C1

"I am deeply sorry, Lardon Vexley. You have completely missed the optimal moon cycle for the marrow surgery. The silver-rot has already reached your ribs."

My claws tore into the diagnostic parchment as the healer’s words landed like silver blades. Pain flared in my chest, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness swallowing me whole.

I dialed Ronzek Hale with shaking fingers. The pack-bound secretary’s voice crackled through after endless rings, dripping with elitism. "What is it, Lardon? The Alpha-Prime is occupied."

"Is Draven in the territory?" My throat burned. "I need to speak with him. Now."

"Alpha-Prime Calder is handling matters elsewhere tonight," Ronzek snapped.

"Please… just pass him the line—"

A soft, purring male voice cut in from the background. "Draven, what is this secret gathering? Why have you brought me to the pack borders?"

"Cast your gaze toward the summit," Draven’s deep rumble answered, warm in a way he had never once offered me.

The line went dead.

Boom.

A massive explosion of crimson and gold pack-flares lit up the midnight sky over Frostveil Peak, twisting into the sacred lunar crest—a spectacle reserved for legends and costing a fortune in moonstone.

Lower-ranking wolves spilled out of the clinic, gasping in awe.

"Alpha-Prime Calder just ignited the sacred crest for his chosen mate’s birth-night!"

"That’s Mireya Duskrell! Moon Scholar Rank from Shadowpine Lunar Institute. Brilliant, devastatingly handsome, legendary bloodline."

"No wonder the Alpha honors him so fiercely."

I watched the burning embers fall like dying stars. The shredded diagnostic paper slipped from my numb fingers, scattering into the dirt. I turned my back on the light.

The grand stone lodge felt colder than the grave that night.

Draven stepped through the heavy oak doors, winter and ozone clinging to him. His amber eyes flicked over me. "Why are you out of your room?"

I sat on the wooden bench, ribs screaming with every breath. "Sleep escapes me. I visited the pack elders at the clinic today."

He tossed his leather coat onto the furs, indifferent. "Verdict?"

"A minor ailment," I lied, voice soft. "They said rest and monitor the shifts."

He had promised to come with me. Yesterday. Then Mireya returned for his birth-night, and Draven vanished to light up the entire mountain for another male.

Draven closed the distance, locking powerful arms around my waist and pulling my back against his chest. His hot breath branded my neck. "The lunar alignment is perfect for breeding tonight."

His words should have stirred hope. Instead, the pungent cedarwood and musk scent of Mireya clung to his tunic like a brand.

Three years of this secret bond. Three years of being his hidden shadow. Three years of him only touching me when the pack matrons pressured him for an heir.

Something inside me finally snapped.

"Draven," I said, eyes flashing gold, "does it not concern you that your chosen mate might catch another male’s scent on you?"

He stared down at me, then let out a harsh, mocking chuckle. "Why should I care? You demanded our bond stay secret. You chose to be the shadow placeholder. What right do you have to question where I warm my bed?"

The words gutted me.

He released me. "Mireya’s sire is fading. His final wish is to see his son claimed and protected by true Alpha power. Stay in your place. Keep the illusion of the lodge master alive. I won’t trouble your bed tonight."

He spoke of his betrayal like it was diplomacy.

As his stallion thundered out of the courtyard moments later—racing back to Mireya—I stood paralyzed, then laughed. A broken, hollow sound.

I splashed freezing water on my face, then opened the secure link to the rogue pack lawyer I had contacted weeks ago.

"Lord Vexley, demands?" the reply flashed. "Land? Coin? Retribution grounds?"

"Nothing," I typed back coldly. "I want absolutely nothing."

The dissolution papers arrived within the hour. I signed them with steady hands, no tears left to shed. Then I packed my meager belongings.

At the threshold, I looked back once at the home I had silently tended for three years.

I stepped into the night and never looked back.

By dawn, the signed papers were delivered straight to Ronzek’s desk at the Calder Dominion fortress. I had already resigned my position in the Mooncrest Relations Division—the only place Draven had ever allowed me near his world.

There was nothing left for me here.

But there was somewhere I needed to be.

Bloodmoon Iron Hold.

My palms left sweat marks on the steering wheel as the silver-reinforced gates ground open. Three years. Aziel Crowbane was finally walking free.

He was my father’s adopted son, raised with me in the brutal Vexley pack. In a family built on cruelty, Aziel was the only one who ever protected me. He took the lashes meant for me, kept every promise, and swore the world could turn its fangs on me—he would bleed first.

I rubbed bark against my pale cheeks to fake color, swallowed another dose of wolfsbane duller, and pulled my hood low.

A massive, broad-shouldered warrior strode through the gates—dark leather, roughly shorn hair, amber eyes scanning with lethal intensity. The moment his gaze locked on me, the air left my lungs.

"Aziel…"

My legs moved before my mind could stop them. I ran toward him, ruined ribs burning, heart hammering violently.

He dropped his canvas sack. Strong arms caught me as I crashed into his chest, pulling me tight against solid muscle and familiar scent—leather, wild pine, and safety.

"Lardon," he breathed, voice rough from years of silence. One large hand cradled the back of my head. "You waited."

I buried my face in his neck, clinging desperately. For the first time in years, the silver-rot pain felt distant.

But I knew the truth: I was dying. And Draven Calder had just lost his convenient shadow.

Aziel pulled back slightly, amber eyes narrowing as he studied my face. His thumb brushed my cheek. "You’re burning up. What aren’t you telling me?"