Kaelen stepped off the dais. His heavy boots struck the stone floor. One stride. Two. He walked straight toward the shadowed alcove as if the crowd, the ceremony, and his newly declared Luna did not exist.

Lyra slammed her spine against the freezing pillar. Rough granite bit into her shoulder blades.

"Alpha?" Thorne called out, sharp with confusion. "Is something amiss?"

"Quiet," Kaelen commanded, his golden eyes locked on the darkness. "I know this scent."

Lyra clamped a bloody hand over her mouth.

He remembered.

Kaelen closed the distance. His massive frame blocked out the light from the chandeliers. The heat radiating off his body reached her shivering skin before he did.

"Come out," he said, voice low and certain. "Now."

Lyra's knees shook. If she stepped forward, if he saw her face—

"My Alpha, please!" Selene rushed forward, her silk gown rustling loudly.

She planted herself between Kaelen and the pillar.

"Move aside, Selene," Kaelen ordered.

"She's diseased," Selene said, standing her ground. "You just recovered. You cannot risk exposure to whatever she carries."

"I said move." The growl vibrated through the floorboards.

Selene stepped back—but her hand slipped behind the folds of her dress. Her fist clenched. A tiny embroidered pouch burst open in her palm.

A cloying, suffocating wave of heavy rose perfume exploded into the tight space. It coated the back of Lyra's throat and scalded her sinuses.

Kaelen stopped dead.

He yanked back from the scent wall, his face twisting in revulsion. He pulled a dark linen handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it hard over his nose, his watering eyes scanning the pillar.

"What is that stench?" he growled.

"Just a servant, Alpha," Selene said, wiping her crushed palm against her skirt. "They mask their unwashed bodies with cheap oils. I warned the head maid about this yesterday."

"A failure in discipline," Thorne remarked, stepping up behind the Alpha. "The lower ranks have grown bold during your absence."

"Clearly." Kaelen peered over the handkerchief, his gaze finding Lyra.

She knelt in the puddle of dirty mop water. Her coarse dress was soaked gray. Her knuckles were bruised and bleeding.

He stared down at her.

There was no recognition in his golden eyes. Only cold, flat disdain.

"You let this crawl around the great hall?" Kaelen asked.

"She was supposed to be cleaning," Cora yelled from the front row. "But she's lazy. She ruins everything she touches."

Lyra looked up at him. "Alpha," she whispered. "I—"

"Silence," Kaelen snapped.

The single word struck her like a blow to the sternum.

He looked at her the way he might look at a diseased animal. The man who had held her in the dark hunting cabin, who had mapped every line of her face with urgent, gentle hands, stared at her with absolute loathing. His scent recognition, that perfect certainty he'd had thirty seconds ago, gone. Drowned in cheap perfume.

"She reeks," Kaelen told Thorne. "Get her out of my hall. Now."

Two guards marched across the floor. The first reached her, tangled a massive hand in her hair, and yanked. Lyra cried out as her scalp burned. She lost her footing, crashing hard against the stone tiles.

"Don't let her bleed on the rugs!" Cora yelled, stepping back from Lyra's proximity.

"Let me walk," Lyra choked out, clawing at the guard's wrist.

"You lost that right when you offended the Alpha." He kicked her legs out. Her knees slammed into the stone.

"Throw her in the snowdrifts," Thorne instructed. "Let the cold wash the stench off her."

The second guard grabbed her upper arm. Together, they dragged her toward the entrance, her boots scraping uselessly. She craned her neck back over her shoulder.

Kaelen had already turned away. He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket, his attention entirely on Selene.

"Are you unharmed?" Kaelen asked her.

"Just startled," Selene murmured, leaning against his chest. "Thank you for protecting me."

The massive iron-wrought doors groaned open. The howling wind screamed in, bringing a spray of ice and snow.

"Out you go," the second guard grunted.

They swung her forward and let go.

Lyra flew through the open doorway and hit the frozen ground. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs. The heavy doors slammed shut. The iron latch fell into place with a definitive thud.

Locked out. In the middle of a blizzard.

Snow gathered on her wet dress almost immediately. The temperature bit into her exposed skin, turning her fingers numb.

She pressed her palms into the snow, trying to lever herself up. The servants' entrance. She had to reach it. She still had to burn that tunic before the guards tore her room apart.

