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."

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

Lyra's hand jolted. The heavy iron shears slipped. The sharp blade sliced a deep, jagged line straight across the back of her left hand.

Warm blood welled up instantly.

She yanked her hand back and shoved the bleeding knuckles deep into the oversized sleeve of her coarse dress, squeezing her fist tight, trapping the blood against her own palm.

"Keep your gaze on the fabric," Kaelen ordered. He stepped back. The heat of his chest vanished, replaced entirely by the freezing draft from the unsealed window.

"Yes, Alpha," Lyra said, staring straight ahead at the shimmering silver material.

"If you ruin Selene's gown, I will take your hands." His heavy boots turned toward the exit. He walked out, pulling the heavy iron door shut. The lock clicked into place.

Lyra exhaled a shaky breath. She pulled her injured hand from her sleeve. A steady stream of red ran down her wrist. She grabbed a scrap of discarded linen from the floor, wrapped it tight around her knuckles, and knotted it with her teeth.

She dragged the heavy spool of silk toward the cast-iron sewing machine in the corner. She fed the edge of the material under the sharp needle. Her foot pressed the cold iron pedal. The machine clattered to life, the rhythmic metallic thud echoing against the stone walls. She lowered her head and pedaled faster. The two tiny pulses in her womb needed her to survive the night.

Four hours after the lock clicked into place, the oil lamp flickered low.

A heavy thud echoed from the corridor. The iron lock rattled violently, then gave with a sharp metallic snap. The door kicked open.

A guard stumbled into the room. He reeked of cheap ale and stale sweat. Not one of Kaelen's elite enforcers—just a low-ranking border patroller with a slack grin.

"Well, well," the guard slurred, kicking the door shut behind him. "The Alpha locked a little stray up here all alone."

Lyra stopped pedaling. She stood up, keeping the wide worktable between them. "Get out. The Alpha ordered me to complete this gown by morning."

"The Alpha is busy celebrating with his new Luna." He took a staggering step forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He won't care if I keep you company for a few hours."

"Leave immediately." Lyra gripped the edge of the table. "If I bleed on this silk, Kaelen will mount your head on a pike."

"Then we do it on the floor," the guard laughed.

He lunged across the room.

Lyra dodged left, but his massive hand caught the collar of her coarse dress. He yanked her forward with brutal force. She crashed chest-first onto the worktable. The spool of silver thread rolled off the edge and clattered onto the stone floor.

He pressed his heavy weight against her back, pinning her flat. "Stop fighting."

He tore at her collar. The cheap fabric ripped down the center.

"Get off me!" Lyra yelled. She thrashed her legs backward, catching his shins.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her face against the table. "Quiet, stray."

Her right hand blindly searched the smooth wood. Her fingers brushed cold, heavy metal.

The iron shears.

She gripped the handles tight.

Lyra twisted her upper body and drove the sharp blades straight down into the guard's thick thigh.

The guard roared in agony. He ripped the shears from his leg and swung his arm in a wild arc. The back of his massive hand struck Lyra's jaw like a stone hammer, lifting her entirely off her feet.

She flew backward across the room.

Her lower abdomen slammed directly into the sharp, unyielding corner of the oak table.

A sickening impact. Then silence for one terrible second.

Lyra hit the stone floor. White-hot agony exploded in her womb. She curled into a tight ball, wrapping both arms around her stomach.

"My pups," she gasped. Black spots swarmed the edges of her vision.

The guard limped toward her, blood pouring down his leg, face twisted in absolute rage. "I'll kill you, you worthless—"

The heavy wooden door did not just open.

It exploded inward.

Splinters of thick oak rained across the stone floor. A towering figure filled the doorway. Kaelen stood there, his chest heaving violently, his human skin split along his forearms to reveal patches of coarse black fur. Long, curved claws extended from his fingertips, gouging deep lines into the stone doorframe.

His golden eyes were gone. In their place: a bloodthirsty, glowing crimson.

He crossed the room. He did not walk. He simply ceased to exist in the doorway and reappeared directly in front of the guard.

"Alpha," the guard choked out, stumbling backward.

Kaelen's massive hand clamped around the man's throat. His claws pierced the cheap leather armor, drawing immediate beads of dark blood. He lifted the guard entirely off the ground.

"Explain why you are in the eastern tower," Kaelen said, his voice a low, vibrating growl that rattled the remaining glass in the window frame. "No one enters this floor without my direct command."

The guard kicked uselessly against the air. "The stray—she called me in—she begged for meat from the kitchens—she tore her own clothes—" He pointed a shaking finger at Lyra on the floor. "She offered a trade."

"She called you in through a locked iron door."

"Yes! Yes, Alpha, she—"

"You abandoned your post at the southern gate," Kaelen said, "for a stray."

"Please—"

"You bled on my floor."

Kaelen closed his five fingers.

