The key slipped from my trembling fingers as Killian's grip tightened around my wrist, the metal clattering against the hardwood floor like a death knell.
"You thought I didn't know what you were planning?" His laugh was cold, cutting through the study's warmth like a blade. "Serena told me everything—about your phone call that night. Your voice was too controlled, too calm. Not like a woman who'd truly broken."
Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." The word cracked like a whip. He dragged me away from the coat rack, my feet stumbling over the Persian rug. "But I let you come back anyway. Do you know why?"
He shoved me hard, and I crashed to my knees beside his desk, the impact sending shockwaves through my already battered body. The fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across his face, transforming his familiar features into something monstrous.
"Because I wanted to watch." He crouched down, his fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to look at him. "I wanted to see the exact moment you realized that no matter what you do, no matter how clever you think you are, you can't change the outcome."
My breath came in short, sharp gasps. The study—once my sanctuary, the place where Killian and I had planned our future together—felt like a tomb closing in around me.
He released my chin and moved to the safe behind his desk. I heard the electronic beep of the lock disengaging, the soft whisper of the heavy door swinging open. When he turned back, he held a manila folder in his hands.
"Look at this."
The folder hit the floor in front of me with a soft thud. My hands shook as I reached for it, dread pooling in my stomach like poison. The papers inside were medical records—my medical records.
But not just any records. These were detailed reports of my prenatal care, complete with prescription logs and medication schedules. My eyes scanned the pages, searching for something, anything that would make sense of why he was showing me this.
Then I found it.
Prenatal supplement modification: Wolfsbane extract, 0.3mg daily dosage. Prescribed for pregnancy termination in werewolf subjects.
The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. At the bottom of the page, two signatures stared back at me like accusations.
Prescribing physician: Dr. Serena Vale
Authorizing Alpha: Killian Ashford
The folder slipped from my nerveless fingers. "It was you..." The words barely made it past my lips. "You knew. From the beginning, you knew—you authorized this prescription—"
"That child was a threat." Killian stood, towering over me like a judge pronouncing sentence. "I needed a purebred heir, not some mongrel bastard born from damaged goods like you. Serena's child carries true Alpha bloodline."
The room spun around me. Every tender moment during my pregnancy, every time he'd placed his hand on my belly and smiled, every promise he'd made about our future—all of it had been a lie. He'd been planning my baby's death from the moment of conception.
"You never wanted our child." The realization hit me like a physical blow. "This marriage, everything—it was all a trap."
"Finally catching on?" His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "I needed a Luna to maintain appearances, someone the pack would accept. But I also needed to ensure the bloodline remained pure. Serena understood that. She's always understood what was necessary for the pack's future."
I collapsed forward, my forehead nearly touching the cold hardwood. Sobs tore from my chest, raw and broken. But even as grief overwhelmed me, my hand moved in the darkness. When I'd fallen, I'd knocked against a lower drawer of the safe—and papers had scattered across the floor behind the desk.
My fingers found them, crumpling the edges as I tried to gather them without drawing attention. Through my tears, I caught glimpses of letterheads, dates, financial transactions. Northern Ridge Pack. Border patrol schedules. Payment confirmations.
The evidence of his betrayal was literally at my fingertips.
"The beautiful thing about wolfsbane," Killian continued, apparently enjoying my breakdown, "is that it mimics natural miscarriage. No one questions it. Just another tragedy, another weak Luna who couldn't carry to term."
I forced my sobs to grow louder, more theatrical, while my hand continued to work in the shadows. Three documents. Four. Each one potentially damning enough to bring down his entire operation.
"And now you'll spend the rest of your pathetic life knowing the truth," he said. "Knowing that your own mate orchestrated the death of your child, and there's nothing you can do about it."
The study door exploded inward.
The heavy oak crashed against the wall with a sound like thunder, and suddenly the room was filled with a presence so commanding that even Killian stepped back. Ryker Kane stood in the doorway, his massive frame backlit by the corridor lights. Behind him, I could see the shapes of his Beta warriors, their eyes glowing in the darkness.
But it was Ryker's eyes that held my attention—those burning crimson orbs that seemed to see straight through to my soul. They swept the room, taking in every detail: me kneeling on the floor, the scattered papers, Killian's guilty stance beside the open safe.
"Ashford." Ryker's voice was ice given sound, each syllable sharp enough to cut. "The Council has received reports of treasonous activities. Specifically, intelligence trading with Northern Ridge Pack."
Killian's face went pale. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Ryker stepped into the room, and I felt the temperature drop several degrees. His presence was overwhelming, predatory in a way that made my wolf whimper and cower. "We have evidence of financial transactions, territorial intelligence exchanges, and conspiracy to incite inter-pack warfare."
His gaze fell on me then, and something shifted in those red depths. Not pity—Ryker Kane didn't do pity. But recognition. Understanding.
"However," he continued, never taking his eyes off me, "the Council requires a witness. Someone who can testify to the full extent of these crimes."
Slowly, deliberately, he extended his hand toward me. The gesture was identical to that night in the dungeon—the same offer, the same choice. But this time, I understood what he was really offering.
Not rescue. Not salvation.
Revenge.
"This time," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise that made my blood sing with anticipation, "will you accept, little wolf?"