She forced herself to her hands and knees. The wind whipped her hair across her face.

She took one agonizing breath.

A meat-grinding, heavy pain struck deep in her abdomen.

A scream tore from her throat, lost instantly to the howling wind.

She collapsed onto her side, her hands flying to her stomach.

A thick, warm droplet slid down her inner thigh, staining the white snow bright red.

Lyra dug her freezing fingers into the snow and dragged herself forward. A thick red smear painted the white drifts behind her.

She clamped her free hand over her lower abdomen. The grinding pain flared again, forcing a choked gasp from her throat.

"Just a little further," she whispered to the empty night.

The dim yellow glow of the medical cabin flickered twenty yards ahead. She pushed off her good knee, her soaked dress freezing to her skin. The howling wind fought to push her back, but she anchored her elbows in the ice and pulled.

She reached the wooden steps. Her arms gave out. She slammed her fist against the door base, her knuckles splitting open against the rough wood.

"Help," she rasped.

The door yanked inward. Warm air rushed over her face, smelling of dried sage and burning pine.

Thorne stared down at her, his wrinkled face pulling tight. "By the Moon. Get inside before the patrols see you."

He grabbed her under the arms and hauled her across the threshold, kicking the door shut with his foot.

"Put pressure on it," Thorne ordered. He dropped her onto a narrow wooden cot and turned to his mortar.

Lyra pressed her palms against her stomach. "Is it the poison? Did it stay in my blood?"

"Keep your voice down," Thorne scolded. He grabbed a stone pestle and crushed a handful of dried leaves with heavy strikes. "Lift your soaked skirt."

She obeyed, her hands trembling violently. The coarse linen stuck to her thighs.

He scooped a thick green paste from the bowl and pressed it directly onto her lower abdomen. The icy burn of the herbs sliced through the blinding pain.

"It is not poison," Thorne murmured. He wiped a damp cloth over her hip, then paused. He pressed two fingers against the pulse point near her pelvic bone.

His gray eyes widened.

"What is it?" Lyra demanded.

Thorne leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You carry life, Omega. Two heartbeats. Both radiating an overwhelming Alpha aura."

Lyra stopped breathing.

Two heartbeats.

"That is impossible," she whispered.

"The pulse does not lie," Thorne replied firmly. "They are fighting the cold. They are strong. Extremely strong. But your body is starving. You lost too much blood out there."

"Will they survive?"

"If you survive," Thorne answered bluntly. "An Omega is not built to carry Alpha pups. They will drain your energy, your marrow, your very life force to sustain themselves."

A strange, fierce heat ignited in Lyra's chest. The agonizing betrayal in the great hall faded to background noise. She was not empty. She had an anchor now. Two of them.

"Let them take it," Lyra said, grabbing Thorne's wrist. Her nails dug into his skin. "Let them take whatever they need. Just save them. Please."

"I am trying," the old healer replied, tossing a bloody rag into a tin basin of hot water. "Drink this."

He shoved a wooden cup against her lips. Bitter tea coated her tongue. She swallowed it in three large gulps, welcoming the scalding heat.

"You must stay quiet," Thorne warned, taking the cup away. "If the council finds an unregistered Omega carrying Alpha blood, they will rip them from your womb. They view it as a threat to the pureblood lines."

"I won't let them touch my pups," Lyra swore, her jaw tightening. "They belong to me."

"They belong to the Alpha who sired them," Thorne said quietly. "Do you know who the father is?"

Lyra stared at the flickering lantern on the table. "He doesn't remember me."

Thorne exhaled heavily. "Then you must hide. I will bind your scent once you stabilize. We need to get you out of the territory before your stomach swells."

Heavy leather soles crunched against the snow outside the cabin window.

"Check the outbuildings!" a harsh voice barked. "The Alpha wants every unregistered stray hauled to the labor camps tonight."

Lyra flinched. "Labor camps?"

"Kaelen ordered a purge," Thorne whispered, moving quickly to pull a thick wool blanket over her shivering frame. "He claims rogues infiltrated the lower ranks to poison him."

"I am registered," Lyra argued, her voice shaking.

"As a scullery maid," Thorne corrected. "But you have no pack mark. To the enforcers, you are a rogue."

A fist pounded on the heavy wooden door. The hinges rattled.

"Elder Thorne! Open up!"

