Chapter 2

Lois’s world stopped. Her lungs forgot how to fill as she watched the man who had always been her last, impossible hope — the Alpha, her Mate — declare someone else. Her heart stuttered, then tore.

Can he not scent me? she thought, panic hot behind her ribs. How could this be? What had her stepsister done to her? At the corner of Cassandra’s mouth she thought she saw a smug, satisfied curl.

“M…at…e,” Lois choked out, the word breaking on her lips. Tears blurred her vision; when she tried to speak the sound that came out was nothing but a ragged sob. Her face had already swollen from crying, eyes raw and puffy.

“I, Karl Silvermane, Alpha King of the Hale Kingdom — tonight, claiming Marrok Lo—”

“Cassandra Banes! Cassandra Banes it is!” Sandra cut him off, voice loud and flat. Heads swivelled; Karl’s men exchanged quick, puzzled glances.

“My King! I’m your mate— I am Marrok Lois! Can you not scent me? Sandra is not your mate. She never could be!” Lois ran, flinging herself at him, clinging as if his weight could anchor the world.

Karl’s posture shifted. For a sliver of a second his eyes traced Lois’s face — ocean-deep, rimmed with trembling lashes, tear-filled and pleading. Something unreadable flickered across him.

“She’s only jealous,” Lady Vetta intervened quickly, venom dressed as concern. “Lois has always been spiteful and dramatic. Sandra is gentle and proper — the perfect companion.”

Karl’s hands moved with a slow, deliberate cruelty. He pushed Lois away.

“Take Lois to her room,” Lady Vetta ordered, voice sharp. Two servants seized Lois’s arms; she fought, voice cracking into protest, but their grip was iron.

“It’s the Moon Goddess’s gift,” Lady Vetta continued, undeterred. “Sandra’s scent… warm, sweet. She will be a good queen. We’ve even prepared the master chamber for His Majesty after his journey—”

“One moment,” one of Karl’s entourage barked. “No one but the head kitchen woman prepares the king’s meal.” The head kitchen woman stepped forward, three maids behind her, and the tension hummed in the doorway.

ꁞ⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ꁞ

The Marrok master guest room had been kept ready for an Alpha — larger and more ornate than even the late Beta’s quarters. As Karl entered, his personal guard buzzing behind him, Wolfe leaned in, agitation written over his face.

“Wolfe? Speak.” Karl’s tone was a blade.

“That woman — she’s not Lois Marrok. She’s Cassandra Banes, my King,” Wolfe said, low.

Karl’s face was stone. “And?”

“She’s not the one who can bear you an heir,” Wolfe pressed. “There’s the curse, sire. If the stories are true, only Lois Marrok… only she could carry a child that would bear the line.”

Karl let out a rough sound, dismissing Wolfe with a wave. “Do you think I care about my dead father’s stipulations? How would he know which woman could bear me a child?” He spat the words. “She is my Mate.” The claim rolled out of him like thunder; his pupils tightened, the room tightening in response. Wolfe fell silent.

Unnoticed, Sandra hovered just beyond the door, every nerve taut. Rumor had been a weapon; now it was a truth she had to exploit. If the curse meant only Lois could produce an heir, then stealing Lois’s scent had been the only way forward. If anyone uncovered the theft, everything would collapse — and she had a plan for that, too.

“My lady — you mustn’t be here unless summoned,” the kitchen head said, stepping forward with three steady guards. Sandra forced a practiced breath and fled, knees oddly unsteady.

Once she slipped into her room, she let herself tremble — not from fear, but from the adrenaline of someone closing a trap. If Lois was removed or discredited, the rest would fall into place. Sandra had studied wounds, practiced careful stabs that drew blood without killing; she had learned how to stage a scene and make a cry sound authentic. All she needed was a moment alone with Lois and the world would believe what she wanted it to.

ꁞ⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ⁠ꁞ⁠ ꁞ

Five hours later Lois sat in a small, suffocating room watching everything she’d survived and hoped for crumble. Eight years of being ground down in that house, and now this — losing her Mate to a woman who had stolen everything she could. She pressed her fingers to her temples until the dull ache eased, but the hollow in her chest only widened.

The door was flung open. Sandra appeared, face a picture of contrived concern.

“Lois,” she called softly.

“Get away from me, you mate-snatcher,” Lois spat. “You’ll be found out. Your lies will be—”

Sandra’s eyes flickered; the anger on Lois’s face was exactly what she wanted. With a practiced shriek Sandra clutched her stomach and collapsed, a crimson hand suddenly appearing over her linen.

“Help! She—” Sandra screamed, voice ragged and urgent as she collapsed to the floor, blood seeping through her fingers.

Lois was on her in an instant, panic raw. “Sandra! Wake up—” She pressed her hands to the wound as if she could staunch it with her own skin. Her palms were slick, hot with blood. For a moment she believed she might have saved her, that the cowardly plan had failed.

Then the household flooded in: Lady Vetta, Alpha Karl, servants and physicians, the room a whirl of faces and frantic steps. Lady Vetta’s shriek filled the doorway — genuine, theatrical grief.

“Oh, Moon Goddess! My daughter! Lois has murdered my child in a jealous rage!” Lady Vetta wailed, collapsing into a chair.

Lois looked up and met Karl’s stare. Whatever flicker of curiosity had been there earlier was gone. His glance was red-hot, animal and immediate. His jaw worked; his hands curled so tight his knuckles blanched.

“You—” He moved faster than any of them could have guessed. In a blink he had Lois pressed against the bed, his body leaning over hers, fists braced on either side. The motion was brutal, possessive, a warning and a verdict all at once.

Lois’s heart pounded so hard she feared it would burst from her chest. She struggled beneath him, desperation flaring, but the room swam and voices blurred. Karl’s face was close, his voice a low, dangerous thing.

“You bloody murderer.” The words were a growl that shook the rafters.

Lois fought for air, for a single person in the room who would see what had truly happened. Her hands scrabbled at him, at the sheets, at the flimsy truth between them. Around them the world tilted — a nightmare made of bedclothes and wet tile and the echo of a mother’s staged grief.