Chapter 2

Sylvia's POV

The red wine hit his white shirt like a bloodstain.

Damian stared at the dark red spreading across his chest, then at me. The wine glass rolled off the table and shattered on the marble floor.

The hall went quiet. Then it went whispering, all at once. Nobody knew where to look.

"Sylvia." My father pushed past the table. His brow was creased. "What is the matter with you?"

I could feel my wolf again, she was here, pacing like she had just woken up from a dream.

My palms were sweating. The wolf inside me was up on her toes, sniffing every sound. The marble was real. The whispering was real. The taste of the poison was already gone from my tongue, and I was wearing a dress I remembered choosing for my engagement party three years ago.

I saw the calendar on the wall and finally knew for sure: I had been reborn. I was back at my engagement banquet — three years before my death.

The Moon Goddess had heard me, and she had wound the clock back.

I caught a glimpse of Leona. My stepmother had crossed to Damian's side, pressing a silk handkerchief against his chest.

Her fingers lingered on the wet fabric, smoothing it over his collarbone with slow, deliberate strokes. She looked up at him through her lashes and murmured something too low for anyone else to hear. He tilted his head toward her, and for a fraction of a second, his hand found the small of her back.

My stomach turned. They were already sleeping together.

"My poor darling," she said. Her voice was warm. Her smile was perfect. "She's overwhelmed. Look at her. She doesn't know what she's saying."

"I know what I'm saying," I said. "I am calling off the engagement."

The whispering swelled. Someone laughed once, the wrong kind of laugh, and stopped.

My father's mouth tightened.

He used to be the man who carried me on his shoulders through the back forest. He used to teach me how to find north by the moon. He had been Leona's husband for the last three years, and Leona had taught him a different way to look at me.

She slid a small, soft hand onto his shoulder.

"Arthur," she said. Arthur. My father's name in her voice was a leash. "The Alpha Council approved this match. If she breaks it tonight, in front of all these people, we don't just lose face. We lose the alliance with Ironclaw."

"My daughter—" he started. Then he caught Leona's eye, and his mouth tightened the rest of the way. "Sylvia. You are embarrassing this family. You are embarrassing the alliance. Sit down and apologize to your fiancé."

"Your daughter is *frightened*," Leona added quickly. Her eyes went big and wet. "Cold feet. Every bride has them."

"Sylvia." Damian was already wiping his shirt with a napkin, the way a man wipes coffee off a desk. He set it down and reached for my hand. His voice was soft, the way it had always been with witnesses. "Sweetheart. Half the Council is in this room. Take a breath. Don't give them a story."

Three years ago, I would have taken the breath.

Three years ago, I had.

My wolf snarled. "His throat. Hers. Now."

I almost let her go — then I saw my father's face. He stood a few feet away, his brow furrowed not with worry but with impatience. Leona clung to his arm, the corner of her mouth curved in a faint, knowing smile only I could read. She was waiting for me to break.

No, I told my wolf. No.

She didn't understand. She had always been simple. I had loved her for that. She still thought we lived in a world where the right thing won. We did not.

I had the truth about Damian and Leona — that they had been together long enough to plan murder — and I had nothing else in this life. No video. No witnesses.

It would get me killed sooner. It would get my father killed sooner.

I had to find another way.

I let Damian take my hand.

"Sorry about that," I said, turning back to the party with a sheepish smile. "I think the wine went to my head. You all know how I get."

My father exhaled. The whispering shifted register; the room decided to call it a sweet bride moment and move on. The string quartet picked up something gentler.

"You scared me, baby," Damian said. He pressed his forehead to mine. He smelled like the cologne I had bought him last Yule. My body remembered the smell before my brain did. My tongue tasted poison.

"I love you," he said. "I'll always love you. We're going to have everything we ever talked about."

He was very good at this part. He had always been very good at this part.

I made my face soft and looked up into his.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I just needed some air."

Inside me, my wolf went still. She had been on her feet, ready. She lay down. She was watching now.

I excused myself toward the side hall.

Two waitresses huddled just inside the service door, whispering, “Is Alpha Azrael really not coming today?”

“They say he’s too busy preparing for tomorrow’s auction — couldn’t get away. Can’t even show up to his own brother’s engagement party. The tension between them must be real.”

They laughed softly and walked off with their trays.

I stood there, frozen.

Azrael.

Damian's half-brother. Same father, different mother. He had grown up in the Nightwhisper Pack — iron-fisted, decisive, a top contender for the Alpha King. Yet he was never without women on his arm, and the tabloids were full of his scandals. In my past life, I kept my distance, because Damian spent every dinner telling me his brother was a snake. And I was a wife who believed her husband.

But in my past life, he would lose his Alpha King race to Damian by a thread, because of me.

A thread.

I had cut my career to be a good wife. I had handed Damian my pack's votes and our merger and our council seats. Without me, the math was different.

Without me, Azrael won.

I touched the cold tile of the wall and made myself breathe.

Now, if I needed an ally to help me bring down Damian, who better than Azrael?