Thorne pointed a stern finger at Lyra. "Do not make a sound. Do not move."

He wiped his hands on his apron, grabbed a clean towel, and unlatched the door.

Cold wind whipped into the room, scattering dried herbs across the floorboards.

"What is the meaning of this?" Thorne demanded, blocking the frame with his broad shoulders.

"Alpha's orders," a guard replied, stepping onto the threshold. "We are searching for the rogue who slipped poison into his cup. No one is exempt."

"I am the pack healer. There are no rogues here. Only sick wolves."

"Move aside, Elder." The guard shoved a hand against Thorne's chest. "We search every room. If you hide a traitor, you share the noose."

"You will not disrupt my clinic. I have patients in critical condition. Their blood is on your hands if they die from the cold you are letting in."

"I don't care about your patients," the guard sneered. "Then you won't mind if I look."

That voice did not belong to a guard.

Selene pushed past the enforcer, stepping into the dim cabin. She brushed a snowflake from her emerald gown, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "It smells like dirt."

"Lady Selene," Thorne said stiffly. "This is a sterile environment."

She strolled past him. Her sharp gaze swept the room—supply cabinets, examination tables—and finally landed on the cot in the corner.

Lyra lay perfectly still under the heavy wool blanket, her eyes half-closed, her chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Selene stopped at the foot of the bed. A slow, cruel smile touched the corners of her mouth.

"The little Omega from the hall," she observed. "Still leaving messes."

"She is recovering from severe frostbite," Thorne intervened, stepping between Selene and the cot. "I must ask you to leave so I can treat my patient."

Selene ignored him. She sidestepped, her gaze dropping to the floor. The tin basin sat near the cot. The water inside was a dark, murky red.

"Frostbite?" Selene asked. She tilted her head, her eyes shifting back to Lyra's sweat-drenched face. "Frostbite does not bleed like a slaughtered pig."

Lyra tightened her grip on the blanket beneath the covers. Her heart hammered. She pressed her thighs together, praying the bleeding had stopped.

"She fell on the ice and tore her leg," Thorne lied smoothly. "It required stitches."

"Did it?" Selene's fingers trailed over the stone mortar on the wooden workbench. She picked up a handful of crushed green residue from Thorne's mixture, rolling the sticky paste between her manicured fingers. She brought it close to her nose.

"Blood-clotting root," Selene said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And wolfsbane extract. Highly restricted materials." She dropped the herbs back onto the table, her eyes flashing with malicious triumph, and turned her head toward the open doorway.

"Alpha," Selene called out, her voice carrying crisp and clear into the freezing night, "I found a thief stealing supplies."

The heavy wooden door did not just open. It shattered inward off its iron hinges.

Kaelen filled the doorway.

"A thief," he repeated, his voice vibrating the glass vials on Thorne's shelves.

Before Lyra could sit up, a massive hand clamped around her throat.

He hoisted her off the cot in one brutal upward motion. Her boots dangled three feet above the wooden floorboards.

"Alpha, stop!" Thorne rushed forward.

Kaelen backhanded the old man without looking. Thorne crashed into the supply cabinet. Glass shattered across the floor, spilling dark liquids over the wood.

Lyra clawed at the thick fingers crushing her windpipe. Oxygen vanished. Dark spots swarmed her vision.

"Stealing from my pack," Kaelen snarled, bringing her face inches from his. Golden eyes pierced through her fading consciousness. "While I hunt the traitor who poisoned me, you raid the medical stores like a rat."

"She needed treatment," Thorne coughed from the floor, clutching his ribs. "She is bleeding."

"She needs a hanging," Kaelen corrected. His thumb pressed harder against her carotid artery. "Rogues do not get medicine. They get the rope."

Blackness crept into the edges of Lyra's sight. She stopped fighting his grip. Let him end it. Her arms dropped to her sides.

"Kaelen, wait." Selene placed a gentle hand on his forearm. "Blood will ruin the clinic. The elder still has to treat your guards."

He did not loosen his hold. "Thieves die, Selene. It is pack law."

"She is an Omega," Selene reasoned, her tone dripping with manufactured pity. "A pathetic creature driven by desperation. Death is too quick a punishment for offending you."

"What do you suggest?"

