Elena POV:

I was floating in a dark, viscous sea. Voices drifted down to me, distorted and far away, like radio static cutting through water.

...tissue necrosis... toxicity levels critical... never carry a child...

The words were sharp hooks, dragging me back to consciousness against my will.

I opened my eyes. I was moving. The deep, steady hum of an engine vibrated through my bones. I was in a private jet, lying on a plush leather medical bed.

Mara was sitting beside me, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

"Elena?" she choked out, her voice trembling.

"My baby," I rasped. My throat felt like I had swallowed shards of glass.

Mara burst into tears. She grabbed my hand, squeezing it tight, as if she could anchor me to the living world.

"I'm so sorry, Elena. The silver... combined with the Ghost Root... it was too much toxic load. The tissue... it didn't survive."

I stared at the beige ceiling of the cabin. I waited for the scream, for the tears. But there was nothing. Just a vast, empty crater where my heart used to be.

"It's gone?" I whispered, the sound barely audible over the engine's drone.

"Yes," Mara sobbed, her face buried in the sheets. "And the damage... the doctors say you can never conceive again."

I closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids was painted with his face.

Jackson.

He did this. His betrayal, his poison, his neglect. He hadn't just broken a bond; he had killed our child. He had slaughtered my future.

"I hate him," I said. The words were not screamed; they were calm, cold stones dropping into a deep, bottomless well. "I will burn his world to ash."

The plane banked sharply to the left.

BOOM.

An explosion rocked the cabin, throwing Mara off her chair. The overhead lights flickered and died, plunging us into emergency red.

"We're under attack!" the pilot screamed over the intercom, panic shredding his professional composure.

The plane lurched downward, gravity seizing my stomach. Oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling like dead plastic birds.

"Hold on!" Mara screamed, throwing her body over mine to shield me.

The landing was rough-a controlled crash on a remote airstrip surrounded by dense, gray fog. The tires screeched, metal groaning in protest as we skidded to a violent halt.

Before the plane even stopped shaking, the cabin door was ripped open from the outside.

Men in black tactical gear swarmed in. They didn't speak; they just moved with brutal efficiency, dragging Mara and me out onto the wet tarmac.

The air smelled of ozone, jet fuel, and the copper tang of dark magic.

"Well, well," a voice sneered from the mist. "Look at that. The corpse is still twitching."

A figure stepped forward. It was a projection-a hologram flickering in the mist, translucent and ghostly, but the malice in the voice was real.

Candida.

She stood tall, wearing the Luna's crown. My crown.

"You thought you could escape?" she laughed, the sound distorted by the magical transmission, echoing unnaturally. "I have eyes everywhere, Elena. Even in the sky."

"What do you want?" I spat, struggling weakly against the iron grip of the mercenary holding me.

"I want to make sure you stay dead," Candida smiled, her digital eyes cold. "And I want to watch."

She gestured to the mercenary holding me. "Open her up. Take your time."

The man pulled out a silver knife, the blade glinting dully in the low light. He stepped closer.

I looked at the blade. I was too weak to shift. Too weak to fight. The poison had left me hollow.

So this is it, I thought. This is how it ends.

The man raised the knife.

CRACK.

A blur of motion tore through the fog. A sound like a thunderclap shattered the air.

The mercenary's head separated from his body before he even registered the blow.

He fell, crumbling like a puppet with cut strings. Standing behind him was a man. He was huge, easily seven feet tall, with shoulders like a mountain range. His eyes glowed with a fierce, amber light that cut through the gloom.

He moved with a speed that wasn't wolf. It was Lycan-primal, ancient, and unstoppable.

He tore through the remaining mercenaries like they were made of wet paper. Limbs flew. Blood sprayed across the tarmac in grim arcs.

In ten seconds, silence returned.

The man turned to the projection of Candida. He growled, a sound so deep it vibrated in my teeth, rattling my very bones.

Candida's hologram flickered violently, her eyes widening in genuine fear. "Hamilton?" she whispered.

\ The connection cut. The hologram vanished into the mist.

The giant man turned to me. The amber glow faded from his eyes, revealing a warm, dark brown beneath the rage.

