I pressed my palm to the enchanted Pact Stone in the Records Chamber.
The clerk-a werewolf elder scratched runes into the air, each letter burning blue before dissolving into the stone.
"To cancel a pureblood's pack identity," he growled, "requires destroying your blood scroll. The process will feel like ripping out your soul's imprint."
I nodded, extending my wrist.
He sliced it open a vein, and my blood fell onto the stone, forming a sigil that began to writhe like a wounded snake. The Pact Stone rumbled, peeling my name from its depths-each syllable of "Jessica Lagerfelt" burning away.
"Name change requires a lunar invocation," the elder said.
Stepping out of the bond hall, my phone thrummed incessantly-missed calls and messages from Anders. I let it ring, unread, unreturned.
Dusk had fallen by the time I reached the villa.
Anders stood in the living room, rushing to me the moment I entered, panic pooling in his eyes. "Baby, where were you? I've been waiting for hours-almost mobilized every contact in the pack."
I stared at him, my heart clamped in a vice.
I remembered sophomore year, during the Wolfsbane Festival-when he abandoned the sacred Bloodmoon Vigil to find me.
The elders had warned us: missing the ritual meant risking a werewolf's first shift under a waning moon.
Back then, I'd been his entire world. But his love, it seemed, had never been singular.
My throat clogged.
Yet I mustered a calm smile.
"Went to the park. Forgot to tell you. Sorry."
Relief flooded his features as he pulled me into a hug.
" I'm not angry, just worried."
He kissed my hair, voice softening.
"You wanted steak. Let me cook for you, yeah?"
He released me, turning to the kitchen.
I watched his back-shirt sleeves rolled, long fingers gripping a knife. Warm light caressed his profile, even his brow bones looked tender.
Five years ago, when my stomach ulcers flared under the bloodmoon, the hospital's walls made my wolf form itch. Anders burst through the enchanted ward.
"I found a master chef who specializes in werewolf convalescent cuisine," he said, pressing a steaming bowl into my hands.
The soup glowed with moonlight. But what caught my eye were his fingers-third-degree burns wept silver-blue serum, crisscrossed with cuts that healed too slowly, as if cursed.
"Anders, your hands-"
He pulled back, hiding them behind his back.
"Just... mishaps with a dragonfire stove."
For thirty days, he came every dawn, each meal more elaborate.
Then his phone rang. I saw his face twitch at the screen.
He dropped the knife, wiping his hands.
"Baby, urgent pack business. I have to go."
He untied his apron, kissing my forehead.
"Eat first; don't wait."
I nodded wordlessly.
After he left, I stood before the steaming food-perfectly sauced steak.
But the sight squeezed my chest until I couldn't breathe. I
'd seen the caller ID: Caroline Chastain.
I hailed a cab, tailing his car.
Not to the office, but to the hospital.
The entire VIP floor was cleared; doctors and nurses bowed to Anders.
The director hunched, voice hushed: "My deepest apologies. We failed to protect Miss Chastain from her fall. We'll assign more nurses-"
Anders' face was ice, voice frigid.
"Next time, this hospital closes."
