I woke at 5:47 every morning. Not by choice. My body had learned the rhythm during three years of rationed meals and pre-dawn chores. Now I used it.
The pack house was silent at this hour. I moved through the dim hallway in bare feet, the stone cold against my soles. The storage room they'd given me was on the ground floor, tucked between the laundry and the furnace room. No one passed by unless they had to.
I unlocked the cabinet I'd claimed as mine—a battered metal thing with a broken hinge that no one else wanted. Inside, hidden behind folded linens, sat a wooden box no larger than my palm.
I lifted it out carefully.
The wolfsbane antidote took twenty minutes to compound. I'd learned the process from the pack healer's notes, copied during the brief window when she'd left her office unlocked. Wolfsbane poisoning was rare but not unheard of—rogues sometimes laced their claws with it. The antidote required precision. Too little and it did nothing. Too much and it accelerated the damage.
I measured each component on a small brass scale. Crushed moonflower petals. Silver ash. A drop of my own blood for binding. The blood was necessary—without it, the mixture wouldn't take.
I worked in complete silence, my hands steady. Outside, the sky began to lighten. Gray dawn filtered through the narrow window above the sink.
When the mixture was ready, I poured it into a small glass vial and held it up to the light. Clear, faintly luminous. Perfect.
I could stop making it. Any morning, I could simply not wake at 5:47. Not unlock the cabinet. Not measure the components. Callahan's wolf would die within days. His body would follow shortly after.
But that wasn't the plan.
I capped the vial and slipped it into my pocket. Then I cleaned the workspace, returned everything to its exact position, and locked the cabinet.
The choosing was the point. Every morning, I chose to keep him alive a little longer. Every morning, the power was mine.
I walked upstairs to the Alpha's quarters at exactly seven a.m.
***
Callahan was awake when I entered. He always was. I suspected he didn't sleep much anymore.
He watched me from the bed as I crossed to the nightstand and set down the breakfast tray. Oatmeal. Toast. Water. And the small glass vial, placed precisely beside the water glass.
"Your medicine," I said quietly.
His jaw tightened. "I don't need it."
"You do." I kept my voice even. No emotion. Just fact. "The healer said—"
"The healer doesn't know what she's talking about." His right hand closed into a fist at his side. The tell I'd memorized. "I'm fine."
I picked up the vial and held it out to him. "Drink it."
Silence stretched between us. His eyes locked on mine. Searching for defiance, maybe. Or weakness.
He wouldn't find either.
Finally, his hand unclenched. He took the vial from me, his fingers brushing mine for half a second. Cold. Trembling slightly.
He drank it in one swallow and handed the empty vial back.
I set it on the tray without comment and moved to open the curtains. Morning light flooded the room. Outside, pack members were beginning their day—warriors heading to the training grounds, Omegas carrying supplies between buildings.
Behind me, I heard Callahan shift against the pillows.
"How long," he said.
I turned. "How long what?"
"How long are you planning to do this? Play nursemaid?"
I met his gaze. "As long as it takes."
"For what?"
I didn't answer. I picked up the tray and walked to the door.
"Alyssa."
I paused, my hand on the doorknob.
"I know what you're doing," he said. His voice was rough. Effortful. "Whatever game this is—"
"It's not a game," I said quietly. Then I walked out and closed the door behind me.
In the hallway, I pressed two fingers briefly to the cold scar on my neck. Grounding myself.
He didn't know. He couldn't know. All he saw was the girl who'd crumpled to the floor three nights ago. Broken. Grieving. Dutiful.
Let him keep seeing that.
***
Dara found me in the laundry room that afternoon.
I was folding linens—another task Etta had assigned to fill my hours. Dara slipped in through the side door and closed it behind her. She glanced over her shoulder once before approaching.
"There's something you should know," she said quietly.
I set down the sheet I'd been folding. "What is it?"
"Elder Maren came by this morning. She was asking questions about the silver reserves." Dara's voice dropped even lower. "The treasurer told her the strongbox was empty. Maren wanted to know who authorized the withdrawal."
I kept my expression neutral. "What did the treasurer say?"
"That he didn't know. The records were missing." Dara twisted her hands together. "But Maren didn't look like she believed him."
