The pack house loomed before me, its once-warm lights now seeming cold and distant as I dragged myself through the front doors. My body felt hollow, emptied of both life and hope. The metallic scent of my own blood still clung to my clothes despite the days that had passed since I'd lost our pup in that frozen Northern wasteland.

"Luna Sarah!" One of the younger pack members gasped as I stumbled into the foyer. "You're back!"

I nodded weakly, unable to summon even a smile. My wolf remained eerily silent within me, her grief mirroring my own.

"Where is Alpha Alistair?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"In his office with..." The girl hesitated, her eyes darting nervously toward the eastern wing where Azalea's quarters were located.

I didn't need her to finish. I knew exactly where Alistair would be.

The sound of vehicles approaching drew my attention to the windows. A convoy of trucks emblazoned with my father's pack logo pulled up outside, men in uniform unloading crates of supplies.

"Sarah!"

My father's voice cut through my exhaustion like a beacon of light. Elder Alpha Marcus Peterson strode through the doors, his commanding presence filling the room. One look at my face sent him rushing to my side.

"My God, what have they done to you?" His hands gently cupped my face, his eyes—so like my own—swimming with tears.

"Dad," I whispered, collapsing into his embrace. "I lost the baby."

His arms tightened around me, his chin resting on my head. "I know, sweetheart. I felt it through our bond."

That explained his sudden appearance. The familial bond between us had alerted him to my distress.

"The pack is starving," I murmured against his chest. "Winter was harder than expected. Many families have nothing left."

My father's expression hardened as he surveyed the pack house. "I've brought emergency supplies—food, medicine, blankets. Enough to see you through until spring."

He turned to his men. "Unload everything. And contact my bank—I'm authorizing an emergency transfer of funds to Silver Claw's account."

Relief washed through me. My father's pack was prosperous; his intervention would save countless lives.

"Come," he said gently. "Let's get you to bed. You need rest."

---

I awoke to the sound of hushed voices outside my door.

"The transfer codes are right here," Azalea's honeyed voice drifted through the wood. "All you need to do is sign the authorization."

"What's this for again?" Alistair's deep voice rumbled in response.

"Your new estate on the coast, darling." Azalea's voice dropped to a seductive purr. "Think about it—a private retreat where we can be alone together. No pack duties, no interruptions."

I struggled to sit up, my mind foggy from the sedatives Dr. Hartwell had given me. What were they talking about? My father's relief funds?

"A true Alpha deserves to display his wealth," Azalea continued. "Besides, the pack will never know. The funds are earmarked as 'emergency supplies.'"

I pressed my ear against the door, heart pounding. Through the thin wood, I heard the scratch of a pen on paper.

"You're right," Alistair said. "A true Alpha deserves better than this drafty old pack house."

---

Three days later, I was strong enough to venture downstairs. The pack house was eerily quiet—no sign of the expected relief supplies or medical equipment my father had promised.

"Where are the supplies?" I asked a passing Delta warrior.

He avoided my eyes. "I don't know, Luna."

A commotion from Alistair's office drew me down the hallway. The door was ajar, and through it, I could see my father standing over Alistair's desk, his face contorted with rage.

"You stole from your own pack?" My father shouted, slamming his fist down. "Those funds were meant for food, medicine—for my daughter!"

Alistair leaned back in his chair, unperturbed. "The pack has everything it needs."

"Everything it needs?" My father's voice cracked with disbelief. "While you build yourself a coastal mansion?"

I stepped into the doorway just as my father clutched at his chest, his face draining of color.

"Dad?" I whispered, a cold dread washing over me.

His eyes found mine, wide with pain. "Sarah... I'm sorry..."

He collapsed to the floor as Alistair rose slowly from his chair, annoyance flashing across his face.

"Call the healer," I screamed, rushing to my father's side.

But Alistair moved too slowly, reaching for his phone with deliberate slowness. "What's the hurry? He's just having a moment."

My father's hand found mine, squeezing weakly. His lips moved, forming words I couldn't hear.

"I'll call them now," Alistair finally said, dialing with exaggerated patience.

I felt it the moment my father's heart stopped—a violent snap inside my chest as our familial bond severed. A scream tore from my throat, primal and raw, echoing through the pack house as darkness closed in around me.

