CHAPTER 4

WINIFRED HAWTHORNE POV

"Do you think this filthy wild hound actually expected us to roll out the red carpet for her?"

Winifred Hawthorne freezes on the frayed cushion of the low wooden bench inside the main hall of the Whitcombe estate. The harsh floor-lamp casts a pale beam over her battered body, painting her bruised skin in sickly shades of violet. Every breath burns her ribs, a violent reminder of her adoptive father's brutal punishment earlier that day. She forces her chin up, staring straight at her adoptive mother, Ambrose Whitcombe's mate, and her half-sister.

Ambrose Whitcombe's mate, a woman who once forced Winifred to call her mother, flashes a paper-thin smile that fails to reach her cold eyes. "Winifred, child... how is your shattered spine? Do you require the pack healers?"

Months ago, such a question would have brought tears of gratitude to Winifred's eyes. Now, her chest remains as cold as stone.

Dorothea Whitcombe snorts, cutting her mother off with a flick of her silk-clad wrist. "Drop the act, Mother. Look at her face. The wild dog overheard every single word we said. She knows her place."

A wild dog.

Winifred lets out a low, breathless laugh that scrapes against her throat. They had used that insult behind closed doors for three long years while she slaved over their pack designs. She drags herself across the polished stone floor, each movement sending raw agony shooting through her back, and sinks heavily onto the carved sofa.

"Even a wild dog," Winifred says, her voice steady despite the blood pooling on her tongue, "holds a four percent territory stake in the Whitcombe estate."

The fake warmth drains instantly from her mother's face, replaced by pure venom. "You ungrateful stray! The Whitcombe bloodline fed you, sheltered you, and kept you from starving in the rogue wastes for three years! You owe those pack shares to this family as repayment!"

Winifred stares at the two women who had stolen her craft, erased her name, and traded her body like livestock. The utter ridiculousness of their greed makes another laugh spill from her lips.

"What is so amusing, you feral beast?" her mother spats.

"I am laughing," Winifred says, leaning back against the cushions as her silver eyes lock onto her mother, "because until ten minutes ago, I valued pack bond and family blood above my own life. If you had asked me for those shares yesterday, I would have signed them over without hesitation. But after today? Everything changes."

Her mother opens her mouth to snarl a rebuttal, but Dorothea steps forward, placing a manicured hand on the elder woman's shoulder. "Go upstairs, Mother. Let me handle our little stray."

Once her mother’s heavy footsteps fade up the stairs, Dorothea glides over, sinking onto the sofa right next to Winifred with a sickeningly sweet smile. She reaches out, clasping Winifred's bruised, calloused hand in her own soft ones.

"Winifred, listen to me," Dorothea whispers, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "The substitute Luna vow... the arranged bond with Alpha Edmund... that was all Father and Mother's idea. I tried to stop them. I never wanted you to take my place in that dark pack house..."

Winifred pulls her hand back, her expression unreadable. She doesn't interrupt. She lets Dorothea weave her pathetic lies until the silence in the room grows heavy. Then, without a word, Winifred pushes herself off the couch and walks toward the heavy oak doors of the house.

Dorothea's sweet demeanor shatters in an instant. She springs up, lunging across the rug to yank Winifred back by her torn tunic sleeve.

"You arrogant bitch!" Dorothea shrieks, her claws digging through the thin fabric into Winifred's bruised skin. "You are nothing but a dog my father dragged in from the dirt! We gave you a roof over your head! How dare you turn your back on me!"

Winifred turns slowly, her silver gaze dropping to Dorothea's twisted face. "I wonder how Alpha Edmund Ravenscroft would react if he saw his sweet, precious bride throwing a temper tantrum like a feral rogue."

Dorothea lets out a harsh, hysterical laugh. "You think he cares? Edmund Ravenscroft is my mated Alpha! The arranged bond belongs to me! You signed the parchment as a substitute, but you are nothing to him! You are worthless!"

Winifred tilts her head, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I should remind you of one small detail, Dorothea. When I knelt at the altar during the substitute Luna vow, it was my blood that sealed the parchment. It was my thumbprint pressed into the wax. With one single word to the Pack Elders, that entire marriage contract becomes nothing more than worthless trash."

Dorothea pales, her grip slacking instantly.

"So you and Edmund aren't officially bound yet," Winifred adds, stepping out of her sister's reach. "Which means the position of Luna is still wide open."

Before Dorothea can find her voice, Winifred spins around, shoving the heavy oak doors open, and steps out into the biting night air. She runs through the gates of the estate, ignoring the furious curses echoing behind her. Every step jolts her broken spine, but she refuses to look back.

