“She demanded it,” he said, too fast, as if speed could make it cleaner. “A month where I stand beside her. Where I act as her mate in the pack’s eyes. It’s a deal, Eirlys. A sacrifice. I’m doing it for you.”
I swallowed pain like it was water. “You’re going to pretend to be hers.”
“Yes,” he said. Then, softer: “You’re my Luna. You’re my life. I can’t lose you.”
My laugh came out wrong—thin and broken. “Then why does it feel like you didn’t hate saying yes?”
He didn’t answer.
I could hear him breathing on the other end, and that quiet—his hesitation—was louder than any confession.
Because I remembered.
I remembered Kaelrion in the early days, when he’d still been learning how to be gentle, when the pack feared him and I didn’t. He’d been cruel to everyone else—sharp commands, colder punishments—but with me, he’d softened like a blade warmed in a forge.
When my wolf had first faltered, he’d carried me across half the territory without letting me touch the ground. When my bones had ached so badly I couldn’t sleep, he’d left his war council at midnight and returned with herbs and warm broth, glaring at anyone who dared look surprised. When I’d mentioned a silver comb once, only once, he’d brought me a handcrafted piece the next week, as if hunting down artisans was as natural as hunting prey.
And when Master Vaelorian had spoken the first warning months ago—moon-blood instability—Kaelrion had held my face between his hands like he was afraid I’d disappear.
“If you stop fighting, I stop,” he’d said. “Don’t leave me.”
He’d gone everywhere after that. Hidden healers. Rogue witches. Forbidden markets that traded in artifacts the packs outlawed. He’d offered gold, favors, threats. He’d even offered his own blood, though we both knew it wouldn’t match.
I’d caught him once in his study, staring at a blank page with a quill shaking in his grip, writing a will he couldn’t finish.
He hadn’t looked ashamed. He’d looked terrified.
So why did my chest feel like it was splitting now?
And why was Vaelis always there—in the cracks, in the delays, in the small betrayals that were easy to excuse until they stacked too high?
She had promised the blood-binding before. More than once. Then she’d found a reason to postpone.
First, she claimed her wolf was “too weak” from stress. Kaelrion stayed with her through the night, leaving me alone in our den with my fever and my pride.
Second, she said she was having “night terrors.” He escorted her to the healers as if she were the one dying.
Third, she announced she was “sick,” and on the same day I’d collapsed after a failed tonic, the sentries told me the Alpha had ridden out to her cabin.
Now she wanted something new.
A lunar month.
A public claim.
A photo with his hand in hers, her caption rubbing salt into my ribs.
“Kaelrion,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. It came out thin anyway. “Offer her gold. Offer her lands. Offer her anything. I don’t care how much. Just—don’t stand beside her like that. Don’t give her the title.”
Silence.
I heard his breathing again, slow and careful, like he was bracing for my anger.
Then he said quietly, “We already owe her a lot. I don’t want to pressure her. She’s helping you. We should be grateful.”
Something snapped behind my ribs.
“Owe her?” I whispered. “And what do you owe me, Kaelrion? Five years? A bond sworn under the Moon? Or are those debts too easy to forget?”
He didn’t answer.
Then—faintly—another voice drifted through the line, soft and sweet in the exact way poison can be sweet.
“Kaelrion,” Vaelis said, dragging his name as if she owned it. “I cut my palm. It stings. Come here.”
His tone changed instantly, sharp with concern I hadn’t heard aimed at me in weeks.
“I’ll call you later,” he said quickly. “She needs me.”
And the call ended.
Just like that.
I stood there on the lodge steps, the cold gnawing through my boots, staring at my dead screen as if I could revive it by will alone. It felt like something inside me had finally caved in—like I’d been hollowed out and there was nothing left to protect.
I turned slowly and walked back inside.
Master Vaelorian was still there, sorting herbs with calm hands, as if he hadn’t just handed me a death sentence.
I forced air into my lungs. “If I don’t get the binding,” I asked, voice barely louder than the crackle of the hearth, “how long do I have?”
He didn’t sugarcoat it.
“A month,” he said. “Maybe less.”
I nodded once, because falling apart in front of the healer would not make me stronger.
“I understand,” I said quietly.
Then, before my courage could flee, I added, “I won’t do it.”
His hands stilled. “Eirlys—”
“I won’t beg,” I corrected, the words scraping my throat raw. “I won’t survive by crawling for someone else’s mercy while my mate plays husband to a woman who wants me dead.”
Master Vaelorian’s gaze softened with something like sorrow, but he didn’t argue. He’d seen too many wolves die from sickness.
And too many die from love.
That evening, I returned to Blackthorn Hall.
The sky was bruised purple and gold, the kind of sunset that made the pack lands look almost gentle. For a moment, I let myself believe the world was offering me one last kindness. One last quiet breath before the storm.
The manor rose ahead—stone and iron and old money, the Alpha’s home carved into the bones of the forest. Torches burned along the entryway. Sentries watched me pass, their expressions carefully blank.
No one greeted me as Luna.
No one said, Welcome home.
I reached the doors and pushed them open.
Warmth spilled out, carrying the scent of wine… and something sharper beneath it.
Perfume. Sweet and bright and entirely wrong in my home.
Then I heard laughter—soft, feminine, pleased.
My stomach dropped, as if my body recognized betrayal before my mind could give it a name.
I stepped inside.
And whatever was left of me—whatever I’d been holding together through sheer will—began to break.
