I spent the weeks after finding Lucian’s journal walking on eggshells. Damien’s presence was suffocating, his cruelty constant. Every glare, every mocking word, chipped away at me, but I kept my head down. If I was going to survive this, I couldn’t afford to let him see how much he got to me.
But something changed.
Damien started watching me differently, like he couldn’t figure me out. He’d catch me in the kitchen or the study and just… stare. Not with the usual anger or disgust, but with something else, something I couldn’t quite name. It was unnerving, but I ignored it. I had bigger things to worry about.
That’s when I met Maeve.
She was the pack’s healer, a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense attitude. She found me in the garden one afternoon, struggling to carry a basket of herbs.
“You look like you could use a break,” her voice warm but firm.
I didn’t know why, but I felt like I could trust her. Maybe it was the way she didn’t judge me like everyone else did.
As the days passed, Maeve and I grew closer. She wasn’t afraid to talk about Lucian, even when everyone else avoided the subject.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said one evening, her brow furrowed. “About his death. It doesn’t add up.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart racing.
Maeve hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “There’s a toxin—a rare one. It’s called wolfsbane venom. It mimics the symptoms of natural causes but is nearly impossible to trace unless you know what you’re looking for.”
My stomach turned. “You think someone used it on him?”
Maeve nodded slowly. “I’m saying you need to be careful, Eira. If Lucian’s allies think you know too much—or if they think you’re a threat—they won’t hesitate to come after you.”
Her words stuck with me long after I left. Lucian’s journal, the whispers of betrayal… it all lined up too well. Someone had killed him, and now I was stuck in the middle of a pack full of wolves that hated me.
As if things couldn’t get worse, Damien’s true mate showed up a month later.
Margareth was everything I wasn’t—tall, blonde, gorgeous, and dripping with confidence. The second she walked into the packhouse, the air shifted. She stormed up to Damien, her heels clicking against the floor, and froze when she saw me.
Her eyes narrowed, a cruel smile curling her lips. “Who’s this?” she asked, her voice sharp and icy.
“My wife,” Damien said casually, leaning against the wall like it was no big deal.
Her expression twisted into something ugly. “WIFE? What the hell do you mean, wife?”
Damien’s eyes flicked to me, cold and unfeeling. “I married her to punish her. She killed my father, and this is how she’ll pay for it.”
I flinched, but Margareth’s smile only grew wider. “Oh, Damien, you always did know how to make a girl’s day.” She turned to me, her gaze dripping with malice. “I think I’ll help you with that.”
And just like that, my life went from bad to worse.
Margareth made it her mission to break me.
“Clean this.”
“Fetch that.”
“You missed a spot.”
It didn’t matter what I did—she found fault in everything. She made me scrub floors until my knees bled, carry heavy loads until my arms shook, and run errands until my feet were blistered.
Damien didn’t lift a finger to stop her. If anything, he seemed to enjoy watching her torment me.
“You’re pathetic,” Margareth sneered one afternoon, shoving a bucket of water at me. “Hurry up and finish before Damien gets back. He doesn’t like lazy Lunas.”
I bit my tongue and kept scrubbing, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.
But it wasn’t long before my body gave out. One afternoon, after hours of nonstop work, I collapsed in the kitchen. The world spun, and my legs buckled beneath me.
Margareth’s laugh echoed in my ears as I hit the floor. “Weak,” she spat, stepping over me like I wasn’t even there.
It wasn’t until later that night, curled up in bed with the room spinning around me, that the pieces clicked.
The constant nausea. The exhaustion that never went away. The ache in my body that wasn’t just from Margareth’s endless demands.
My hand trembled as I pressed it to my stomach, my breath catching.
No.
It couldn’t be.
But the truth was undeniable. I felt it deep in my soul, an instinct that no amount of denial could shake.
I was pregnant.
The door to my room slammed open, and Damien’s cold silhouette filled the doorway. His sharp eyes flicked to me, narrowing at the sight of my pale face.
"Did you really slap Margareth across the face?” he snapped, stepping inside.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. The words sat heavy on my tongue, but I couldn’t force them out.
Because if I told him… if he knew…
What would he do?
“Eira!” he barked, his voice like ice. “Answer me.”
I lifted my gaze to meet his, and for the first time in weeks, I felt real fear.
“Damien,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He stepped closer, his impatience palpable. “What?”
I opened my mouth, the truth on the tip of my tongue.
And then the world went black.
