The drive to Crescent Ridge territory took three hours. I kept the radio off. Silence was easier.
Grant had approved the trip with a distracted wave of his hand, not even looking up from the patrol reports spread across his desk. "A school visit? Fine. Whatever Phoebe needs." He didn't ask which school. He didn't ask how long I'd be gone. He hadn't asked about our daughter in weeks.
I pulled into the visitor parking lot just after noon. The Crescent Ridge elder, a silver-haired she-wolf named Miriam, met me at the community hall with a warm smile and a folder thick with territorial maps. We spread them across a worn wooden table, and she walked me through the districts near their academy—safe zones, low rogue activity, good pack relations.
"This area here," she said, tapping a section bordered by forest and a small lake, "has several family dens available. Quiet. Close to the school grounds. Your daughter would do well here."
I nodded, tracing the boundary lines with my finger. Phoebe deserved this. Somewhere she could grow up without feeling invisible.
Miriam shuffled through another stack of documents, pulling out updated deed transfers for context. "Just so you know what's been claimed recently in the area—helps avoid confusion with territory overlap."
I scanned the pages mechanically. Standard transfers. A mated pair. A retired Gamma. Then my hand stopped.
A deed bearing Silvercrest's official seal. The property: a private lakeside estate, two miles north of neutral ground. The occupant listed: Lilia Mills.
The name meant nothing to me. But the seal did. And the date—three months ago. The same month Grant told me the pack treasury couldn't afford new school arrangements for Phoebe.
I felt my wolf stir for the first time in what might have been years. Not a howl. Just a slow, cold opening of eyes that had been shut too long.
"Is something wrong?" Miriam asked.
I pressed my fingertips together beneath the table. "No. Just... surprised to see Silvercrest expanding into neutral territory. My mate didn't mention it."
Her expression flickered—something between confusion and pity. "Ah. Well. It's a beautiful property. Quite the investment."
I memorized the coordinates. The deed number. The exact wording of the transfer clause. Then I smiled at Miriam and asked about enrollment deadlines.
---
I didn't go home.
I drove north instead, following the coordinates burned into my memory. The road narrowed, winding through dense forest until it opened onto a private drive lined with newly planted aspens. At the end sat a sprawling estate—stone facing, floor-to-ceiling windows, a wraparound deck overlooking the lake. The kind of place that didn't get built on pack savings. The kind of place that required diverted funds and warriors pulled from border patrol.
I parked near the side entrance and walked to the door. My reflection in the glass stopped me for a moment. I looked exhausted. My hair needed cutting. The dark circles under my eyes had become permanent. My aura—what was left of it—barely registered as Luna. I looked like someone who cleaned houses. Not someone who built packs.
I knocked.
Footsteps. The door swung open.
The woman who answered was luminous. Glossy dark hair, a silk robe that clung to a visibly pregnant belly, skin that glowed with the kind of health I hadn't seen in my own reflection in years. Her scent hit me immediately—jasmine and overripe fruit, heavy and cloying. My wolf recoiled.
She looked me over, her gaze sweeping from my worn jacket to my scuffed boots. Her smile was bright and dismissive.
"Oh, good! You're here," she said. "I was starting to think the agency forgot. Come in, come in. There's a lot to unpack."
I didn't correct her.
I stepped inside. The foyer was pristine—marble floors, a chandelier that probably cost more than a year's worth of pack medical supplies. Through the open archway, I could see the nursery. Boxes stacked high. A crib still in its packaging. Soft yellow paint on the walls.
"I'm Lilia," she said, already walking toward the nursery. "Lilia Mills. Soon to be Luna of Silvercrest Pack, but I'm sure you've heard."
I hadn't.
"The agency said you'd help with setup," she continued, gesturing at the boxes. "I'd do it myself, but—" She patted her belly with a laugh. "Doctor's orders. No heavy lifting. Not when I'm carrying the future Alpha."
I set my bag down slowly. "Of course."
She handed me a box cutter. "Start with the crib, I think. Grant wants everything ready before the formal announcement. He's rejecting that dried-up Luna of his at the next pack gathering—finally—and then we'll do the marking ceremony here. Intimate. Just family and the senior wolves."
My hands didn't shake. I slit the tape on the first box and began pulling out pieces of the crib, laying them on the floor in neat rows. My wolf was fully awake now. Watching. Waiting.
Lilia kept talking. She always kept talking.
"I mean, she had her time, right? Seven years. But she never gave him a son. Just that little girl. Phoebe? Poor thing. Grant says she's too soft. Not Alpha material." She laughed again, a bright, careless sound. "This one, though—" Another pat to her belly. "This one's going to be strong. A real heir. Everything Silvercrest deserves."
I assembled the crib in silence. She told me where Grant promised to take her after the marking. She described the nursery furniture he'd commissioned. She showed me the ultrasound images—grainy and precious and entirely funded by resources stolen from the pack I built.
When the crib was done, she smiled at me. "You're good at this. Quiet. I like that in help."
"Thank you," I said softly.
Then I heard his scent before I heard his footsteps.
Cedar and smoke. The scent I'd known for seven years. But now it carried something else underneath—her jasmine, soaked into his skin like a stain.
Grant walked through the door, his jacket slung over one shoulder, and froze the moment he saw me.
His face went white.
"Athena."
Lilia's head snapped toward me, her smile faltering. "Wait. You're—"
Grant crossed the room in three strides and grabbed my arm. "Outside. Now."
He dragged me through the side door onto the deck. The lake stretched out behind us, still and cold. He released my arm and stepped back, his hands shaking.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
I looked at him. Really looked at him. The man I'd stood beside through wars and rogue raids and winters when the pack nearly starved. The man whose child I'd raised while he absorbed every ounce of glory I'd built for him.
"I was scouting school options for Phoebe," I said quietly. "I found a deed."
His jaw tightened. Then his voice dropped into my mind through the bond, flooding the link with that tone he used when he needed me to believe him.
*It's not what you think. The pack needs stability. A male heir. You have to understand—this isn't personal.*
I said nothing.
*Athena. Listen to me. This was always temporary. You knew that. You're founding bloodline, yes, but the pack needs more than history. It needs strength. A son.*
Still, I said nothing.
His scent sharpened—that metallic edge that always came when he lied.
*I'll make this easy for you,* he said through the link, his mental voice hardening. *I'm going to reject you at the next pack gathering. Formal. Public. You'll step down as Luna. Lilia will take your place. You can stay in the pack if you behave, but Phoebe stays with me. And if you fight this—if you make trouble—I'll cast you out as rogue. No pack. No bond. No wolf.*
I pressed my fingertips together behind my back.
Then I whispered, aloud, "I understand."
He exhaled, relief flooding his face. "Good. I knew you'd be reasonable."
I turned and walked back to my car. I didn't look at Lilia in the window. I didn't look back at all.
But my wolf was awake now.
And she was done sleeping.
