Troy started appearing in my work zones three days after the ceremony.
Not by accident. He timed it. The kitchen corridor at seven-thirty a.m., when I was carrying flour sacks from the storage shed. The supply yard at noon, when I was hauling crates of preserved meat for the evening meal prep. Always with Destiny at his side, always positioned where the Omega workers could see and hear.
The first time, I was halfway down the corridor with a sixty-pound flour sack balanced on my shoulder when his voice cut through the morning quiet.
"Destiny, love, did you see the ceremonial photos?" Loud enough to echo. "You looked perfect. Like you were born to stand on that platform."
Destiny's laugh was warm and bright. "Only because you were beside me."
I kept walking. My boots made steady sounds on the stone floor. One step. Another. The flour sack didn't shift.
They were still talking when I reached the kitchen door. Something about the marking ceremony. About how right it felt. I pushed through the door with my shoulder and set the sack down on the prep counter. My hands were steady.
The second time was worse.
I was in the supply yard, stacking crates near the cold storage entrance. The sun was high and hot. Sweat ran down my spine. I'd been working since six a.m. without a break, and my shoulders burned.
Troy's voice came from behind me.
"Charlotte."
I didn't turn. I set down the crate I was holding, straightened, and reached for the next one.
"Charlotte," he said again. This time with the edge. The Alpha-tone.
It rolled over me like a command—the kind of tone that makes lesser wolves drop their eyes and bare their necks. The kind that's supposed to compel obedience at a bone-deep level.
I picked up the next crate. Turned. Met his eyes.
He was standing ten feet away with Destiny tucked under his arm. His expression was casual, almost friendly, but his eyes were calculating. Testing.
"You look better suited to kitchens than ceremonies," he said. Still using the Alpha-tone. "Don't you think?"
The tone pressed against me. I felt it—not as a command, but as pressure, like someone pushing on a door I wasn't planning to open. It slid off.
I set the crate down. Slowly. Deliberately. I looked at him for one full beat. At the mark on Destiny's neck. At the way his hand rested possessively on her shoulder.
Then I walked past him.
Not around. Past. Close enough that my shoulder nearly brushed his. I didn't say a word. Didn't acknowledge the tone. Didn't react.
Behind me, I heard Destiny's sharp intake of breath. Then silence.
I made it three more steps before Troy spoke again. His voice had lost the casual edge.
"Charlotte—"
I kept walking. Across the yard. Through the gate. Into the shadow of the pack house.
My hands were shaking by the time I reached the kitchen. Not from fear. From the effort of not turning around. Of not saying the things I wanted to say. Of keeping my face blank and my stride steady while his Alpha-tone tried and failed to find purchase.
I pressed two fingers to my wrist. Counted. One. Two. Three.
Troy's smile had faltered. I'd seen it in that last second before I turned away. The flicker of uncertainty. The crack in the performance.
Good.
Two days later, Destiny escalated.
I was in the Omega quarters after the evening meal service, washing the kitchen grime from my hands in the small basin, when the door slammed open.
Three wolves entered. Two of Troy's warrior allies—Marcus and Jaden, both built like walls—and Destiny herself. She was wearing a pale blue dress that made her look soft and concerned. Her eyes were wide.
"Search the room," she said quietly.
Marcus moved to my bedroll immediately. Jaden went for the small chest where I kept my spare clothes. I stood by the basin, water dripping from my hands, and watched.
"What are you looking for?" My voice came out flat.
Destiny didn't answer. She was watching Marcus, who was pulling my bedroll apart with methodical efficiency. He lifted the thin mattress. Checked underneath. Ran his hands along the frame.
Then he stopped.
His hand came away holding a small cloth pouch. Dark fabric. Tied with a leather cord.
Destiny's face shifted into an expression of horrified realization. "No," she whispered. "Charlotte, please tell me that's not—"
Marcus opened the pouch. The scent hit me immediately. Bitter. Toxic. Unmistakable.
Wolfsbane.
Destiny took a step back, her hand pressed to her mouth. "How could you?" Her voice broke. "After everything the pack has done for you—"
"I've never seen that before," I said.
Jaden moved to my side. His hand closed around my upper arm. Not gently.
"You're coming with us," he said.
Destiny was already moving toward the door, her steps quick and urgent. "We need to tell the Alpha. Now. This is—" Her voice caught. "This is conspiracy. With rogues. She's a danger to everyone."
Marcus sealed the pouch and held it like evidence. Like proof.
Jaden pulled me toward the door. I didn't resist. I counted my pulse. Four. Five. Six.
By the time we reached the Alpha's hall, a crowd had gathered. Word travels fast in a pack. Omega workers. Warriors. Elders. They lined the corridor, watching as Jaden marched me through.
The tribunal convened in the main hall within the hour.
I stood in the center of the stone circle. The Alpha sat in his chair on the raised platform. The pack elders flanked him. Troy stood to the right, his face grave. Destiny stood beside him, her hand clutched in his, her eyes red like she'd been crying.
Marcus stepped forward and placed the wolfsbane pouch on the evidence table.
The Alpha's voice was cold. "Charlotte Youngblood. You stand accused of conspiring with rogues and endangering pack safety. The evidence has been presented. How do you answer?"
I looked at the pouch. At Destiny's tear-streaked face. At Troy's carefully neutral expression.
Then I looked at the Alpha.
"I demand a scent tribunal," I said.
The hall went silent.
The Alpha's eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Pack law," I said. My voice was steady. Clear. "Any accused wolf has the right to demand scent verification of evidence in cases involving conspiracy or treason. I invoke that right."
Destiny's face went pale.
"You want us to scent-test the pouch," the Alpha said slowly.
"Yes." I met his eyes. "Every wolf in this room can do it. If I handled that wolfsbane, my scent will be on it. If I didn't—" I paused. "Then someone else's will."
The Alpha looked at the elders. At Troy. At Destiny, whose hand had gone rigid in Troy's grip.
Then he gestured to the Gamma. "Bring the pouch forward. We'll test it now."
