Chapter 3

"Damon, see? Even Lily says it's fine." Yvonne tugged at his arm, her voice dripping with coaxing sweetness. "I'll just go in for one quick cuddle, take a picture, and come right out. No one's even going to notice."

Damon hesitated. He'd heard the rumors too—how fiercely the Blackwood Pack guarded their pups.

"Yvonne, maybe we should just drop it. If they catch you—"

"Oh, come on. Since when did you get so scared?" She pouted, her eyes already glistening. "He's just so adorable. And you know Lily's always looked down on me. If I can't even hold a little wolf cub, she won't say it out loud, but she'll be laughing at me on the inside."

She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Besides, we're meeting the Frost Alpha next month. A photo of me with a Blackwood pureblood cub? That's going to open doors for you."

And there it was—the waterworks. Her eyes spilled over, and Damon crumbled on the spot.

In his mind, Yvonne was delicate. A sweet little omega, useful but fragile. And as the Alpha, it was his job to protect her.

"Alright, alright. Stop crying. I'll figure something out."

He scanned the area, then walked over to the guard posted at the nursery tent entrance.

"Hey, man—someone's looking for you over there. Said something about an issue at the altar." Damon pointed toward the bonfire. "Sounded urgent."

The guard's face tightened. He exchanged a quick word with his partner, then took off at a jog toward the ceremony grounds. Before leaving, he threw a parting request over his shoulder: keep an eye on the tent. Don't let anyone near it.

That brief window was all Damon needed. He shot Yvonne a smug look and jerked his chin toward the tent flap.

"Go. Now."

I stood there, rooted to the spot, and watched Yvonne slip through the entrance just like she had in my last life.

Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding.

Finally.

Some people were born to dig their own graves. And no one—not even fate—could stop them.

Inside the tent, the pup was curled up in its bassinet, fast asleep.

Yvonne tiptoed closer, her eyes locked onto that shimmering silver-gray bundle of fur. She was practically vibrating with excitement.

"God, you're gorgeous. One picture of this on my feed, and everyone's going to be so jealous."

She reached down with both hands, lifted the pup right out of its swaddle, and cradled it against her chest.

The second her fingers touched that fur, the pup's eyes snapped open.

Golden. Wild. Terrified.

"Yelp! Yelp! Yelp!"

That sharp, piercing cry cut through the night like a blade. It echoed across the entire camp.

Damon's face went white. "What the hell—"

And then it came. A deafening, earth-shaking roar from deep in the mountains behind the camp.

The mother. She'd sensed it. Felt the taint of an outsider on her pup.

"THE CUB!"

"SOMEONE'S IN THE NURSERY TENT!"

Footsteps thundered from every direction. The Blackwood Pack elder—his face drained of all color—was sprinting toward the tent with a pack of warriors at his heels, eyes blazing with murderous fury.

Inside, Yvonne was frozen. The pup's cries had rattled her, and she scrambled to put him back—but his tiny claws had already raked across her hand. Blood welled up from the scratches.

"DAMON! HELP! HE BIT ME!" she shrieked.

Damon panicked. He kicked the tent flap aside and lunged inside.

The elder and his warriors reached the entrance at the same time.

The flap was ripped open by a massive, clawed hand.

And there stood the elder—his eyes bloodshot, veins bulging in his temples—staring at the scene before him.

Yvonne, clutching the wailing pureblood pup. Her hands slick with red.

"You. Will. Die."