Elder Maren. The sympathetic one. The Council member who'd always watched Callahan a little too carefully during pack gatherings.
I filed the information away.
"Thank you for telling me," I said.
Dara nodded. She hesitated, then added, "Micah heard something too. About Skylar."
"What about her?"
"She hasn't been seen in three days. Some of the ranked wolves are saying she left pack territory." Dara's eyes searched mine. "Is that true?"
"I don't know," I said. It wasn't quite a lie. I knew Skylar had drained the silver reserves and vanished. I didn't know exactly where she'd gone.
But I knew who she'd gone to find.
Dara studied me for another moment. Then she nodded and slipped back out the way she'd come.
I returned to folding linens, my hands moving automatically while my mind worked.
Elder Maren asking questions. Skylar gone. The pieces were shifting exactly as I'd planned.
I finished the laundry and carried the basket upstairs. As I passed the former Luna's quarters, I paused.
Etta was inside. I could hear her voice through the door, speaking to someone—probably on the phone. Her tone was clipped. Irritated.
I knocked.
The conversation stopped. Footsteps approached. The door opened.
Etta looked me over with her usual cool assessment. "What is it?"
I took a slow breath, as though steadying myself. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cloth.
It was small, faded, folded into a careful square. I'd kept it hidden for three years in the bottom of my single drawer. The scent-memory it carried was almost gone—just a ghost-sweetness that lingered if you knew what you were searching for.
I held it out to her.
"I need to tell you something," I said quietly. "But I need you to promise it stays between us."
Etta's eyes narrowed. She took the cloth from my hand and lifted it to her nose.
I watched her face change. Watched the exact moment recognition hit.
Her expression went very still. Then her gaze snapped to mine.
"You're pregnant," she said.
I nodded slowly. Let my hand drift to my stomach in a gesture I'd practiced until it looked instinctive. "The bond wasn't severed in time. The pup is Callahan's."
Silence.
Etta stared at the cloth in her hand. Then she turned and walked back into her quarters, leaving the door open behind her.
I followed.
She crossed to a heavy wooden desk and pulled open a drawer. Inside sat a leather-bound book—thick, meticulously maintained, the pages edged in gold.
The genealogy record.
She opened it and began flipping through pages, her finger tracing bloodlines with practiced speed. She didn't look up.
"How far along?" she asked.
"Eight weeks," I said. Another lie, delivered with perfect calm. "Maybe nine."
Etta's finger stopped on a page. She studied it for a long moment. Then she pulled a pen from the desk drawer and began making notes in the margin.
She was calculating. Projecting the pup's rank. Mapping its place in the Ironridge bloodline.
She hadn't asked a single question about my health. About whether I wanted this. About what would happen when Callahan found out.
She only cared about the heir.
I pressed two fingers to my neck scar and waited.
Finally, Etta looked up. Her expression was different now. Sharper. Focused.
"You'll need proper care," she said. "I'll arrange for you to move to the southern pack territory. My sister runs a smaller pack there—quieter, safer for a pregnancy. You'll stay until the pup is born."
I blinked. "What about Callahan?"
"I'll handle Callahan." Etta closed the genealogy record with a soft thud. "The pack can't know about this yet. Not until we're certain the pup is viable."
She was already planning my exile. Already calculating how to control the narrative.
Perfect.
"When do I leave?" I asked quietly.
"Two weeks. I'll make the arrangements." Etta handed the cloth back to me. Her fingers lingered on it for half a second. "Keep this safe."
I took it and folded it carefully back into my pocket.
"Thank you," I said.
Etta nodded once. Dismissed.
I walked out of her quarters and down the hallway, my heart beating steady and slow.
She'd believed every word. The speed of it—the completeness of her delusion—was almost beautiful.
I returned to my storage room and locked the door behind me. Then I sat on the edge of the cot and pulled out the cloth.
The scent-memory was fading fast now. In another week, it would be gone entirely.
I pressed it to my face and let myself feel it. Just for a moment. The grief I'd buried for three years.
Then I folded it away and stood.
Two weeks until Etta relocated. Two weeks to secure full authority over pack affairs.
The choosing continued.
Every morning, I would wake at 5:47. Compound the antidote. Keep Callahan alive a little longer.
Until the moment I decided not to.
