Eryn POV:

The moment Marcus and Cassandra left, slamming the door behind them, I rolled off the bed. I closed my eyes and opened the mind-link to my servant.

"Anya."

Her presence responded instantly, cool and composed as always. "Miss."

"I need you to set up a new account at a bank in the capital—one that can receive a transfer of two hundred thousand silver sovereigns. Use the arrangements we discussed. And make sure it's clean."

There was no surprise in her mental voice, only quiet acceptance. "Understood, Miss. I'll have the account ready within the hour."

"Good. I'll send you the details once the funds are in hand. And Anya—this account must be untraceable. No loose ends."

"It will be, Miss."

I withdrew from the link, letting out a slow breath. I walked to the small, cracked mirror hanging on the wall. The girl staring back was thin, her features sharp from years of not having enough to eat. But her eyes were ancient, filled with knowledge and a fire that didn't belong to a forgotten rogue.

Marcus and Cassandra didn't know it, but their adopted daughter was no longer that weak, helpless girl. She had been replaced. By me. My past life was a blur of concrete and steel, a world away from this. My identity here was a puzzle, a blank space labeled "Sinclair property". That was about to change. I had abilities they couldn't fathom in a hundred years.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Come in."

Anya Hayes entered. To the world, she was a quiet Omega servant assigned to me years ago out of pity. In reality, she was the only person in this world I trusted. Her eyes, usually downcast, held a fierce, unwavering loyalty.

She carried a simple, off-white ceremonial dress. Cheap, meant to be an insult.

"Everything is taken care of, Miss," she murmured, too low for anyone outside the room to hear.

I nodded as I slipped out of my rough clothes and into the thin fabric of the dress. It felt like paper against my skin. Anya began to skillfully braid my long, dark hair, her touch gentle and respectful.

I met my own eyes in the mirror again.

"Remember, Anya," I said softly. "As of today, I am no longer a Sinclair."

As her fingers worked through the last strands of my hair, I closed my eyes and let my mind drift outward. It was a trick I'd learned in the borderlands when you had no pack-link to scream a warning. I couldn't send thoughts the way a normal wolf could, but I could listen. I could always listen.

The air around the Obsidian Fang territory was never truly silent. The hum of their pack's mind-link was a constant low static, and if I concentrated, I could pick out the sharper threads within it—threads laced with fear and fury, all emanating from a dark, wood-paneled study in the heart of their estate, where the air was thick with the raw power of an Alpha.

I couldn't hear words in Brandon Ewing's voice—his mind was too guarded, his wolf too loud with its own snarling thoughts—but I could feel the shape of the exchange bleeding through his Beta Rhys's panicked mind. The name "Eryn Barber," striking like a hammer on glass. The barely-contained rage that made Rhys's thoughts tremble. The taste of the word "substitute," bitter and poisonous, ricocheting in the mental space of the entire household.

The message was clear enough. Brandon Ewing had just heard about the switch, and he was absolutely livid.

I opened my eyes. Anya had finished, her hands resting on my shoulders. She met my gaze in the mirror, a question in her eyes.

I gave her a small, sharp smile.

"Looks like the Alpha's in a welcoming mood," I said, my voice light. "This should be fun."

Anya's expression didn't change, but her hands tightened briefly on my shoulders—a silent promise. Whatever was waiting for us, she would be there.

Eryn POV:

What they sent was a plain black carriage, as forgettable as my entire existence to the Sinclairs. I sat in the back, eyes closed, feeling the vehicle move. Anya was beside me, a silent, tense statue.

The coachman was taking the long way, winding through the city, doubling back on streets. A deliberate delay.

I opened my eyes.

"They want us to be late," I said to Anya, my voice calm. "To embarrass us at the ceremony."

Anya's hands clenched in her lap. "Shall I handle it, Miss?"

Handling it meant the coachman would have a very sudden, very permanent stop.

I shook my head. "No. Let them play their games. The real fun hasn't even started."

Finally, the carriage pulled up to the Ewing estate. The gates were magnificent, wrought iron and obsidian, designed to intimidate. A crowd of guests, the elite of the werewolf world, were gathered outside. Their whispers were a low hum, their stares like physical blows.

The carriage door opened. I stepped out into the sea of judgment.

The cheap dress felt even cheaper under their gazes. The heavy veil they'd given me obscured my face, making me a faceless, pathetic figure.

A woman stepped forward to meet me—old, her hair a severe white bun, face a mask of stern disapproval. She introduced herself as Martha Miller.

She didn't even look at me. She addressed the air just over my head, her voice loud and imperious, for all the guests to hear.

"Due to your tardiness, you have missed the auspicious time to enter through the main gate."

She pointed with a gnarled wooden cane towards a small, narrow iron door to the side, covered in moss and rust, set into the stone wall like an afterthought. The service entrance.

"As per pack law, latecomers must enter through the servants' passage," Martha declared, her voice ringing with satisfaction. "It is a matter of respect for the Moon Goddess."

Stifled laughter rippled through the crowd. Forcing a future Luna, no matter how unwanted, to use the servants' entrance was an unprecedented humiliation.

Anya trembled with rage beside me, ready to lunge forward.

I put a hand on her arm, commanding silence.

Everyone was watching, waiting. They expected tears. Submission. They expected me to scurry through that little door like the rat they thought I was.

I guessed, in his dark room, Brandon Ewing was likely leaning forward, waiting for me to break.

I stood perfectly still, letting the weight of their scorn wash over me. It felt like nothing.

Then, slowly, I raised my hands and tore the veil from my head.

The sudden defiance silenced the whispers. I let the cheap fabric fall to the dusty ground and ground it under my heel.

Gasps were audible now.

I lifted my chin and met Martha's shocked gaze. My voice was not loud, but it cut through the air, clear and sharp as glass.

"I am here to be the mate of Brandon Ewing. The Luna of Obsidian Fang."

I took a step forward. The force of my presence, the sheer unexpectedness of my rebellion, made the old woman stumble back.

"I am not here to crawl through a dog door."

I pushed past her, my touch surprisingly firm, sending her staggering, and walked directly to the magnificent, closed main gates. They loomed over me, a symbol of power and exclusion.

I placed a hand on the cold iron, then turned to face them all—the sneering crowd, the furious housekeeper, and the unseen eyes I knew were watching me.

My voice rang out, a clear and unbreakable vow.

"Today, I either walk through this gate, or I will tear it down and walk through its ruins."