The she-pup who smiled so prettily and spoke so softly and always, always found a reason to be near Dorian. The pack-warriors doted on her. The den-keepers cooked her favorite meals without being asked. Even the Beta spoke of her with a gentleness he reserved for no one else. She had wrapped the entire Nightveil Pack around her delicate finger.
But Lavinia, like me, had never trusted her. Not once. Not from the very first day Ciara had been brought through the territory gates as a frightened twelve-year-old, clutching her dead mother's moonstone pendant and weeping, her thin scent of honeysuckle already laced with something faintly spoiled.
"That injury is a fake." Lavinia's voice was flat, certain, the voice of a she-wolf stating a fact as plain as the turn of the moon. "Convenient timing, wouldn't you say?"
My heart hammered against my ribs, and somewhere beneath it my wolf lifted her head, ears pricking at the words like they were the first true thing she'd heard in days. It was not just me. I was not paranoid. I was not the jealous, bitter she-wolf the whispers down the den corridors made me out to be.
"You think she did this on purpose?"
Lavinia scoffed. The sound was quiet, almost elegant, but it carried the weight of absolute contempt.
"Oh, child. Of course she did. She has been playing this game for years, pulling Dorian closer every chance she gets. Every scraped knee. Every tearful confession. Every little crisis that requires the Alpha's personal attention. You think she is helpless?" Lavinia leaned forward, and her dark eyes burned, a flicker of old amber rising in them. "I see right through her. I have buried two mates and outlived three challenges, and I have seen she-wolves like Ciara Thornwood my entire life. They are the most dangerous kind. The kind who smile while they slip the knife between your ribs."
I clenched my fists in my lap. My nails bit into my palms, and for one breath I felt them threaten to lengthen.
"Then how come Dorian doesn't see it?"
"Because that boy has been blinded since the day she arrived. His father's dying Moon Oath, the debt of honor to Rosalind Thornwood, it clouds everything. He confuses obligation with affection, and Ciara knows exactly how to keep the confusion alive." Lavinia's mouth thinned. "But you know the truth. So you must be strong enough to face it."
I nodded. The motion felt mechanical, hollow. My stomach churned. I did not want to be strong. I wanted Dorian to walk through that door, take my face in his hands, and tell me he was sorry. I wanted him to make it right. I wanted him to choose me. Beneath my skin, my wolf paced and would not settle.
"I'm sure you'll think of something. I know you are strong and wise, Neva." Lavinia rose from the chair with a grace that defied her years. She crossed the room and pulled me into an embrace. Her arms were thin but firm, and she carried the scent of aged oak and dried lavender, of beeswax and cold hearthstone. "Do not let this Pack break you. You are worth more than they know."
She released me, smoothed the front of her dress, and left without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence filled the room like floodwater.
My communicator vibrated against the duvet, and I flinched. I crossed to the bed and picked it up. A message from Ivar Blackthorn, the Beta. My childhood packmate. The wolf who had grown up beside Dorian and me, who had stood at Dorian's right hand since the day the old Alpha was laid beneath the earth.
"Neva, I heard the news. Don't be too disappointed. Dorian had to do this. It's his obligation as Alpha of the Pack. He needs to ensure the safety of everyone under his protection."
"Yeah, right!" The words tore out of me, loud and raw in the empty room. My wolf snarled low at the back of my throat. I tossed the communicator back onto the bed without typing a reply. Ivar and his endless excuses. Ivar, who always found a way to make Dorian's choices sound reasonable, who always smoothed the edges until the blade didn't look like a blade anymore.
Two minutes later, the pack messages buzzed again. I picked up the communicator against my better judgment. Ciara had posted more crystal-captures. Dorian sitting at her bedside, spooning broth into her mouth as though she were an invalid. Dorian pressing the back of his hand to her forehead to check her temperature. Dorian adjusting the wrapping on her ankle with the careful, focused attention of a wolf tending to something precious and breakable.
As if she were his mate. As if she were the she-wolf he was meant to take in the Mating Ceremony today.
