Lyra’s POV
Three days.
That’s how long it had been since Elowen took the punishment meant for Kael—punishment I’d meant to carve into his skin, not hers. But she’d thrown herself between us, and now the memory still echoed in my head like a curse.
My own wound from that vampire’s bite had closed far too quickly. Too clean. Too unnatural. Wolves heal fast, yes—but not like this. Not overnight. Not when the venom that struck me was the same one said to have sent Alpha Thoren Dravenwood into his endless sleep.
Something inside me had changed.
I hadn’t told anyone. Not my father. Not my pack. Not even my wolf, though lately she felt like a stranger anyway—restless, pacing, her voice muffled behind static.
So I drove.
The Moon Monastery loomed against a steel-gray sky, its spires jagged as teeth. A cold wind curled around the cliffs, carrying the scent of pine and sage... and something else. Something spoiled.
Decay.
“Child.”
The voice rasped out of nowhere. I spun around.
An old woman stood just beyond the gates, cloaked in ash-colored robes. Her face was hidden, but her eyes gleamed like molten silver beneath the hood. Her scent wasn’t wolf. Nor human. Nor vampire. It was… wrong.
“Beware,” she whispered, her cold hand closing around mine. “You are light, but the dark has tasted you now. It will not stop until it devours you whole.”
I pulled my hand free, pulse quickening. “Who are you?”
Her mouth twitched. “The one who remembers what you’ve forgotten. Beware, daughter of moonsilver. The shadows know your scent.”
Before I could press her further, she turned and melted into the forest mist.
Uneasy, I shook it off and climbed the monastery steps. The heavy doors loomed ahead, carved with the sigils of the Moon Priesthood. I reached for the iron handle—
—and something slammed into the back of my head.
Darkness swallowed everything.
When I came to, ropes bit into my wrists, my body hanging between pain and numbness. My blindfold stank of iron and dirt, and the air pulsed with a rank mix of sweat and musk—wolf musk.
Claws tore through my skin. Again. Again. Again.
Each strike burned like fire. Ninety-nine lashes—each one peeling away more than flesh. It stripped my pride, my power, my wolf.
“You shouldn’t have punished her,” a gravelly voice said. “She’s precious. You angered the wrong man.”
“Wh—who are you…” My throat bled with every word.
He didn’t answer. Just pulled out his phone.
“She’s done,” he muttered.
And then came the voice from the other end of the line—low, familiar, steady. [Leave her there.]
Even through static and pain, I knew it. Kael.
My wolf knight. The man sworn to protect me.
He’d ordered this.
By the time they dumped me on the roadside, I was barely conscious, skin flayed and blood slicking the asphalt beneath me. But I crawled. Half-shifted. Flagged down a cab. The driver screamed when he saw me—half-wolf, half-woman—but I growled, “Drive. Hospital.”
The emergency ward reeked of antiseptic and fear. I lay on a gurney, staring at the flickering ceiling lights, listening to the nurses whisper.
“Did you see him? The man who brought that girl in—gorgeous. Never left her side.”
“And that other one? Torn up bad. Looked like a rogue attack. Poor thing.”
My fingers clenched around the IV line until I yanked it free.
I knew who they were talking about.
I staggered into the corridor, ignoring the pain that split my shoulder open again. And there they were. Kael. Elowen.
He was holding her hand. Stroking her hair. Whispering softly like she was something fragile and holy.
I turned away before either of them noticed me and walked out into the night, the cold biting harder than the wounds on my skin.
The next morning, Kael came to my room. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, his face unreadable, eyes shadowed. Guilt? No. Not guilt. Pity.
I said nothing. I didn’t trust my voice not to break—or to kill.
Then my phone rang. My father’s number lit up the screen like a curse.
“You will attend the art banquet tonight,” he ordered. “Elowen’s exhibit. The council will be present.”
“No.” The word fell flat. I hadn’t painted in years. Not since Elowen destroyed that part of me.
Back when we were both students, art was my whole world—until she accused me of stealing her work. She framed me, and everyone believed her. I quit painting after that. I never held a brush again.
“You will,” my father snapped.
Before I could hang up, Kael spoke. “It’s for Elowen’s exhibit?” He hesitated, then added, “Just go. Please.”
For him, not for me.
Still, I went.
The Luna Gallery shimmered beneath a glass dome, moonlight spilling across marble floors. Elowen stood at the center, draped in a white gown like some celestial idol, glowing in the adoration around her.
I stayed in the corner, crimson dress clinging to my bruises like war paint. No one spoke to me. No one dared. I was the ghost sister—the scandal no one wanted to acknowledge.
Elowen smiled sweetly, voice pitched for sympathy. “Such a shame the Dravenwood Alpha still sleeps. I deserve a man of power, not one trapped in dreams.”
The guests laughed politely, oblivious.
My chest tightened. Soon, that “sleeping Alpha” would be mine to wed.
Then my gaze drifted to the canvases on the wall—and my blood ran cold.
They were mine.
Not replicas. Not copies. My original paintings—the ones I’d hidden in the attic years ago. Every brushstroke, every flawed edge, every shadow. Mine.
She’d stolen them. All of them.
My claws itched to tear through silk and skin. I was already stepping forward when the hall doors burst open.
Kael’s Beta strode in, carrying gifts—designer tools, moonstone brushes, gemstones, and embroidered gowns. All for Elowen.
Applause rose like a wave. I felt like I was drowning beneath it.
I stumbled out to the balcony, the cool air slicing through the haze of fury.
Moments later, she followed.
“Still breathing?” she asked sweetly. “Pity your mother isn’t.”
My vision went white. “Elowen—”
Before I could finish, she gasped, threw her wine down her dress, and screamed.
“Lyra! How could you?!”
I froze. People rushed out, gasping. And then Kael was there—his gaze sharp, his voice cold.
“Enough!”
Something inside me cracked. I smiled—a dead, bitter thing—and poured my own drink over her, splattering red wine down her face.
“That’s for mocking my mother, you venomous thief.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd as I turned and walked away, my heels striking like gunfire.
Kael caught up, gripping my arm. “Why do you always attack her?”
“You want to know why?” My voice trembled with rage. “She killed my mother. She framed me. She stole everything—my art, my name, and now you. And still, you defend her.”
He frowned, disbelief flickering. “You’re lying.”
I laughed. “Of course you’d think that.”
I tore my arm free. “Take your loyalty, Kael. I’m done fighting for scraps.”
That night, I saw their car leaving together. I should’ve ignored it. But I didn’t.
“Follow them,” I told the cab driver.
They stopped at the butterfly garden—Elowen’s fantasy playground, the place she said she’d want to be marked.
Through the window, I saw it all.
She rose on her toes, eyes glowing gold, and sank her teeth into Kael’s neck. Not playfully. Possessively. Claiming him.
And he let her.
He didn’t resist. He tilted his head, shivering as the bond sealed, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.
But she didn’t let him mark her back.
Instead, he touched the fresh wound, smeared the blood with his thumb, and smiled faintly.
“I’m yours,” he whispered.
