The silence of the pack house at 3:00 AM was heavy, pressing against my eardrums like water. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I crept through the service corridors, my bare feet making no sound on the cold stone. I was a ghost in my own home, an Omega in a burlap sack where I should have been Luna.
I needed paper. Just a few scraps. The formula for the cure was burning a hole in my mind, a complex chemical chain that could save our species, and I was terrified that the trauma of the last few hours would make me forget it. I pushed open the heavy oak door of the library, the scent of old parchment and leather washing over me—a scent that used to mean safety.
Moonlight filtered through the high windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I rushed to the nearest desk, my hands trembling as I snatched a piece of stationary and a fountain pen. The nib scratched against the paper, the ink flowing black and permanent as I frantically scribbled symbols and measurements.
*C17H21NO4... stabilize with Wolfsbane derivative...*
"Diligent little worker bee, aren't we?"
The voice came from the shadows, smooth and cold as ice. I froze, the pen slipping from my fingers to clatter onto the desk. Francesca stepped out from behind a row of bookshelves, her silk nightgown flowing around her like a mist. She wasn't smiling. Her expression was flat, predatory.
"What are you doing here?" I whispered, clutching the paper to my chest.
"Watching you," she purred, walking closer. She picked up the pen I had dropped, twirling it between her fingers. "You really think scribbling on fancy paper is going to save you? Or them?"
"It's the cure," I said, my voice gaining a fraction of strength. "For the Blight. You wouldn't understand."
She laughed, a low, throaty sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Oh, I understand perfectly, Helena. I understand that you've spent three years trying to fix what my people worked so hard to break."
My breath hitched. "Your people?"
Francesca leaned in, her eyes flashing a unnatural shade of red before settling back to brown. "Blood Fang sends their regards. We nearly had the cure destroyed at the source, but you... you just had to be the hero."
The room spun. "You're a Rogue," I breathed, the horror of it settling in my gut like lead. "You're the spy."
"Spy, saboteur, assassin," she shrugged, examining her manicured nails. "Labels are so boring. I prefer 'architect.' I designed the ambush that killed Greyson's brother. Did you know he begged for his life? Not for himself, but for his 'mate.' For me."
"You monster," I hissed, stepping back. "And the baby?"
"A little Rogue witchcraft goes a long way," she smirked, patting her flat stomach. "Scent masking is child's play. There is no pup, Helena. Just like there is no future for this pack."
"I have to tell him," I gasped, turning toward the door. "Greyson has to know!"
"Go ahead," she challenged, not moving an inch. "Who do you think he'll believe? The traitorous whore who abandoned him? Or the grieving mother of his brother's child?"
Before I could respond, she moved with terrifying speed. She snatched a silver letter opener from the desk. I flinched, expecting her to strike me, but instead, she slashed the blade across her own forearm.
Blood welled up, dark and rich in the moonlight.
"AAAAHH! GREYSON! HELP ME!"
Her scream shattered the quiet of the library, shrill and agonizing. She threw the letter opener at my feet and collapsed, clutching her bleeding arm, tears instantly streaming down her face.
The library doors burst open with a crash that shook the floorboards. Greyson stood there, chest heaving, his eyes wild. He took in the scene in a heartbeat—Francesca on the floor, bleeding, and me standing over her, the 'weapon' at my feet.
"She tried to kill the baby!" Francesca sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She said my baby was a mistake! She tried to cut it out of me!"
Greyson's roar was not human. It was the sound of a beast in pure, unadulterated fury.
"NO!" I screamed, raising my hands. "Greyson, look at the wound! She did it herself! She's a Rogue!"
He didn't hear me. He didn't see me. He only saw a threat to his family. He crossed the room in a blur of motion. His hand connected with my face with the force of a falling tree.
Pain exploded in my jaw. I flew backward, crashing into a bookshelf. Heavy volumes rained down on me, bruising my ribs and shoulders. I tasted copper as blood filled my mouth.
"You..." Greyson snarled, looming over me, his aura suffocating the room. "I thought exile was enough. I thought stripping your rank was mercy. But you are a monster."
"Greyson, please," I choked out, spitting blood onto the hardwood. "Ask her about the Blood Fang. Ask her about your brother!"
"Do not speak of him!" he bellowed, grabbing me by the throat and lifting me off the ground. My feet kicked uselessly at the air. "You tried to kill his pup. You tried to kill the last piece of him I have left."
He threw me toward the guards who had just rushed in. "Take her to the dungeon."
The guards hesitated. The dungeon was for enemies of the state, for Rogues who were to be executed. No pack member had been sent there in decades.
"NOW!" Greyson commanded, his Alpha voice cracking the plaster on the ceiling.
They dragged me down. Down past the wine cellar, past the storage rooms, into the damp, lightless belly of the earth. The air here smelled of rust and old fear. They shoved me into a cell carved from the bedrock, water dripping somewhere in the darkness.
Greyson followed, his face a mask of stone. He pointed to the wall.
"Chain her."
The guards clamped heavy iron shackles around my wrists. As the metal clicked shut, a searing heat scorched my skin.
"Silver," I gasped, pulling against them. The burn was immediate and agonizing, like holding dry ice. "Greyson, it burns!"
"Good," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. He stepped into the cell, looking down at me with disgust. "Your aura... it makes me sick. It still feels noble. It still feels like a Luna's. But it's a lie. Just like you."
He turned to the guards. "Leave us. I need to ensure she can't hurt anyone else."
As the heavy iron door clanged shut, leaving us alone in the flickering torchlight, I looked at the man who was supposed to be my soulmate.
"I am going to dampen you, Helena," he whispered, reaching into his pocket. "I am going to make sure you never have the strength to lift a hand against my pack again."
