CHAPTER 2

WINIFRED HAWTHORNE POV

"You should stay on your knees, fake Luna."

Winifred Hawthorne stirs awake as the agonizing fire tears through her lower body, every muscle in her thighs throbbing with an intense, raw ache. The horrific memories of the night hit her mind like a wave of poison. Alpha Edmund Ravenscroft had treated her like a sworn enemy on their wedding night, brutally ripping away her purity without a shred of warmth.

Every single fantasy she had nursed about her childhood crush over the past twelve years lies completely shattered.

She turns her head toward the empty space beside her, finding the fur mattress already ice-cold.

Right in the middle of the pale sheets, a bright crimson stain stands out like a fresh drop of blood on snow.

Winifred pushes herself up, biting back a gasp as sharp pain shoots through her groin. She forces her trembling legs to carry her to the wash chamber, scrubbing the lingering scent of wild wolf and alcohol off her skin under the freezing spring water. She dresses in a high-collared grey tunic, returns to the bed, and strips the stained sheets, replacing them with clean linen.

She steps out of the chamber and walks to the edge of the carved wooden balcony on the second floor. Down below at the long stone dining table, Alpha Edmund Ravenscroft sits alone, reading the leather-bound pack registries while tearing into a piece of roasted meat.

The morning sun beams through the high arched glass windows, catching the sharp cuts of his jaw and framing his massive shoulders in a warm, almost holy light.

For twelve long years, while she hid in the shadows dreaming of him, sitting under the same roof as his mate felt like an impossible fantasy. Now she stands here as his bound wife. Yet, she cannot bring herself to take a single step down the stairs.

The brutal, animalistic way he had claimed her in the dark still echoes in her bones, reminding her that she does not know this Alpha at all.

"Miss Whitcombe, you are finally awake," an old pack hall attendant says from the base of the stairs, bowing her head slightly.

The attendant does not call her Luna.

She calls her Miss Whitcombe.

Winifred's heart shrinks into a tight knot. Disappointment heavy in her chest, she swallows her fear and forces her legs down the stone steps, taking her seat across from Edmund.

The attendant sets a plate of seared boar meat and winter berries before her. Winifred, her throat choked with anxiety, only pushes a few berries around her plate with her wooden fork.

She glances up and sees that Edmund has not touched his food either. His massive silver fork rests untouched beside his plate.

"Forgive me," Winifred offers softly, her voice barely louder than a whisper as she tries to bridge the icy silence between them. "I woke up late today. Starting tomorrow, I will wake up before dawn to prepare the morning meat for your wolf."

Her only real skill, honed over years of survival in the outcast cottage, is preparing game meat over an open hearth.

She looks up with a flicker of hope in her silver eyes, desperate for a gentle word.

Edmund abruptly slams his heavy iron dagger onto the table, the metallic clatter echoing off the high stone walls. He pushes himself up from the long table, his face as cold and unreadable as winter frost. "Get up. The car is waiting in the courtyard."

"Where are we going?" Winifred stammers, her pulse spiking as she rises quickly from her chair.

A deep fear claws at her insides. She has always been quiet and discreet, but around this dangerous Alpha, she feels pathetically small.

Edmund does not turn around as he pulls his heavy leather riding boots onto his feet by the iron doors. "We are going back to the Whitcombe territory."

The silver-and-black car glides through the thick gates of the Whitcombe Pack estate.

Winifred sits in the leather passenger seat, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She had spent the entire drive convincing herself that Edmund’s violent cruelty last night was simply his hatred for an arranged bond, not because he had discovered her true identity as the hidden twin.

However, the moment she follows him into the main hall of the Whitcombe Pack House, her blood runs completely cold.

Dorothea Whitcombe—the twin sister who was supposed to be on an iron-transport carriage across the northern border—stands in the center of the hall beside their parents.

Her silver-grey eyes are swollen and red, her face streaked with fresh tears.

Standing on either side of her, Alpha Ambrose Whitcombe and his Luna glare toward the entrance with absolute fury.

Winifred’s gaze darts to Edmund. The first terrifying thought that strikes her mind is that he already knows. He knows she lied, he knows she took her sister’s place, and he had his enforcers hunt Dorothea down to bring her back.

Panic grips her throat, making it hard to breathe.

Edmund Ravenscroft holds absolute power over these territories. If he decides to crush the Whitcombe family for treason, not a single one of them will survive the night.

If he wants revenge, let him take it out on me, Winifred thinks desperately, her fingers digging into her tunic. My parents and my sister should not suffer for this...

Before she can step forward to offer her life for the deception, Edmund brushes past her.