Standing on the deserted cobblestones of the pack roads, her body shaking from exhaustion and cold, Winifred pulls out her cracked communicator to call Maribel Hawthorne. Her screen remains completely dark. The signal goes straight to automated voicemail.

Maribel had been her only true sister since their days in the rogue orphanage. Supported by an anonymous pack benefactor, Maribel had trained tirelessly to join the Alpha's escort unit as a chief flight attendant. When her communicator was off, it meant only one thing—she was currently airborne on a pack transport run.

Winifred stumbles aimlessly down the foggy street, her vision blurring at the edges. Up ahead, a solitary neon sign hums against the darkness of a quiet alleyway: The Red Moon Saloon.

She pushes through the heavy leather doors. The air inside is thick with the scent of aged cedar, spilled ale, and faint wolf-musk. It isn't a chaotic, rowdy pack hall, but a low-lit, quiet sanctuary.

Winifred sways toward the dark wooden counter. "Three shots of raw vodka," she rasps, sliding her last silver coin across the wood.

The bartender raises an eyebrow but fills three heavy glass tumblers. She downs them in rapid succession. The fire burns through her throat, searing all the way down to her empty stomach, blurring the sharp edges of her agony.

By the third glass, the world tilts violently.

The bartender catches the edge of her glass before it slips from her numb fingers. "Lady, you can barely hold your head up. Do you have an Alpha or a pack mate I can call to collect you?"

Winifred slumps against the sticky counter, a bitter smile touching her lips. Pack? Mates? She had no one. Maribel was in the sky. Her adoptive family wanted her dead.

Yet, as her mind drifts into a haze, ten digits flash clearly in her memory—the private mind-link frequency digits of Alpha Edmund Ravenscroft, recorded on the substitute marriage parchment she had signed three days ago.

She mumbles the numbers aloud to the bartender before collapsing face-down onto her arms.

Minutes drag by in a dark blur. Then, the heavy doors of the tavern swing open, rattling the iron hinges. A low, commanding voice cuts through the quiet bar, reverberating like the dark baritone of a war drum.

"Where is she?"

The heavy scent of rain, crushed pine, and pure Alpha aura floods the room, making every low-ranking wolf in the tavern lower their heads in instinctual submission. Strong, calloused hands wrap around Winifred's waist, hauling her off the bar stool with effortless power.

Winifred feels herself being carried out into the freezing night and tossed onto the leather passenger seat of a sleek, black car. The powerful scent of his male presence—musk, dark oak, and raw power—fills the cramped cabin as he leans over her to pull the leather restraint harness across her chest.

Her alcohol-soaked brain short-circuits. A single word screams through her mind: Revenge.

Before Edmund can pull back, Winifred reaches up, hooking her arms around the thick column of his neck. She pulls his face down and slams her lips against his.

The click of the seatbelt harness echoes sharply between them.

She kisses him clumsily, pressing her mouth against his firm, cold lips with desperate, unpolished heat. But before she can even deepen the touch, Edmund’s hand clamps onto her wrists like an iron vise. He shoves her back against the leather headrest with sickening ease.

"You cheap, shameless creature," Edmund growls, his dark eyes flashing a dangerous crimson in the dim dashboard light. "Have you no dignity at all?"

Winifred leans her head back against the headrest, a reckless, drunken smile curving her lips as she gazes into his lethal gaze. "I am not cheap, Alpha. I was pure when you took me on the altar. But your precious Dorothea? She belongs to the entire pack."

Edmund's crimson gaze snaps tight. His hand shoots out, his thick fingers clamping around the delicate column of her throat—not tight enough to crush her windpipe, but firm enough to pin her in place. "Watch your tongue, wild hound. What did you just say?"

Winifred doesn't flinch. She reaches out, her small, trembling hand pressing against his broad, leather-clad chest, feeling the heavy, thunderous beat of his wolf heart.

"I saw her," Winifred whispers, her voice laced with lethal mock-sweetness. "I saw Dorothea in the back garden of the estate, tangled up with your pack driver in the back of a transport carriage. And during her years at the Royal Academy? She was caught with three different pack heirs in the dormitory quarters—a violation recorded right in the Academy's registry. You can't erase those records, Alpha. Go check them yourself."

Edmund’s expression hardens into sheer, icy darkness. The crimson in his eyes flares wild and untamed as his jaw clenches so hard a muscle ticks in his cheek.

Winifred slides her knuckles down his chest, pressing herself closer until her breath brushes against his jawline. "I am clean. I have never let another male touch my skin. You can use my body however you want... whenever you want."

The car's engine suddenly roars to life with a deafening rumble as Edmund's communicator on the dashboard flashes violently with a new pack alert.