I lay in the dark, counting the minutes.
Jackson had left for border patrol three hours ago. That's what he'd told me at dinner, standing in the doorway of our bedroom with his Alpha jacket already on, his expression distant. "Rogue activity near the eastern perimeter," he'd said. "Don't wait up."
I'd nodded. Smiled. Said something about staying safe. The Luna's script, performed flawlessly as always.
But my wolf stirred uneasily in my chest, a low whine that had nothing to do with rogues.
Now I waited, listening to the pack house settle into its nighttime rhythms. Doors closing down the hall. The distant hum of the kitchen staff finishing cleanup. The creak of old wood adjusting to the cold. I kept my breathing even, my body still, my eyes half-closed.
When the bedroom door finally opened, I didn't move.
Jackson crossed the room in the dark. I heard the soft thud of his boots hitting the floor, the rustle of fabric as he stripped off his jacket and shirt. The mattress dipped as he slid under the covers beside me.
And then the scent hit me.
It wasn't his scent. Not the pine-and-leather smell I'd known for eight years, the one that used to make my wolf purr with contentment. This was something else entirely—floral, sweet, unmistakably feminine. It clung to his skin like a second layer, saturating the space between us with an intimacy that made my stomach turn.
My wolf recoiled violently, a snarl building in my throat that I had to physically swallow back.
The mate mark on my neck—the bite he'd given me on our mating night, the physical seal of our bond—burned. Not the warm pulse I felt when he was near, but a sharp, wrong heat that felt like my skin was trying to reject something it recognized as poison.
I kept my eyes closed. Kept my breathing steady. Kept my body relaxed even as every instinct screamed at me to roll over and demand an explanation.
Because I already knew.
I'd known for weeks, maybe months. The late nights that stretched longer. The cold distance in his eyes when he looked at me. The way Georgina, his mother, watched me at pack dinners with something that looked almost like satisfaction. I'd told myself I was imagining it. That the mate bond wouldn't lie. That the Moon Goddess wouldn't pair me with someone capable of this.
But the scent didn't lie.
Jackson's breathing evened out beside me. He fell asleep quickly, the way he always did after these so-called patrols. I waited another twenty minutes, counting each second, before I let myself move.
His personal device sat on the nightstand, screen dark but unlocked. He always left it unlocked at home. Why wouldn't he? I was his mate. His Luna. The woman who'd spent eight years building Silverfang beside him, asking for nothing except the bond I thought we shared.
I picked it up with steady hands.
The message logs opened easily. I scrolled past pack business, patrol schedules, territorial reports. And then I found them.
Messages to someone saved under a single initial: E.
*"Can't wait to see you tonight, my true mate."*
*"Soon we won't have to hide anymore. The Luna ceremony will be ours."*
*"Amanda's convenient removal is almost arranged. Mother has everything in place."*
I read every word. Photographed every screen with my own device, my hands perfectly steady, my face blank. The name appeared again and again: Elisa. A Delta warrior in our own pack. Someone I'd smiled at during training sessions. Someone Jackson had praised for her skill.
Someone he'd been calling his true mate while lying beside me every night.
I replaced his device exactly as I'd found it. Slid back under the covers. Pressed two fingers lightly to the burning mate mark on my neck and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
---
Breakfast in the Silverfang pack house was always a formal affair. Long table, polished silver, staff moving quietly between the kitchen and dining room. Jackson sat at the head in his Alpha seat, scrolling through reports. I took my place beside him, the Luna's chair, and waited until the coffee was poured.
"We need to talk," I said quietly.
His eyes flicked up. Cold. Assessing. "About?"
"About where you really were last night."
The room went still. The staff froze mid-step. Jackson set down his tablet with deliberate slowness.
"I was on patrol," he said. His voice dropped into that Alpha tone—the one designed to shut down challenges, to make wolves bare their necks in submission. "Don't question me, Amanda."
Eight years ago, that tone would have worked. Eight years ago, I would have apologized and retreated.
Not today.
"You were with Elisa," I said. My voice stayed level. "Your scent was saturated with her pheromones when you came to bed. Don't insult me by lying."
Jackson's jaw tightened. But before he could respond, the dining room door slammed open.
Georgina swept in like a storm, her former Luna authority radiating from every movement. She'd lost the title when Jackson's father died, but she'd never stopped acting like it was hers.
"How dare you," she hissed, advancing on me. "How dare you accuse my son in front of the staff. You've been Luna for eight years and given this pack nothing. No male heir. No strength. Just your pathetic neediness and your failure."
I stood slowly. Met her eyes.
"I built this pack," I said softly. "Every territorial expansion. Every alliance. Every dollar in Silverfang's accounts. That was me. And you know it."
Georgina's face twisted. She grabbed her special fertility tonic from the table—the one she'd been forcing on me for years, the one that tasted like metal and made me sick—and shoved it toward me.
"Then drink this and do your duty—"
I took the cup from her hands.
And threw it directly into Jackson's face.
The liquid splashed across his shirt, dripped from his hair. The staff gasped. Georgina made a strangled sound of outrage.
I walked past them all without another word. The silence behind me was more devastating than any scream could have been.
---
That night, I used the master key I'd always possessed but never needed.
Jackson's private study was locked. Off-limits even to me, his mate. He'd said it was pack security. Sensitive documents. I'd respected that boundary for eight years.
The door opened easily under my key.
I found them in the third drawer of his desk, filed under "Estate Planning."
Forged rejection documents with my name. A vial of concentrated wolfsbane in a temperature-controlled case. A legal claim transferring my entire inheritance to Jackson as my marked mate upon my death.
The anniversary pack run was three weeks away.
The wolfsbane dosage was calibrated to kill within minutes.
I sat in his chair in the dark. Pressed two fingers to the mate mark that still burned on my neck. And understood with perfect, crystalline clarity:
The Moon Goddess had given me a gift. And Jackson had engineered it into a murder weapon.
My grief didn't erupt. It didn't shatter.
It calcified into something cold and precise and unstoppable.
I pulled out my phone and made a call I should have made years ago.
"Roland," I said when he answered. "It's time. I'm activating my credentials."
My father's Beta—the man who'd spent eight years in exile protecting my sealed royal authority—exhaled slowly on the other end.
"Yes, Princess," he said. "What are your orders?"
