Isolde POV:
"I hereby dissolve the Blackwell Pack!" Austen shouted, his voice reaching a fever pitch of hysteria. "From this night forward, we are the Nolan Pack! And I am your Supreme Alpha!"
Cheers erupted, shaking the glass walls of my coffin.
Inside, the warriors had retreated, sealing me in again. The second bucket had been dumped.
This time, the smell was different. Beneath the metallic tang of silver, there was something floral. Sweet. Deadly.
Wolfsbane.
It soaked into my hair, dripped down my spine, and pooled around my knees. Wolfsbane was a paralytic. It weakened the heart.
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't work. I collapsed onto my side, the freezing floor sapping the last of my body heat.
Then, the pain changed.
It wasn't on my skin anymore. It was deep inside. A cramping, twisting agony in my lower abdomen.
"No," I whispered. My hands flew to my stomach. It was hard as a rock. "No, no, no."
A contraction ripped through me, strong enough to make me arch my back and scream, a sound that tore my throat raw.
"Look!" Debra pointed, laughing. "She's putting on a show!"
But then, the color changed.
Warmth. Suddenly, there was warmth between my legs. But it was the wrong kind of warmth.
I looked down.
Bright, crimson blood was flowing out of me, mixing with the silver-laced water on the white floor. It swirled like oil in water, a horrific abstract painting of death.
The scent hit the air vents.
Wolves have noses sensitive enough to track a rabbit three miles away. The scent of an unborn pup's blood... the scent of a miscarriage... it is primal. It is the scent of a broken future.
The laughter in the ballroom died instantly. Even the music seemed to strangle itself into silence.
The older wolves covered their noses, their faces turning ashen. Silence crashed down like a falling ceiling. Even the most corrupt wolf knows that the death of a pup is a tragedy, a bad omen, a crime against the Moon Goddess.
I lay in the puddle of my own blood and the melted ice, gasping. I could feel the life draining out of me. The little kicks that had kept me company for eight months... they stopped.
One last flutter. Like a butterfly trapped in a jar.
Then... stillness.
My Inner Wolf let out a sound that wasn't a howl. It was a keen. A sound of total, shattering heartbreak. Gone. He is gone.
Outside, Austen lowered his microphone. He stared at the blood spreading across the floor of the cage. His face went pale. His phone buzzed in his pocket-probably the notification that the bank transfer of my assets was complete-but he didn't check it.
He looked horrified. Not because he cared, but because he realized he had gone too far. He felt the judgment of the room shifting against him.
"It's... it's a trick!" Debra shrieked, breaking the silence. Her voice was shrill, desperate. "That's not blood! It's paint! She had it hidden under her dress! She's trying to ruin your coronation, Austen!"
Austen looked at her, then at me. He was drowning in panic. He needed a lifeline, even a lie.
"Yes..." Austen stammered. "Yes! It's an illusion! A witch's trick!"
He slammed his hand on the glass. "Stop acting, Isolde! Get up! Prove you're not faking it!"
He motioned to the control booth. "Lower the temperature! Prove it's fake!"
The vents blasted again. The blood on the floor began to freeze into red crystals.
I didn't move. I couldn't. I stared at the red ice, my hand resting on my now-silent belly. The cold was welcoming now. It was numbing the pain of my broken heart.
Let me die, I prayed to the Moon Goddess. Take me to my baby.