He takes long, rapid strides across the hall, wrapping his thick, iron arms directly around Dorothea’s shaking frame. He pulls her twin sister into his massive chest, lowering his dark head to whisper against her hair. "Are you unharmed, Dorothea?"

The deep, protective gentleness in his eyes is something Winifred has never seen. He had never looked at her like that. Not once.

Winifred stands rooted to the stone floor, her soul tearing in half.

Before her mind can process the sight, a heavy, brutal force crashes across her jaw. The blow knocks her off her feet, slamming her shoulder violently against the stone pillar behind her. The metallic taste of fresh blood fills her mouth instantly.

"Winifred Hawthorne!" Alpha Ambrose Whitcombe roars, his hands trembling with rage as he stands over her. "We brought you out of the outcast cottage three years ago, and this is how you repay your blood?"

Winifred struggles to lift her head, her vision swimming as she wipes a trickle of blood from her cracked lip. "Father... what..."

"How dare you open your mouth to ask!" Ambrose snarls, raising his massive hand again. "Did you think we would never find out what you did? You drugged your sister! You stole her silk robes and snuck into the altar to take her place in the mate bond! If we had not found her unconscious in her chamber and forced her to drink wolf-bane to purge the poison, she would be dead!"

The second slap hits her face with deafening force.

Winifred’s head snaps back, and she collapses onto the cold stone floor, her body trembling violently.

Through her blurred vision, her mind races frantically. A few days ago, her parents had wept in her cottage, claiming Dorothea had fallen in love with a low-ranking rogue named Quentin Redford and refused to marry the Alpha. They had begged Winifred to step in and save their pack from Edmund's wrath. Winifred had personally walked Dorothea to the border carriages two nights ago!

How did I become the traitor who poisoned her?

The horrifying truth dawns on her with sickening clarity. She had been framed. Her own family had set her up to take the fall.

Before she can speak, Ambrose grabs a heavy wooden bench from the side of the hall and swings it down toward her head.

Winifred screams, twisting her body away just in time. The thick wood crashes violently against her spine.

A sharp, unbearable agony explodes across her back. She bites her lower lip so hard it bleeds, refusing to let another scream escape her throat. Growing up in the rogue orphanage, she had learned early that crying brought no comfort. When you were an outcast, pain was something you bore in absolute silence.

Seeing her refuse to cry out, Ambrose raises the wooden bench a second time, aiming directly for her neck.

"Stop it!" her mother screams, rushing forward to catch the edge of the wood. "You will break her neck before the Alpha decides her punishment!"

Ambrose growls, tossing the heavy bench onto the stone floor with a loud, echoing thud. "She deserves to be fed to the rogue wolves!"

Winifred curls into a tight ball in the corner, her body shuddering as cold sweat drenches her clothes. Her spine feels entirely shattered. She knows if he hits her again, she will never walk again.

From across the hall, Dorothea buries her face deeper into Edmund’s chest, her voice trembling with artificial pity. "Edmund, please... look at her. Our parents have punished her enough. Can you find it in your heart to spare her life? She grew up with the wild outcasts... she does not know the laws of the packs."

Though her voice sounds sweet and forgiving, Dorothea looks over Edmund's massive shoulder, her silver eyes locking onto Winifred with a cold, triumphant sneer.

The realization hits Winifred like a dagger to the chest. It was a trap from the very beginning.

Edmund’s pitch-black eyes drift over to where Winifred lies bleeding on the floor. A strange, unreadable dark light flashes through his gaze before his expression locks into stone. "We will settle her crimes later."

Moments later, the family moves to the carved velvet chairs in the center of the hall.

Dorothea sits close to Edmund, her delicate fingers intertwined with his massive hand. Edmund cradles her hand gently, resting it over his knee.

They look like a true Alpha and his destined Luna.

"Get out of my sight," Ambrose spats toward the corner, glaring at Winifred with utter disgust. "Drag your miserable body upstairs to the servant quarters before I lose my temper again."

Winifred pulls herself up onto her hands and knees, every small breath ripping a gasp of agony from her lungs. She forces herself to stand, her back bent awkwardly as she crawls toward the narrow wooden stairs that lead to the tower rooms.

Each step feels like climbing a mountain of burning knives. Sweat stings her eyes as the agonizing pain in her spine makes her vision go black at the edges.

Yet, as she drags herself up the steps, the physical agony is nothing compared to the complete destruction of her heart.

Behind her, the sweet sound of Dorothea’s soft laughter, Edmund’s low, rumbling responses, and her parents' warm, doting chatter echo through the grand hall.

Winifred reaches the top landing and collapses onto the cold floorboards, a single bitter tear cutting through the dust on her cheek.

She was nothing but a foolish substitute. A disposable shadow in a world where she had never belonged.