"Elena," he said, his voice rough with emotion, like gravel grinding together.

He knelt beside me. He smelled of cedarwood and old books-a scent I remembered from a lifetime ago, buried deep in my memories.

"Hamilton?" I whispered, disbelief warring with relief.

"I've got you," he said, lifting me into his arms as if I weighed nothing more than a feather. "You're safe now."

I rested my head against his massive chest. I heard his heart beating-slow, powerful, steady as a war drum.

"Take me away," I murmured, my vision blurring. "Take me somewhere he can never find me."

"I will take you to the end of the world," Hamilton promised.

And as the darkness took me again, I knew he would.

Elena POV

Hamilton's island was a fortress of solitude, a jagged rock jutting out from the churning gray waters of the North Sea.

Shrouded in a perpetual, clinging mist, the location was a ghost on any map, protected by advanced Lycan technology that scrambled tracking signals and swallowed sound.

I stood on the precipice of a sheer cliff, the salt-laden wind whipping my hair across my face like a lash.

It had been a week.

My body was healing. The purple bruises were fading into sickly yellow echoes. But the hollowness inside-that vast, echoing canyon where my heart used to be-remained.

Hamilton joined me silently. He didn't speak, simply offering his solid presence as a shield against the biting cold.

I stared down at the waves crashing violently against the rocks.

"I want to cut the tie," I said, my voice barely audible over the roar of the ocean.

"The Fated bond?" Hamilton asked, his tone grave.

I nodded.

"It will hurt, Elena. It will feel like dying all over again."

"I am already dead," I replied, turning to look at him with dry eyes. "I want to be reborn."

I took a deep breath, feeling a faint, dormant heat stir in my chest.

"Help me train. I feel something inside me. The White Wolf. She is awake, but she is faint... weak. I need to be strong for her."

Hamilton studied me for a long moment, then gave a sharp nod.

"We start tomorrow at dawn. I will not go easy on you."

"Good," I said, turning back to the storm. "Pain reminds me I'm still alive."

Jackson POV

The Pack House was quiet. But it was the wrong kind of quiet.

Down in the main hall, Candida was barking orders at the servants, demanding a complete redecoration. She wanted everything gold. Gilded frames, gold leaf on the banisters, gold velvet.

It looked tacky. It looked cheap.

Ignoring the noise, I walked up the stairs to the master bedroom.

Her bedroom.

I hadn't set foot inside since Mara had taken the body away.

I pushed the heavy oak door open.

It was empty.

Not just devoid of people, but hollowed out. Empty of her.

The wardrobe stood gaping and bare. The vanity surface was cleared of her brushes and lotions. The scent of pine and rain that used to linger here-a scent that calmed the wolf in my blood-was gone, replaced by the stale, suffocating smell of dust.

Drawn by a strange impulse, I walked to the cold fireplace.

In the heap of dead, gray ashes, something glinted.

I knelt and reached into the soot.

It was a lump of twisted silver. Blackened. Melted almost beyond recognition.

But I recognized the chain link. It was the pendant I gave her on our first anniversary. The one engraved with J & E.

She had burned it.

She hadn't just died; she had erased us before she went.

A cold, spectral hand squeezed my heart.

Why did this hurt? She was useless. She was weak. She was dead.

My hand moved on its own, pulling out my phone. I scrolled to her number. I knew it was disconnected. I knew she couldn't answer.

But my thumb hovered over the 'Call' button.

I just wanted to hear the voicemail. Just one last time.

I pressed it.

Ring... Ring...

It should have gone to an error message.

Click.

The sound of the line opening was louder than a gunshot.

Someone picked up.

"Elena?" I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"She is dead, Jackson," a male voice answered.

The voice was deep, cold, and dripping with an aristocratic contempt that made my hackles rise.

I froze. "Who is this?"

"Someone who knows exactly what you did," the voice hissed, low and dangerous. "And someone who will make sure you never forget it."

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen of my phone, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

She was dead. Mara said so. I saw the body.

But someone had her phone.

And for the first time since I ordered her death, true fear clawed its way up my spine.