Chapter 2

The pain did not announce itself.

Had this been nothing more than betrayal from a childhood friend, I would have told myself it was survivable.

What truly broke me was that Lucien crossed the line of friendship, making me believe it was love. That night, he took me to a werewolf bar in neutral territory to celebrate the transfer.

The lights were low, the music pulsing, pheromones thick in the air, and for the first time in years, I let myself really look at him—not as the boy I grew up with, but as a man standing close enough to touch.

My wolf had awakened, yet the Moon had given me no destined mate. I told myself I didn’t need one, that love could be built, not assigned.

So when Lucien kissed me, I asked the question I had been avoiding for years.

“Lucien,” I said quietly, my heart racing, “what are we now?”

He smiled, warm and indulgent, kissed my forehead like a promise, and answered without answering at all.

“What else could we be?”

Cheers exploded around us. People celebrated us.

Two days later, I learned how laughable that belief was.

When the truth reached me, I laughed through the tears.

So that vague reassurance had never been love, only a leash—something Lucien used to ensure I left quietly and without resistance.

Lucien had made one fatal miscalculation.

He had mistaken proximity for equality.

He was the illegitimate son of the old Alpha of the Silvercrest Pack—tolerated, occasionally indulged, but never formally acknowledged. His place in the pack rested on fragile goodwill and unfinished promises.

I, on the other hand, was the only daughter of the Bloodmoon Pack, raised not for affection, but for inheritance.

People liked to believe we stood side by side because we had grown up together. In truth, we had never stood on the same ground.

We were mismatched.

The transfer application shook in my hands, soaked through with tears until the ink bled into something ugly and illegible.

It didn’t matter.

Paper could be replaced.

The Bloodmoon Pack had never lacked alternatives.

I printed a new form. When I reached the line asking for my destination academy, I paused and called my mother.

“Mom,” I said quietly, “the overseas academy you mentioned before— which one was it?”

She answered at once. No surprise. Only understanding.

“Yes,” I added calmly. “I’ll go alone.”

By the time I finished the new application.

Then came a knock.

I lived alone, and my door was sealed with a Bloodmoon scent ward—one that only a handful of people could pass without resistance.

When I opened it, Lucien stood there.

“You didn’t come to the farewell gathering,” he said softly. “I was worried.”

“I’m not going,” I replied evenly. “I’m not feeling well.”

I moved to close the door.

That was when I sensed the second presence.

Olivia Miller.

She stood half a step behind Lucien. The moment our eyes met, her body tensed, shoulders drawing inward as if she expected my dominance to press down on her.

Lucien noticed immediately and pulled her into his arms with instinctive ease, his aura flaring outward in protection.

“Vivienne,” he said quietly, displeased, “you startled Olivia.”

I felt nothing. Only a dull sense of repetition.

“I’ve said before,” I replied calmly, “that I don’t like people bringing others into my space.”

Lucien frowned. “Olivia isn’t an outsider,” he said firmly. “She came because she was worried about you.”

Before I could respond, Olivia spoke first, her voice trembling, eyes already glassy.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know I don’t belong among high-blooded packs like yours. I shouldn’t have come.”

She lowered her head, fingers twisting together.

“My parents gave their lives during the border purge. That’s the only reason I was granted a special admission to the academy. I know I’m… different.”

Lucien’s expression darkened as he turned to me.

“Vivienne, you’re bullying Olivia even though her parents died protecting the pack. You should reflect on yourself!”

Olivia tugged gently at his sleeve, the picture of restraint and forgiveness.

“Lucien, please don’t argue,” she whispered. “After all, you and Vivienne grew up together. Someone like me could never stand beside that.”

“That’s enough,” Lucien said at once, cupping her face with unmistakable tenderness. “You should take a good look at yourself.”

Then he looked back at me, his gaze sharp, distant.

“Olivia isn’t feeling well. I’m taking her back.”

He paused briefly, then added, “Make sure your transfer application is properly sealed.”

I nodded.

After the door closed, I stood there for a moment—then lifted my wrist and pressed my thumb lightly against the scent node embedded in the frame.

The Bloodmoon ward shifted.

Lucien’s scent authorization dissolved.

He was right. I should reflect—reflect on why I ever let myself fall for someone so false.