Phoebe's fingers flew across the tablet screen. Code scrolled past in blurred lines of white and green. The neon pink straw bobbed between her teeth as she chewed, her eyes narrowed in fierce concentration.
"Come on," she muttered. "Open up, you bastard."
I sat across from her in the dim booth, nursing my second whiskey. The ice had melted. I didn't care. My wolf was coiled tight inside me, silent and watchful.
The bar around us was nearly empty. A trucker sat at the counter, hunched over his coffee. The jukebox in the corner played something low and twangy. Outside, gravel crunched as a car pulled away.
Phoebe let out a sharp breath. "Got another folder. 'Personal Messages.' Oh, this is gonna be good."
She tapped the screen. Her face went still.
Then she turned the tablet toward me.
The messages filled the display. Hundreds of them. All between Caden and Macy.
*Can't wait to see you tonight. Wear that black dress I like.*
*You'll be the most beautiful Luna this pack has ever seen.*
*She doesn't understand me the way you do.*
My wolf didn't snarl. She went very, very quiet.
I scrolled down. The messages went back months. Almost a year. Long before the summit. Long before the birthday party.
There were photos too. Macy in his office, perched on the edge of his desk. Macy in his car, laughing at something off-camera. Macy in a restaurant I recognized—the Italian place on the east side of town where Caden had told me he was meeting with the Clearwater Beta.
I kept scrolling.
Then I stopped.
An ultrasound image. Black and white. A tiny curved shape in the center, barely visible.
The label beneath it, written in Caden's own handwriting: *Our future heir.*
My hand didn't shake. I stared at the screen, my breathing slow and even.
Phoebe's voice was soft. "Natalia..."
"Keep going," I said.
She hesitated. Then she opened another folder.
Financial records. Spreadsheets with dates and amounts. Transfers from the Shadowridge Pack treasury account. Two point three million dollars, moved in careful increments over eight months.
The final destination: a property deed. A house on the edge of neutral territory, purchased under the name Garrett Gibson.
Macy's brother. The rogue.
"He bought her brother a house," Phoebe said quietly. "With pack funds."
I took a slow drink. The whiskey didn't burn anymore. It just felt cold.
"What else?"
Phoebe scrolled further. Her jaw tightened. "There's a draft document here. Legal format. It's..."
She trailed off.
I reached across the table and turned the tablet toward me.
A formal mate-rejection document filled the screen. The language was precise, clinical. Standard werewolf legal terminology.
*I, Caden Wallace, Alpha of the Shadowridge Pack, formally reject Natalia Campbell as my fated mate and Luna...*
The date at the top was next week. Three days after the Continental Summit ended.
My wolf finally moved. Not with rage. With something colder.
*He was going to discard us,* she whispered. *Like trash.*
I set the tablet down carefully. My index finger tapped once against the edge—sharp, deliberate.
Phoebe watched me. "What do you want to do?"
I met her eyes. "Download everything. Every message. Every file. Every bank record. Put it on three encrypted drives."
Her grin was feral. "Already started."
---
Two hours later, I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot. Three small drives sat in my lap, each one holding the complete destruction of Caden's carefully constructed lies.
Phoebe had offered to come with me. I'd told her no. I needed to be alone.
My phone buzzed. A text from Caden: *Where are you? We need to discuss the banquet seating arrangements.*
I deleted it without answering.
My wolf stirred. *What now?*
*Now we wait,* I told her. *And we plan.*
I started the car and drove home in silence. The drives stayed in my jacket pocket, a cold, solid weight against my ribs.
---
Four days passed.
I moved through the pack house like a ghost. I attended meetings. I reviewed reports. I smiled when spoken to. No one noticed anything different.
Except my body.
The nausea started on the third morning. I barely made it to the bathroom before I was sick. By the fourth day, the exhaustion was so heavy I could barely lift my head.
I told no one.
But I knew.
---
Evelyn Thorne's clinic sat in the old wing of the pack house, tucked behind the training hall. I waited until late afternoon, when most of the pack was at evening drills, before I slipped inside.
Evelyn looked up from her desk. She was older, her hair streaked with silver, her hands steady and sure. She'd been Shadowridge's healer for thirty years.
"Luna," she said quietly. "What can I do for you?"
I closed the door behind me. "I need an examination. Private."
Her eyes sharpened. She didn't ask questions. She just gestured to the exam table.
Ten minutes later, she set down the test strip and met my gaze.
"You're pregnant," she said simply. "About six weeks."
I nodded slowly. My hand moved to my stomach, pressing flat against the fabric of my shirt.
Evelyn's voice was gentle. "Does the Alpha know?"
"No." My tone was firm. "And he won't. You will tell no one, Evelyn. Do you understand?"
She studied me for a long moment. Then she placed her hand over mine. "On my healer's oath, Luna. Your secret is safe."
I believed her. Evelyn's loyalty had always been to the pack's true heart, not its loudest voice.
I sat there for a long time after she left the room. My hand stayed pressed against my stomach. Beneath my palm, a tiny life grew. Caden's pup.
My wolf whispered, *Ours. Not his. Ours.*
I closed my eyes. The drives in my jacket seemed heavier now. The rejection document. The ultrasound labeled *our future heir*—Macy's pup, not mine.
Caden had already chosen his heir.
So I would choose mine.
My jaw set. My hand curled into a fist against my stomach, protective and fierce.
*This pup will never know his father's name,* I thought. *He'll carry mine. Campbell. Royal blood. Lycan blood.*
*And Caden Wallace will have nothing.*
I stood. My reflection stared back at me from the glass cabinet across the room. My eyes were cold. Calm.
My wolf smiled.
*Good,* she purred. *Now let's burn his world down.*