Selene circled Lyra's dangling body. She ran a manicured finger over the dirty hem of Lyra's dress. "I need a seamstress. My mating ceremony requires a gown worthy of the Luna title. The village tailors are too slow, and their hands are too rough."

Lyra kicked her legs weakly. Her lungs burned.

"You want a rat touching your wedding dress?" Kaelen scoffed.

"I want her to earn her miserable life," Selene said, stopping right beside Lyra's ear. "Let her stitch every pearl. Let her bleed over the needle to atone for her crimes. If she fails, you can execute her in front of the entire pack." Selene looked up at Kaelen, her voice sweetening. "It would be a fitting gift for your new Luna. A gown woven from the suffering of those who disrespect you."

Kaelen considered this. Then he opened his hand.

Lyra hit the floorboards with bone-rattling force.

She collapsed onto her side, gasping violently. Air tore down her raw throat. She curled her knees toward her chest, shielding her lower abdomen on instinct.

"Enforcers," Kaelen commanded.

Two guards stepped over the ruined door. One carried a massive roll of shimmering fabric. Kaelen gestured, and the guard tossed the bolt. It struck Lyra squarely in the face. The heavy cardboard core bruised her cheekbone as the material unspooled across the dirty floor.

Silver silk. Rare, imported, blindingly bright.

"Three months," Kaelen told her, staring down at her gasping form. "You have until the full moon. You will sew the most perfect gown this territory has ever seen."

Lyra pushed the heavy silk off her nose, her hands trembling. "I am a scullery maid. I clean floors. I do not know how to cut Luna garments."

"Now you are a seamstress," Kaelen replied coldly. "If there is a single frayed edge, a single dropped stitch, or a single drop of your filthy blood on this silk—" He leaned down and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his unfeeling eyes. "I will bring out the pliers and pull out every one of your fingernails myself. Do you understand?"

Lyra stared at the man who had promised to know her scent anywhere. The man whose pups were currently fighting to survive in her womb.

"I understand, Alpha," she rasped.

"Make the train ten feet long," Selene added. "I want it to sweep across the great hall, covering the very spots you scrubbed today. I want every wolf to see the devotion stitched into the fabric."

"Set her up in the drafty tower room," Kaelen told the guards. "Lock the door. She doesn't leave until the dress is finished."

"Thank you, my Alpha," Selene purred, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You are too merciful."

"Only for you," Kaelen murmured.

They turned and walked out into the blizzard, leaving the enforcers to handle the rest.

Lyra stayed on the floor. She pulled the spool of silver silk tightly against her chest. The smooth material felt like ice against her bruised skin. She squeezed the fabric until her knuckles turned white. This gown would catch the moonlight perfectly on the night Kaelen marked Selene. Nausea hit her. She swallowed it down.

She had to craft the very garment that would bind her mate to another woman. Every stitch would be a nail in her own coffin. But she had to stay alive. The two tiny pulses Thorne had found demanded it.

"Get up," the first guard barked, kicking her thigh.

Lyra clutched the silk and forced herself to stand.

The guards dragged her out of the clinic, pushed her through the howling wind, and shoved her up three flights of winding stone stairs. They reached a circular room at the top of the eastern tower. A single oil lamp burned on a wooden worktable. A pair of heavy iron shears sat next to a spool of silver thread. No fire burned in the hearth. The stone walls radiated absolute cold. Wind howled through the unsealed window, carrying flakes of snow that melted against the floorboards. There was no bed. Only a hard wooden chair and the worktable.

The guards pushed her inside. The heavy iron door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Lyra dragged herself up from the cold stone floor. She hauled the heavy roll of silver silk onto the wooden table. Her hands shook as she unrolled the first yard. The fabric shimmered under the dim light, a mocking radiance.

She picked up the iron shears. The metal was freezing against her palms.

She aligned the blades against the edge of the silk.

The heavy iron door creaked open behind her.

Lyra froze. She did not turn around.

Heavy boots crossed the stone floor. The familiar, overwhelming scent of pine and rain flooded the small room.

Kaelen stopped directly behind her.

He did not speak. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Lyra forced her hand to move. She squeezed the handles of the shears. The sharp blades sliced through the silver silk with a crisp hiss.

Kaelen bent down suddenly, his chest brushing her back. Warm breath fanned across the sensitive skin of her ear.

"Your eyes," Kaelen whispered, his voice dangerously low, "remind me of a dead person."