A sharp, wet crack echoed through the circular room. The sound of snapping bone. The guard's eyes rolled backward. His arms dropped limply to his sides.

Kaelen opened his hand. The massive body dropped like a stone, landing mere inches from Lyra's boots. Dead weight hit the floorboards with a dull, sickening thud.

Lyra stayed on the ground. She pulled her knees tighter against her chest, both arms wrapped around her lower abdomen. She focused entirely on the faint, hidden thrum deep inside her womb, pressing through the terror to find those two tiny pulses.

Still there.

Still there.

She did not look at the corpse. She did not look at the Alpha.

Kaelen stood over her. The crimson glow faded from his eyes, returning to their piercing gold. The black fur retreated into his skin. He stared at the broken body at his feet, then shifted his gaze to the shivering woman on the floor.

"Get up," Kaelen commanded.

Lyra didn't move. Her muscles had locked in a desperate bid to protect her stomach.

Kaelen stared down at her torn collar, the cheap fabric hanging in tatters. The pale skin of her shoulder was marked with red fingerprints from the guard's attack. Something shifted in his jaw.

He ripped his heavy wool trench coat off his shoulders.

He threw it.

The thick fabric struck Lyra, covering her exposed skin. The coat radiated immense heat, carrying the overwhelming scent of pine and rain. The scent from the dark cabin. The scent of her mate.

Lyra flinched at the impact. She grabbed the lapels, pulling the wool tight against her throat. The lingering warmth of his body seeped into her freezing blood. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Kaelen crouched. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jawline, and forced her to look up from the bloody floor.

"Do you think I am blind to your tricks?" he demanded.

Lyra stared into his golden eyes. She tasted copper on her tongue.

"You lure a patroller up here," Kaelen sneered, his grip tightening. "You try to whore yourself for a meal. You disgust me."

Lyra kept her mouth shut. She refused to give him the satisfaction of a defense.

"You are a scullery maid. You belong in the dirt." He shoved her face away. "But if you spread your legs for my men and bleed all over Selene's silk, I will string you up by your ankles."

Lyra hit the stone floor again. Her bruised cheek stung against the cold rock.

"Keep your filthy habits away from the Luna's gown. Do you understand me?"

Lyra did not scream. She did not cry.

She sat up. She gathered the oversized coat around her shivering frame. She crawled toward the scattered supplies near the cast-iron sewing machine. Her fingers found the spool of silver thread. Then a sharp steel needle.

"Answer me," Kaelen commanded, taking a step closer.

Lyra threaded the needle. Her hands shook, but she forced the silver tip through the eye. She lifted the torn edge of her coarse collar.

"Do you hear me?" He kicked the wooden leg of the worktable. The heavy oak shuddered. "I asked you a question."

She pierced the cheap fabric and pulled the thread tight. She stitched her own clothes closed. In, out, pull. In, out, pull. It kept her mind from shattering. It kept her from screaming the truth at him.

"I told you to answer me," Kaelen growled. He grabbed her wrist, stopping the needle mid-air. "Look at me when I speak to you."

Lyra looked at his hand wrapped around her wrist. Then she looked up into his eyes. Her expression was entirely hollow.

Kaelen's grip faltered. Something moved across his face—not recognition, not exactly, but a fracture in his certainty. He let go of her wrist.

Lyra pushed the needle through the fabric a second time. Silence filled the cold tower room, broken only by the soft scrape of steel against linen.

"You test my patience," Kaelen warned. He loomed over her, his broad shoulders blocking the dim light of the oil lamp.

Lyra bit the thread. She snapped the silver string with her teeth and tied a small knot. She smoothed the mended collar. Her face was entirely blank.

Kaelen stared at her. His jaw clenched hard. A muscle ticked beneath his cheek. This was not the reaction of a terrified rogue. This was absolute, infuriating defiance.

"Fine. Freeze in your silence," Kaelen ordered. He kicked the dead guard's boot out of his way. "Clean up this mess. Finish the hem by dawn."

He turned his back on her. His heavy leather soles struck the stone floor as he walked out of the ruined doorway.

Out in the corridor, Kaelen took three strides. The freezing wind whipped through the open stone arches.

He stopped.

His hand shot up, grabbing the center of his chest. A sharp, tearing sensation ripped through his sternum—not the guard's blow, not the cold, something older and deeper, like a rope pulled taut from somewhere he couldn't name or reach. He let out a harsh, suffocating gasp. His fingers dug into his own shirt, tearing the buttons loose.

A violent tremor wracked his massive frame. He staggered sideways. His shoulder slammed against the cold stone wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.

He dropped heavily onto one knee, his head bowing as a blinding pain fractured across his skull.

Behind him, through the locked iron door, the rhythmic clatter of the sewing machine resumed.

Slow. Steady. Relentless.

As if nothing in the world could stop her.