The migraine hit me halfway through the pack run.
I'd been keeping pace with the other Blackridge wolves, my paws steady on the forest floor, when the pain sliced through my skull like a blade. Sharp. Sudden. Unforgiving. I stumbled, nearly colliding with a tree, and felt my wolf—Sable—recoil inside me.
*Go home,* she whispered, her voice tight with something I couldn't name. *Now.*
I didn't argue. Migraines weren't unusual for me, especially after long runs, but this one felt different. Heavier. Like a warning I couldn't decode.
I shifted back to human form at the edge of the woods, pulled on the clothes I'd stashed in my car, and drove home through the rain. The windshield wipers beat a steady rhythm against the glass. My hands gripped the wheel too tightly. Sable was restless, pacing inside me, her agitation bleeding into my chest.
"What's wrong?" I muttered aloud.
She didn't answer. She just kept pacing.
By the time I pulled into the driveway of the pack house, the rain had turned into a downpour. I sat in the car for a moment, pressing my thumb against the inside of my wrist, trying to steady my breathing. The migraine was still there, pulsing behind my eyes, but it wasn't the pain that made me hesitate.
It was Sable. She had gone utterly still.
I pushed open the car door and stepped into the rain. The cold water soaked through my jacket immediately, but I barely noticed. I walked up the front steps, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
That's when the scent hit me.
Zyon's musk—familiar, grounding, the scent I'd woken up to for seven years—was there. But it wasn't alone. Tangled with it was something sharp and floral, drenched in arousal, soaking the air of my own home. A she-wolf's scent. Foreign. Invasive.
My wolf snarled.
I stood frozen in the entryway, rain dripping from my hair onto the hardwood floor. My mind tried to find an explanation that didn't shatter everything. Maybe it was a pack member. Maybe someone had stopped by. Maybe—
But Sable knew. She had known the moment we stepped through the door.
I moved through the house like a ghost. My feet carried me up the stairs without conscious thought. The scent grew stronger with every step. By the time I reached the bedroom door, my hands were shaking.
I pressed my thumb harder against my wrist. Took a breath. Pushed the door open.
Zyon was in our bed. His dark hair was disheveled, his chest bare, the sheets tangled around his waist. And beside him, her pale skin gleaming in the dim light, was Margo Smith.
The Luna of the Silverfang Pack.
The woman Zyon had always called *a family friend.*
Her eyes met mine immediately. There was no shame in them. No panic. Just cold, sharp calculation, like she was already assessing the damage and planning her next move.
Zyon scrambled upright, his practiced warmth flooding his voice. "Anika—baby, this isn't—"
I didn't let him finish.
I turned and walked out of the room. Down the stairs. Through the entryway. Out the front door. I didn't run. I didn't shout. I just moved, one foot in front of the other, until I was back in my car.
I drove to a motel at the edge of pack territory. The kind of place where no one asked questions. I paid cash, took the key, and locked myself inside a room that smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap detergent.
Then I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark and let the pieces fall into place.
Margo Smith wasn't just a Luna. She was the stepmother of Eliam Shaw.
The Lycan Prince.
My fated mate.
The man whose pine-and-thunderstorm scent I had never been able to forget, no matter how many years passed. The man who had sent me a rejection text seven years ago at a European summit, shattering the bond before it could take root. The man I had spent seven years trying to bury.
Sable stirred inside me, whispering a name I hadn't spoken aloud since that night in Europe.
*Eliam.*
My hands were shaking again. I pressed my thumb against my wrist, but it didn't help. My wolf was howling now, clawing at the walls I'd built around her, desperate to reach the bond I'd spent seven years convincing myself didn't matter.
I picked up my phone. Found the contact I'd never deleted. Stared at his name on the screen.
Then I called him.
He answered on the first ring.
"Anika." His voice was low, controlled, utterly still. The voice of a man who had been waiting for this call without admitting it.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. My throat felt tight.
"I found Zyon in bed with Margo," I said finally. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Your stepmother."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was enormous. I could feel the weight of it pressing through the phone, filling the motel room, wrapping around my chest.
When Eliam spoke again, his voice was quieter. Sharper.
"Where are you?"
"A motel. Edge of Blackridge territory."
"Good." He paused. "Don't return to the house tonight. Don't confront Zyon. Don't let either of them know you called me."
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. "Okay."
Another pause. Longer this time. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted into a register I'd never heard from him before. Softer. Almost raw.
"I'll handle this," he said. "We'll handle this."
I closed my eyes. My wolf was still howling, but beneath the sound was something else. Something I hadn't felt in seven years.
Hope.
