Felicity's text came at three in the afternoon: *Ridge lot. Now.*
I left the packhouse without explanation. Told my assistant I needed air. Drove the winding road up to the ridge where the cell signal was strongest and the trees blocked the view from below.
Her car was already there, engine off. I parked beside her and got out. The wind was sharp this high up, carrying the scent of pine and distant snow. She stood at the edge of the lot, two manila folders in her hands.
She didn't say hello. Just held them out.
"Both came through this morning," she said. "I wanted you to read them away from the packhouse."
I took the folders. They were heavier than they should have been.
"Which one first?" I asked.
She looked at me for a long moment. "Doesn't matter. They both say the same thing."
I opened the thinner folder first. Blood-lineage results. The language was clinical, precise. Genetic markers. Allele frequencies. Probability calculations rendered in percentages that left no room for doubt.
*Subject A (Lina Snyder) and Subject B (Emilia Jordan): No biological relationship detected. Probability of maternity: 0.00%.*
I read it twice. My hands didn't shake. My pulse didn't spike. I just stood there, holding a piece of paper that confirmed what my wolf had been trying to tell me for nine years.
Emilia wasn't mine.
I closed the folder and opened the second one.
The clinic records were thicker. Invoices. Procedure logs. Dr. Owen Crane's private notation system, handwritten in the margins of official documents. Felicity had highlighted the relevant sections in yellow.
*Patient: Lina Snyder. Delivery: 11:47 PM. Complications: Umbilical cord prolapse, fetal distress.*
*Outcome: Stillborn. Female. Cord compression, anoxic injury. Time of death: 11:52 PM.*
I stopped reading. Pressed my fingertips against my wrist. Counted.
Ten. Twenty. Thirty.
At forty, I kept reading.
*Payment received: $200,000. Offshore account, routing number [redacted]. Source: Ryder Jordan.*
*Private log entry, Dr. O. Crane: "Snyder pup—stillborn. Cord complications. Replacement arranged per Alpha's directive. Body cremated. No family notification. Subject unaware."*
I read those words three times.
My daughter died. My real daughter. The one I carried for nine months, the one I felt move inside me, the one I pushed into the world while Ryder held my hand and told me I was doing great—she died.
And they didn't tell me.
They gave me someone else's child instead. Aria's child. And I loved her. I loved her with everything I had, every instinct, every piece of my heart. I stayed up through fevers and nightmares. I taught her to shift, to read, to be kind. I braided her hair and kissed her scraped knees and told her she was perfect.
And she wasn't even mine.
I closed the folder. Set both of them on the hood of Felicity's car. My hands were still steady. My breathing was still even.
"Lina," Felicity said quietly.
I looked at her. She was watching me the way you watch someone standing too close to a cliff edge.
"I'm fine," I said.
She didn't believe me. I didn't believe me either. But I was still standing, still breathing, still functional. That was enough.
"What else do we need?" I asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"To finish this. What else do we need?"
She studied my face for a long moment. Then she reached into her car and pulled out her leather folio. Flipped it open. Showed me a printout covered in highlighted account numbers and transaction dates.
"I traced the offshore account from the clinic payment," she said. "It's part of a network. Ryder's been siphoning Silvercrest resources for years. Funds allocated for border defense, infrastructure upgrades—all of it diverted. Some went to the Bellevue den. Some went to Aria directly. And some went to Elder Marcus Webb and Beta Daniel Reeves."
"Webb and Reeves," I repeated.
"They've been voting to dilute your Luna authority in council sessions. Procedural changes, budget reallocations, jurisdiction disputes—all designed to strip your power incrementally." She tapped the printout. "They've been on Ryder's payroll for at least three years. Maybe longer."
I looked down at the numbers. Dates. Amounts. A financial architecture of betrayal, mapped out in black and white.
"How much total?" I asked.
"Close to two million. Maybe more, depending on what else I find."
Two million dollars. Stolen from the pack I'd helped build. Used to fund a secret life with a woman I'd saved. To bribe the wolves who were supposed to protect our laws.
I pressed my fingertips against my wrist again. Counted to sixty.
When I looked up, Felicity was still watching me.
"This is enough," she said quietly. "Surveillance footage. Blood-lineage results. Clinic records. Financial paper trail. This is more than enough, Lina. We can take this to the Lycan King's tribunal. We can end this."
I picked up the folders from the hood of her car. Held them against my chest.
"Then let's end it," I said.
She nodded once. Sharp. Certain. "The Pack Alliance Summit is in two weeks. Every Alpha in the region will be there. Lycan King's emissaries too."
"Two weeks," I repeated.
"Can you hold it together that long?"
I looked out over the ridge, down at the territory spread below. My pack. My home. The place I'd poured a decade of my life into building.
The place where my mate had buried my daughter in silence and handed me someone else's child.
"Yes," I said. "I can hold it together."
Felicity closed her folio. "Then we'd better get to work."
I got back in my car. Set the folders on the passenger seat. Drove down the ridge road toward the packhouse, where Ryder was probably in his office, where Emilia was probably doing homework, where Aria was probably planning tomorrow's schedule.
Everything looked normal.
But in two weeks, I was going to burn it all down.