I knelt beside my father's coffin, my fingers tracing the carved wood that would soon bear his name. The pack's funeral home was silent except for the occasional whimper from my wolf, who had finally stirred from her grief-stricken silence.

"Please," I whispered, not caring if anyone heard. "Just one week. That's all I ask."

The door opened behind me, and I didn't need to turn to know it was Alistair. His scent—pine and dominance—filled the room, making my wolf cower.

"One week?" His voice cut through the silence like a blade. "To mourn a man who abandoned his pack responsibilities? To wallow in self-pity over a pregnancy that wasn't meant to be?"

I rose slowly, my legs unsteady beneath me. "It's tradition. A week of mourning for the dead, for—"

"For weakness," Alistair interrupted, his eyes cold as they swept over me. "The pack needs to see strength, not a Luna who can't handle loss."

My hands trembled at my sides. "I lost our child."

"And life continues." He stepped closer, his Alpha aura pressing against me like a physical weight. "The Moon Goddess Gala is in three days. It will proceed as planned."

I stared at him in disbelief. "That was my mother's charity event."

"And now it will celebrate our pack's new prosperity." Alistair's lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes. "The funds your father so generously provided have opened... possibilities."

The stolen money. My father's life savings, meant for food and medicine, now funding Alistair's vanity project.

"Cancel it," I pleaded. "Just for this once. Let me mourn."

"Enough." His Alpha tone vibrated through the room, forcing me to my knees. "You will attend. You will smile. You will show the pack that their Luna is not broken."

---

The door to my quarters burst open without warning. Azalea swept in, flanked by two Delta guards, her perfume choking the air.

"Clear her things," she commanded, gesturing to my closet.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, watching as they yanked my Luna attire from the shelves.

Azalea's smile was venomous as she approached me. "Making sure you understand your place."

She snapped her fingers, and one of the guards produced a gray dress—shapeless, plain, with stains near the hem. A servant's uniform.

"Put this on," she ordered.

I backed away. "That's not appropriate for a Luna."

"Luna?" Azalea laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "You're barely that anymore."

Her hand shot out, gripping my chin painfully. "Your father died because he was weak. Just like you."

I tried to pull away, but she held fast.

"And that baby you lost?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Probably for the best. An Alpha's heir needs strength, not the weakness you carry."

My wolf snarled inside me, but I couldn't reach her strength.

"Mrs. Gable has served me loyally for years," Azalea continued, releasing me with a shove. "She's getting rather... old for service. Wouldn't it be a shame if she were exiled for failing in her duties?"

Mrs. Gable—my elderly maid who had helped me through the darkest nights after losing my pup.

"Leave her alone," I said through gritted teeth.

"Then wear the dress." Azalea's eyes glittered with triumph. "And attend the Gala. Smile, bow your head, play your part."

---

The Grand Hall glittered with stolen wealth. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light over tables draped in white silk. At the head table, Alistair sat in his formal Alpha attire, Azalea beside him in a gown that cost more than most pack members earned in a year.

Around her neck gleamed a diamond necklace—bought with my father's money.

"Look at her," someone whispered as I entered in my gray dress. "The Luna looks like a ghost."

"Or a servant," another replied with a snicker.

I kept my eyes forward, searching for Mrs. Gable's familiar face among the crowd. She stood near the kitchen entrance, her worried gaze finding mine.

Alistair rose, commanding silence with his presence alone.

"Tonight," he announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall, "we celebrate not just prosperity, but progress. We trim the dead weight of the past to forge a stronger future."

His eyes found mine across the room, and I felt the pressure of his Alpha aura pin me in place.

"Some might call it betrayal," he continued, his gaze never leaving mine. "I call it evolution."

The music started—a waltz that had been my mother's favorite. Alistair extended his hand to Azalea, who rose gracefully to join him on the dance floor.

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The Alpha aura held me immobile as they danced, his hands possessive on her waist, her head thrown back in laughter.

Around me, visiting dignitaries whispered and pointed.

"The Luna looks ill," one murmured.

"Or broken," another replied.

I stood frozen at the head table, forced to watch as my mate—my Alpha—whirled my tormentor across the floor in celebration of my father's death and my unborn child's loss.

And somewhere deep inside me, something shifted—a spark where before there had been only emptiness.

