Luisa turned away from me. She walked back toward the stage, her cream silk gown flowing behind her, and stopped in front of Clara Vance. Clara stood at the edge of the crowd, her healer's face white, her arms wrapped protectively around my daughter. Aurelia's screams had softened into hiccupping sobs, her tiny chest heaving.
Luisa didn't ask. She simply reached out and plucked Aurelia from Clara's arms with the same carelessness you'd use to return a borrowed book. Clara's hands jerked forward, instinctive, but she caught herself. She was a healer. She knew better than to challenge the Alpha's mother in front of the pack.
Luisa held Aurelia at arm's length for a moment, examining the silver brand on her chest like she was inspecting her own work. Then she handed her back to Clara—not gently, not with any acknowledgment that this was a living child—just dropped her into Clara's arms and turned away.
Clara caught her. Her eyes found mine across the room, wide and horrified, and I saw her mouth shape a word I couldn't hear.
Luisa climbed the steps to the stage. She smoothed the front of her gown, adjusted the drape of her sleeve, and turned to face the assembled pack. Her voice rang out clear and composed, the tone of a woman delivering a prepared statement.
"Silverfang deserves a Luna whose bloodline elevates us, not diminishes us." She paused, letting the words settle. "Tonight, we correct a mistake."
The pack applauded.
Not everyone. Not all at once. But enough. Marcus Thorne clapped loudest, his big hands making sharp, echoing sounds. A few women in the front rows nodded to each other, their faces satisfied. Someone in the back whistled.
I knelt on the stone floor and said nothing.
My hands were still pressed flat against the stone, the burns from the silver screaming up my arms. Blood was pooling beneath me, warm and spreading. I could feel it soaking through the back of my gown, sticking to my thighs, cooling where it met the cold air.
I lifted one hand and pressed my fingers against my neck.
The mark was still there. Physically, it hadn't changed—same shape, same place, the small crescent moon Thiago had left when we completed the bond six years ago. But it was cold. Hollow. Like pressing your hand against a wall and expecting warmth and finding only stone.
I traced the edge of it with my fingertips, searching for something I knew wasn't there anymore.
Then the bond pulsed.
Not warmth. Not connection. Something else.
Arousal.
Thiago's arousal. Directed at Phoebe. Flooding through the dying channel of the mate bond in real time, transmitted directly into my nervous system because the bond hadn't fully severed yet. It was still there, still flickering, still feeding me sensory information I didn't want and couldn't block.
I felt his heartbeat quicken. I felt the heat rising in his chest. I felt the exact texture of his desire for another woman while I knelt in my own blood at his feet.
My wolf went silent.
Not the muzzled, frantic silence of the suppressants slamming down. Not the desperate, clawing silence of something trapped. Just silence. The kind that comes after a decision has been made and there's nothing left to say.
I dropped my hand from my neck and let it fall to my side.
The part of me that had believed love was worth the sacrifice went quiet. Not broken. Not angry. Simply finished.
I looked up.
Thiago was stepping off the stage. He moved with the easy confidence of a man who had just solved a problem, his shoulders relaxed, his expression calm. He walked toward Phoebe, who stood trembling in her white dress, one hand pressed to her flat stomach.
He stepped over me.
Not around. Over. His boot caught my shoulder—not a kick, not targeted cruelty, just the careless motion of a man removing an obstacle from his path—and the impact knocked me sideways. My burned hands slid on the blood-slick stone. My body hit the floor.
I didn't try to get up.
Thiago reached Phoebe and pulled her into his arms. She buried her face in his chest and let out a small, shaking sob. He murmured something into her hair, too low for me to hear, his hand stroking her back in slow, soothing circles.
The pack erupted.
Cheers. Applause. Someone shouted, "Long live Luna Phoebe!" and others picked it up, chanting it like a victory cry.
Marcus Thorne stepped forward from the front row, his chest puffed out, his face flushed with excitement. He turned to the crowd and raised his arms like a conductor.
"Our Alpha has chosen well!" he bellowed. "A true Luna! A worthy Luna!"
More cheers. A woman in the third row wiped tears from her eyes, smiling.
I lay on the stone floor and watched.
Clara Vance took one step toward me. Just one. Aurelia was still crying in her arms, softer now, exhausted. Clara's face was tight with something I couldn't name—horror, maybe, or shame—and she moved like she was going to kneel beside me, going to help.
Marcus Thorne planted himself in her path.
He didn't touch her. He didn't speak. He just stood there, his bulk blocking her completely, and looked down at her with an expression that dared her to try.
Clara stopped. Her arms tightened around Aurelia. Her eyes flicked to me, then back to Marcus, then down to the floor.
She stepped back.
Marcus smiled.
I closed my eyes.
The bond pulsed again. Thiago's satisfaction. His relief. His contentment as he held Phoebe and felt the pack's approval wash over him.
I felt all of it.
And then, from somewhere far outside the pack house—beyond the walls, beyond the courtyard, beyond the territory line—I heard it.
A howl.
Not a wolf's howl. Something bigger. Deeper. A sound that shook the windows and made the candles flicker and the applause die mid-clap.
The pack went silent.
Thiago's arms dropped from around Phoebe. His head lifted. His golden eyes narrowed.
The howl came again. Closer this time. Louder. A sound that didn't belong to any wolf I had ever heard.
Every wolf in the room turned toward the door.
I opened my eyes.
My wolf stopped being silent.
She lifted her head inside me, and for the first time in six years, she wasn't listening to Thiago.
She was listening to something else.
Something that smelled like blood and silver and home.
