I didn't tell Felix I was going.

I told Kira. She stood in the doorway of my room while I laced up my boots, arms crossed, mouth flat.

"He'll want to come with you," she said.

"I know."

"He'll want to send warriors."

"I know."

She studied me for a long moment. "You're going alone."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I finished tying the second boot and stood. "Because Buster is mine. Not a political asset. Not a strategic move. Mine. And I'm not walking back into that house with an army at my back. I'm walking in as myself."

Kira's mouth tugged sideways. Not quite a smile. "He's going to be furious."

"He'll get over it."

"Will he?"

I met her eyes. "He'll respect it. That's not the same thing."

She nodded once. "I'll tell him after you've crossed the border. That way he can't stop you without breaking the one thing he's been trying hardest to protect."

"What's that?"

"Your right to decide."

I held her gaze for a beat longer than I meant to. Then I picked up my keys and walked out.

---

The drive took two hours.

I took the back roads, the ones I'd memorized during my years running patrol routes for Silverfang. I didn't want to be seen coming in. I didn't want anyone to warn Brandon. I wanted to arrive the way a ghost arrives — quiet, unannounced, and impossible to prepare for.

The Silverfang pack house sat in a shallow valley, ringed by pines. I parked half a mile out, on a service road no one used anymore, and walked in on foot. Nara was silent inside me, her focus narrowed to a single point.

The side entrance was unguarded.

Of course it was. I'd been the one to design the patrol rotations, and Brandon had never bothered to change them. The security system I'd installed three years ago still had my biometric override. The keypad accepted my thumbprint on the first try.

The door swung open.

The house smelled the same. Cedar polish on the floors. The faint trace of coffee from the kitchen. And underneath it, the sharp, unmistakable scent of Skyler — everywhere, layered thick, like she'd been rolling through every room to mark it.

My hand tightened on the doorframe. Nara growled low. *Steady.*

I stepped inside.

Buster heard me before he saw me.

I heard his claws on the hardwood upstairs — the specific rhythm of his gait, the little skitter when he took a corner too fast. My chest cracked open around it. I hadn't realized how much I'd been holding until I heard him coming.

He rounded the top of the stairs, saw me, and made a sound I would remember for the rest of my life. Not a bark. A whine — high and broken and full of the pure, uncomplicated grief of a dog who thought he'd been left behind.

He came down the stairs in a rush. I dropped to one knee and caught him against my chest and buried my face in the golden fur at his neck and did not cry. I did not. I breathed him in — sun and grass and the specific warm-dog smell that had lived in my mother's house — and I held him until my hands stopped shaking.

"Hi, baby," I whispered. "Hi. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you."

His tail thumped against the floor.

Then I stood.

And I heard them.

A soft laugh from the living room. A murmur. The rustle of fabric.

Nara went absolutely still inside me. So did I.

I walked, quiet as breath, toward the living room doorway. Buster padded after me, his leash still coiled in my hand.

I stopped at the threshold.

Brandon was on the couch, shirt open, head tipped back against the cushions, eyes closed. Skyler was draped across him — one leg thrown over his, her hand splayed flat on his bare chest, her cheek against his shoulder. The moonstone pendant hung from her neck, catching a wedge of afternoon sun through the window. It threw a small pale light across Brandon's collarbone.

His arm was around her waist.

He was asleep.

She was tracing circles on his skin with one lazy fingertip, humming under her breath.

I did not flinch. I did not make a sound.

I reached into my pocket. Pulled out my phone. Opened the camera. Set it to video.

And I recorded.

Fifteen seconds. That was all I needed. Fifteen seconds of Skyler's hand on Brandon's chest. Fifteen seconds of his arm curled around her waist. Fifteen seconds of the pendant catching the light, unmistakable, undeniable, the Luna heirloom worn by the woman who had never earned it.

I held the phone steady. My hand did not shake.

At fifteen seconds, I stopped recording. Pocketed the phone. Clipped Buster's leash to his collar.

He looked up at me, tail slow now, sensing my stillness.

*Come on,* I told him silently.

We walked back through the hall. Past the kitchen. Past the coat closet where my winter jacket still hung, forgotten. I did not take it. I did not take anything.

I walked out the front door.

I closed it behind me — not slammed, not slipped. Closed. A single, deliberate click.

The sound of it must have been what woke him.

Because as Buster and I crossed the gravel drive toward the tree line, I heard, from somewhere deep inside the house, the muffled shout of a man's voice — confused, waking, calling a name.

I did not turn around.

Buster trotted beside me, tail wagging, the leash light in my hand.

The phone in my pocket felt heavier than a stone.

---

Brandon woke to a closed door and an empty dog bed.

I wasn't there to see it, but I knew the shape of it anyway. He would have sat up too fast. Skyler would have made a small startled sound. He would have caught the scent first — wild honey and winter pine, cutting through Skyler's cloying perfume, faint but unmistakable, threaded through the hallway and out the front door.

He would have known.

He would have run barefoot to the porch, chest bare, Skyler's hand still reaching for him from the couch, and he would have stood there staring at the empty gravel drive and the tire tracks fading into the pines.

And he would have understood, with a sick lurch, that I had been inside his house. That I had seen. That whatever I had come for, I had gotten it, and whatever came next was already in motion.

I drove back to Blackmoor with Buster's head on my thigh and the phone burning a hole in my pocket.

---

She waited three days.

Skyler, in a locked room on the second floor of the Silverfang pack house, watching her own phone screen. Watching the pack gossip networks light up with new photographs of me and Felix — a hand at the small of my back, a motorcade, a Lycan Prince's aura wrapped around a she-wolf who was supposed to have been discarded.

Watching a rogue-forum contact she'd cultivated through stolen Silverfang funds.

She recorded the message herself. I would see it later, much later, when the Lycan Court subpoenaed the footage. She sat in front of the camera in a dim room, her face fully visible, the moonstone pendant catching the low light at her throat. Her voice was clear. Steady. Not performing this time — because the wolves she was speaking to did not respond to performance.

"There's a road between Blackmoor and the neutral territory," she said. "She travels it alone sometimes. I'll send you the schedule."

A pause.

"I don't want her dead. I want her broken. I want her unable to stand beside anyone. Not as a mate. Not as a Luna. Not as anything."

Another pause. Her tongue touched her upper lip.

"Six of you should be enough."

She ended the recording.

She did not know, yet, that every choice she made from this moment forward was a step onto ground already mined.

She only knew that she had watched me walk out of her house with my dog and my dignity intact.

And she could not survive that.