Although Lyra was taken aback, she wasn’t surprised.
Darius had always had feelings for Mireille. It wasn’t exactly unexpected that he would go this far for her.
Once upon a time, Lyra might have taken it personally. But now, she simply replied with quiet composure, “Alright.”
After all, she was leaving soon. Whether their wedding portraits were burned beneath this moon or the next made no difference.
For a second, Darius froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He’d only said those words out of frustration, annoyed she hadn’t given him a way to save face.
‘Wasn’t she the one who used to treasure those things the most? Why’s she suddenly agreeing so easily?’
Without another word, Lyra called a servant to take down the framed pictures from the wall. They carried them to the garden and burned them until nothing remained.
Mireille, newly returned from the coven stronghold of Varghelm, had no den of her own yet.
So, Darius offered her a chamber in the Alpha’s villa for a while.
Lyra didn’t object. Her tone was even, almost indifferent. “Sure,” she said.
She even instructed the steward to prepare the guest den next to his chamber for Mireille—then quietly moved her own belongings into a smaller room below the west wing, closer to the servants’ quarters.
As she was packing, Darius’s voice came from behind her.
“Come on, Lyra, don’t be petty. I know you’re jealous, but Mireille’s only staying here for a while.”
He leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You hate sleeping alone. Moving down here—will you even rest properly?”
He hesitated, then softened his tone. “About those portraits—I went too far. If they meant something to you, we can take new ones. When there’s time.”
He stepped closer, reaching to hug her from behind—only for her to slip out of reach.
Turning to face him, she met his gaze. Calm. Clear.
To be fair, Darius had never been cruel. In the three years they’d been bound by oath and law, he’d done enough to make her believe—perhaps—the Moon had fated them for each other.
But every time Mireille reappeared, he never hesitated. He always chose her.
Lyra loved him. She really did. But what she wanted wasn’t love handed out with conditions or affection that came second to someone else.
“I’m not jealous,” she said quietly. “You’ve been dealing with pack matters late into the night. Sleeping alone helps me rest better.”
Her words, spoken so evenly, unsettled him more than anger would have.
Darius’s expression hardened. He wasn’t used to defiance—especially not from her. He had already lowered his pride. This was supposed to be the moment she softened, as she always had.
“Whatever,” he said curtly. “By the way—what was that document you had me sign earlier today?”
Lyra’s lips curved faintly. “A little gift for our third bond anniversary. You’ll know soon enough.”
That eased his temper a fraction.
He knew Lyra didn’t like Mireille’s presence, but Mireille had only just returned to Frostmere and he was simply helping her settle in.
Once her new manor was ready, she’d leave. He told himself that—soon, everything would return to normal. He’d still live properly with Lyra, as duty demanded.
“Alright. It’s late. You should get some rest.”
When Lyra brushed past him, he instinctively lifted his arms for the usual goodnight embrace—but she walked straight by, silent as snowfall.
He stood there, the faint scent of her fading down the corridor, his wolf restless.
Something about her was different tonight. He just couldn’t name it.
The night deepened. The silver moon slid high above Frostmere.
Lyra—already asleep—was yanked from her bed and dragged upstairs by two of the Alpha guards.
Her shoulder slammed into the wall of the Alpha’s chamber. Pain bloomed through her ribs, the breath knocked from her lungs.
Dazed, she blinked through the haze—and then heard his voice, cold and sharp as a northern wind.
“I understand your jealousy, Lyra,” Darius said, his golden eyes blazing, “but drugging Mireille? That’s a line even you shouldn’t cross.”
Her pulse spiked. “What?”
She looked up, vision swimming.
On the bed, Mireille lay trembling in Darius’s arms. Her skin flushed crimson, her breath ragged, sweat slicking her brow—her aura tangled and unstable, as if her blood was reacting to a potion or dark spell.
“I didn’t do it!” Lyra’s voice cracked.
Mireille whimpered, clutching at Darius’s chest. “I only drank the moonmilk you gave me… I didn’t have anything else…”
Lyra’s eyes narrowed, her senses sharpening. “You asked for that drink! I had some too—why am I fine, then?”
“And what would I gain from drugging you?” Her tone turned scathing. “Mireille, if you’re going to frame me, at least try harder.”
She was telling the truth. But truth had no power in the face of well-crafted tears.
Mireille began to sob harder, her voice weak and trembling. “Forget it. If she says I faked it, then maybe I did. I… I have nothing else to say.”
Lyra’s hands curled into fists. Fury boiled beneath her skin, her wolf stirring but caged. It felt like punching water—no resistance, no justice.
That was the last straw for Darius. His voice dropped to a deadly growl.
“That’s enough, Lyra! This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this. You know what happened three years ago.”
His words dropped like a hammer.
“You really think someone with your record deserves trust?”
Just like that, one sentence condemned her.
Lyra stared at him, teeth gritted. “I’ll say it again,” she said in clenched teeth, each word crystal clear. “I did not drug you three years ago.”
That night haunted her still. She’d gone after him when she heard he was drinking alone at the Silver Den tavern. Worried, she’d followed his scent—only to find him already drugged.
Yes, she loved him. Yes, one reckless night had changed everything. But she never planned it.
He had never believed her. And from that moment on, it became the wound neither of them could heal.
“Darius, I can’t… I can’t help it…” Mireille moaned, her fingers tightening around him. Her body trembled violently, her aura shimmering with unstable magic.
Darius frowned, pushing her back slightly—but Mireille snatched a small ritual blade from the bedside drawer and dragged it across her arm.
Blood welled instantly, crimson bright under moonlight.
“I know I’m a burden,” she sobbed. “I should just disappear… so you don’t have to worry about me anymore…”
The scent of blood hit the air like lightning, primal and intoxicating.
Darius clenched his jaw, seized the blade from her hand and growled lowly, “I’ll help you.”
