone buzzed. The special ringtone for Brendan.

"Answer it," Evans warned. "If he suspects, we're both dead."

I answered, pitching my voice high and soft.

"Where the hell are you?" Brendan barked. "Tracker says Queens. Why are you in the slums?"

I touched the platinum choker-my leash.

"I'm sorry, Brendan. I... I heard about an antique shop here. They have a rare Moonstone. For your birthday."

Silence.

Moonstones. His weakness.

"You're shopping for me?" His voice softened, the arrogance returning.

"Yes. A surprise."

"Don't take too long. Gala tomorrow. You need to look presentable. Not like a stray."

"Yes, Alpha."

Click.

I looked at Evans. He grinned, showing yellow teeth. "You lie well."

"Survival mechanism," I said.

I put the vial in my bag next to the June Bennett ID.

"I can't take it yet," I said. "I have to prep the house. If I'm leaving, I'm making sure the door hits him on the way out."

Ellery POV:

The acetylene torch hissed, a blue tongue of fire licking the crucible.

I stood in the basement workshop. The platinum ring-the Luna's Ring, a symbol of eternal servitude-sat in the ceramic bowl.

"Goodbye," I whispered.

I turned up the heat.

Gold wept. Diamonds sank into the molten sludge. The meteorite shard cracked with a satisfying pop.

I poured the slag into a mold. It cooled into a deformed, ugly lump. I put it in a velvet box.

Upstairs, I walked into the study. Empty.

I placed the box on his desk.

Then, the bookshelf. Dante's Inferno. The hidden door clicked.

The Panic Room. The brain of the pack.

The walls pulsed with blue runes. My art. My soul.

I placed my hands on the central console.

Welcome, Weaver.

"I'm sorry," I told the magic.

I didn't destroy it. That would trigger alarms. Instead, I introduced a cancer.

I rewrote the source code.

If Ellery leaves the territory, initiate Protocol Zero.

Protocol Zero wasn't an explosion. It was a unraveling. Privacy shields fail first. Then alarms. Then the physical barriers dissolve. Twelve hours of decay.

I poured my energy into the stone until my knees shook. The runes flashed violet, then settled back to blue.

The time bomb was ticking.

The front door slammed upstairs.

"Ellery!" Brendan's voice boomed. "Server's down! Financial data is glitching!"

Liar.

I monitored those servers. They were fine. He just wanted me close while he... managed his affairs.

I went upstairs. Brendan stood in the hall, looking agitated but smelling of deception.

"Fix it," he said, gripping my shoulders. "You're the only one I trust with the tech. You're the anchor of this pack."

An anchor is just a weight you drag along the bottom so you don't drift.

"I'll work on it," I said.

"Good girl." He kissed my forehead. Dry lips. "I have to go back to the office. Damage control."

"Okay."

He wasn't going to the office. He was going to Kiya.

"I'm not an anchor, Brendan," I whispered as the door closed. "I'm the storm."

I went to the bedroom and packed a duffel. Cash. ID. Potion.

And a notebook.

Rule 1: Humans do not growl.

Rule 2: Humans cannot hear a heartbeat from across the room.

Rule 3: Humans cry.

Tomorrow was the Fourth of July. Independence Day.

Fitting.