Chapter 4

I woke up in the healing center with a throbbing ache in my chest and an emptiness deeper than pain. Something wasn’t right.

A healer stood beside my bed, her expression grim. “Miss,” she said gently, “your wolf is in critical condition. What’s more… the silver poisoning in your blood was never properly treated.”

I stared at her, stunned. Those words hit harder than any physical wound.

After a moment of silence, I laughed bitterly—quiet and hollowly.

Back then, my parents had warned me not to bond with Yeats—not just because of the turbulence his low status would bring, but because they saw how much I was willing to sacrifice for him. I had loved him more than I loved myself.

My wolf had already fallen into a half-dormant state years ago. I had saved him—Yeats—by taking in his wounds and the silver that poisoned him, at the cost of my own vitality. Every werewolf is born with the sacred duty of nurturing their wolf. I abandoned mine… for him.

Before I left my clan, I had been the most sought-after she-wolf of my generation. Alphas from every pack tried to claim me as their Luna. But after I gave it all up, my parents stopped speaking my name. I had become a forgotten disgrace.

And in return, I was repaid with a life of lies. Lies that lasted over a decade. Lies meant to erase me—to replace me with a high-ranking she-wolf in a tiny, insignificant pack.

By the time I returned to the tiny den I had called home, it was dusk.

Yeats and Yelena were already packing their things, their luggage lined neatly by the door.

He held the report from the healing center in one hand. With a mocking smirk, he looked up. “Jasmin, I get it. You’re upset we lied to you. But you can’t keep using this silver poisoning excuse to guilt-trip me.”

I stared at him, disbelieving. “Excuse? You think I faked that medical report?”

“Of course you did,” he scoffed, folding the paper. “Too convenient, don’t you think? If it were any other condition, maybe I’d believe you. But silver poisoning? Come on.”

Something inside me cracked.

“You really think I would go this far to lie to you?” I snapped. “Did you forget—eleven years ago—I sucked that poison from your wounds when you were nearly killed in a pack conflict. You couldn’t even shift, and I—I—took it into myself to save your life.”

His eyes were empty. No recognition. No remorse.

“I worked five jobs a day after you claimed to lose your Alpha title,” I said. “And now you tell me the poison has worn off?”

I shouted until my throat burned, but neither Yeats nor Yelena looked at me with sympathy. Only annoyance.

Yelena crossed her arms and huffed, tugging on the hem of her glittering pink dress. “You work five jobs, and you still can’t afford even the thread of this dress,” she muttered. “Aunt Lily is better. She gives me a new one every time we meet. My closet at the Alpha Villa is already full.”

Tears welled in my eyes—not from her words, but from the coldness in them. My daughter had once called me her moon. Now, she barely looked at me.

“So you agree with her, Yeats?” I asked quietly. “You think I’m lying? That my pain isn’t real?”

He shrugged. “You’ve never studied medicine. If you were going to fake something, you should’ve picked a more believable condition.”

He turned away as if I weren’t even worth the breath.

Then, with rehearsed nonchalance, he added, “By the way—this place? This den? I own it. The buildings around here are too. The landlord you contacted? He’s my Beta. If you stop pretending, call him. He’ll move you somewhere better. Maybe you can watch the sunrise and moonset—whatever helps you feel special again.”

The door slammed behind them, leaving me in silence.

I slumped to the floor, too numb to cry. My legs couldn’t even hold me anymore.

It was all a lie.

Yeats had never lost his position. Yelena had recovered a lot from silver poisoning. The den I had worked myself to the bone to afford… belonged to Yeats.

But my suffering? That was real. My sacrifice? Real. The years I gave them? All real.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, heart hollow. At dawn, I messaged my parents and packed my luggage. I left that fake den behind.

But when I stepped outside, I found myself surrounded by a mob.

Strangers. Dozens of them.

They jeered at me, holding signs and throwing stones. Buckets of red paint splashed over my body.

“You think a helper can be Luna? What a joke!”

“Alpha Yeats belongs with Lily!”

“You’re ugly! Have you seen yourself?”

“Beat her! She’s delusional!”

Rocks sliced my skin. My arms, my forehead—bleeding and burning with pain.

I stumbled back, trying to escape. My phone trembled in my hands as I called the only number I could: the landlord. Yeats’s Beta.

The line clicked.

“Help me,” I cried. “Tell Yeats—please—there are mobs outside, throwing stones. I’m bleeding—”

I heard voices on the other end.

Yeats.

“What the hell, Jasmin?” he barked. “You live in the middle of nowhere. How could a mob even find your place? Stop making things up.”

“I’m not lying!” I screamed. “They said they’re Lily’s fans—they’re doing this to support her—”

Then Lily’s voice chimed in, sweet and sickening: “Luna, I know you don’t like me, but my fans are kind people. They’d never hurt you.”

Yeats chuckled coldly. “Lily was worried you might be harassed, so she posted on Instagram asking them not to bother you. This is how you repay her? With more lies?”

“I’m not lying!” I cried again. Another rock struck me—this time on the temple. Blood mixed with the red paint down my face. I stumbled.

A memory flashed: years ago, Yeats had collapsed suddenly, paralyzed. I had carried him to the bathroom, my legs shaking under his weight. I had slipped and hit the desk corner, blood pouring down my face then, too.

And still, all he had done was lie there, pretending to be helpless.

If he had truly loved me… would he have kept pretending?

Would he be watching me bleed—and still do nothing?

His voice returned, sharp and final: “Don’t contact me again. I gave you the title of Luna out of mercy. You saved my life—I paid my debt. We’re even.”

Not far away, I saw a flash of movement.

My parents.

They were running toward me with warriors from Lupus Celestial, their faces pale with horror.

I gave a hollow laugh, voice cracking through the blood. “Don’t regret this, Yeats.”

“I don’t,” he said coldly.

Another rock struck the back of my head. The pain was sharp, hot, and then—

Nothing.

I collapsed. The phone slipped from my hand.

A thud echoed through the call.

Yeats’s voice came faintly from the other side.

“…What was that sound? Did someone fall?”