The scent of wolfsbane was subtle—a bitter undertone beneath the sweet fragrance of Azalea's perfume as she entered the Alpha suite. I watched from the shadows of the adjoining room, my heart pounding against my ribs. She moved with practiced precision, her manicured fingers measuring drops from a small vial into Alistair's evening tonic.

"Just a little more," she murmured to herself, her voice barely audible. "Enough to make him see reason."

The liquid shimmered with an unnatural sheen as it dissolved into the amber liquid. Wolfsbane—the one substance that could penetrate an Alpha's natural defenses, heightening aggression while dulling rational thought.

I should have felt something—fear, perhaps, or outrage. Instead, a strange calm settled over me as I observed her treachery. My wolf, so long dormant in her grief, stirred slightly within me.

Azalea's eyes darted to the door as she heard Alistair's heavy footsteps approaching. Quickly, she set down the vial and stirred the tonic with a silver spoon, her smile serene as she prepared to serve poison to the man who had once been my world.

"Perfect timing," she purred as Alistair entered. "Your evening refreshment."

I slipped away before they could discover me, my mind racing. For months, Azalea had been whispering in Alistair's ear, turning him against me with honeyed words and calculated manipulation. Now she was escalating—using wolfsbane to ensure his complete compliance.

---

The next morning, I woke to the sound of splintering wood. Alistair burst through my bedroom door, his eyes wild with a fury I'd never seen before. Behind him, Azalea lingered in the hallway, her expression a mask of false concern.

"There you are," he snarled, his voice distorted by rage. "The traitor in my own bed."

I scrambled backward on the mattress. "Alistair, what are you—"

His hand shot out, gripping my hair with such force that tears sprang to my eyes. "Don't lie to me!"

He dragged me from the bed, my body bumping painfully across the floor as he pulled me toward the vanity. With his free hand, he yanked open the drawer and thrust a stack of papers before my eyes.

"Tactical maps," he growled. "Patrol schedules. Territory boundaries. All in your handwriting."

I stared in horror at the documents—forged to look like my work, but with details only someone intimate with pack security would know.

"A burner phone," he continued, producing a cheap device from beneath the papers. "Used to contact Rogues beyond our borders."

"I didn't—" I began, but his grip tightened, silencing me.

"And this," he hissed, pulling out a small pouch of wolfsbane. "Planning to poison me next?"

My blood ran cold. Azalea had been thorough—planting evidence that would condemn me completely.

---

The main hall fell silent as Alistair dragged me down the grand staircase, my body colliding painfully with each step. Pack members gathered in horrified clusters, their whispers falling away as we appeared.

"Bring her forward," Alistair commanded, his Alpha voice reverberating through the space.

Two Delta warriors seized my arms, forcing me to my knees before the assembled crowd. Visiting dignitaries from neighboring packs watched with undisguised fascination.

"Sarah Peterson," Alistair announced, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Former Luna of the Silver Claw Pack."

Former. The word struck me like a physical blow.

"I find myself in the unfortunate position of revealing treason within our midst," he continued, pacing before the crowd. "For months, our pack has suffered setbacks—territory disputes, resource shortages, failed negotiations."

He gestured to the documents spread across a nearby table. "All orchestrated by this woman."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. I tried to speak, to defend myself, but Alistair's Alpha aura pressed against me like a physical weight.

"My father died bringing supplies to save this pack!" I managed to gasp out. "Everything we had—"

"Silence!" Alistair roared, his Alpha Command crushing against my vocal cords.

I felt something tear inside me as the command took hold, rendering me mute.

"The evidence is irrefutable," he declared. "She has betrayed not only me, but every member of this pack who has suffered while she conspired with our enemies."

With ceremonial slowness, he approached me. His fingers found the Luna insignia pinned to my dress—the silver crescent moon that had marked me as his mate, his equal.

"This title," he said, tearing it from the fabric with such force that threads snapped. "This honor you have disgraced."

He threw the insignia to the floor between us.

"Sarah Peterson is hereby stripped of her Luna title and all privileges therein," he proclaimed. "She will be confined to the silver-lined cells until dawn, when she will face execution or exile as a Rogue."

The Delta warriors hauled me to my feet. As they dragged me toward the dungeon entrance, I caught a glimpse of Azalea's face—her perfect mask slipping just enough to reveal the triumph beneath.

And in that moment, as darkness closed around me, something inside me hardened into resolve. If I survived this night, there would be a reckoning.