2

I felt the men’s frowns like heat on my fur. The older warriors looked uneasy. Even my father stiffened. Because this wasn’t just rare — it was unheard of. A black wolf meant a fighter, a leader in battle. And me? I wasn’t supposed to be either of those things.

Margaux’s white wolf stepped toward me, her ice-blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

For the first time in my life, every eye was on me when we all shifted back to our human form.

But everyone acted like nothing had happened — like I hadn’t just turned centuries of Pack tradition on its head.

But not Margaux.

She was staring at me across the firelight, her blue eyes sharp and cold. The kind of look that could curdle milk. She hated sharing the spotlight, and tonight she hadn’t just shared it — she’d lost it.

Meanwhile, we all shifted back to our human form, wore a new dress, then I walked and stood behind my brothers, Hamlet and Alex, the perfect little wall of blond-haired, broad-shouldered Whiteland men.

And I knew exactly why they’d planted themselves in front of me.

They weren’t “protecting” me.

They were blocking me.

Apparently, they were terrified I might do something dramatic — howl for dominance, challenge someone, breathe too loud. Which was hilarious, because hell no. Why on earth would I make a scene? I’d almost fainted from that Pack Link headache, and the last thing I wanted was more attention.

The spotlight? Not my thing. Let Margaux bake in it until she burns.

Yet, I could feel it in the air — the sharp edges of gazes scraping over my back, the mix of envy, curiosity, and flat-out hostility. It was almost funny, except… nope. Still didn’t care.

So, I slipped away. Quiet, slow, deliberate.

My path led straight to the food tent, where the smell of smoked meat and fresh bread was a thousand times more interesting than pack politics.

The omegas inside froze when they saw me. Wide eyes, tight mouths. “Relax. I’m here for the brisket, not a bloodbath.”

They didn’t answer. Just exchanged nervous glances and busied themselves with trays.

On cue.

Margaux.

Except right now, her jaw was so tight she could’ve cracked walnuts with her teeth.

The omegas scattered like spilled rice. Good. I hated having an audience when my sister decided to perform.

She stalked straight toward me. “Enjoying yourself?”

I took a slow bite of brisket. Chewed. Swallowed. “Immensely.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“No,” I said, reaching for the mashed potatoes. “I know I am. Big difference.”

Margaux’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You’ve been waiting for this. For any chance to steal attention—”

“Oh, please.” I plopped a spoonful of potatoes on my plate with enough force to make the gravy splash. “If I wanted attention, I’d dye my hair pink, wear a crown, and start howling in the middle of dinner. You can relax — your precious spotlight’s still yours. I’m just here for the carbs.”

Her nostrils flared. “You embarrassed me out there.”

“How? By existing?” I tore off a piece of bread roll. “I’ll work on that.”

Margaux leaned in, low enough so only I could hear. “Don’t think this changes anything. You’re still the odd one. And when they’re done whispering about you, they’ll see you for what you are.”

I tilted my head, meeting her perfect Luna-in-training gaze. “Maybe. But for now? They’re whispering. And you hate it.”

For a split second, her lips twitched — the kind of twitch that said she wanted to scratch my eyes out. Then she straightened, turned on her heel, and swept out of the tent like she hadn’t just tried to verbally gut me.

I took another bite of pie. “Well,” I muttered to the empty tent, “that went well.” I didn’t look back as I left the tent, plate still in hand like it was a trophy.

*****

By midnight, I thought maybe—just maybe—my life could slip back into something ordinary-boring. Sure, I had a warrior wolf now, but that didn’t mean I wanted to storm castles or lead pack raids. I was planning on a lifetime of avoiding drama, eating snacks in peace, and maybe reading in bed.

That’s when I heard them.

At first, I thought it was just late-night gossip from the guards outside. But then my ears honed in, and I recognized the voices. Hamlet. Alex. My brothers.

“…can’t let her stay,” Hamlet’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it.

Alex grunted. “You saw what she did tonight. The others are already whispering. If the elders start thinking she’s stronger than Margaux—”

“They won’t,” Hamlet cut in. “Not if she’s gone.”

“Gone?” Alex asked, almost like he needed it spelled out.

Hamlet’s tone went cold. “Accidents happen. And father told us to get rid of her. Especially to odd little sister with black hair and black wolf.”

Wow.

I stayed perfectly still, even though my wolf bristled under my skin.

Gone. Just because my hair was black. My wolf was black. Because I didn’t match their precious white-and-gold Luna aesthetic.

I almost laughed as I rolled onto my side.

Now that I knew they wanted me gone, there was no more pretending.

No more “maybe I’m imagining it” or “maybe they’ll come around.”

They weren’t. And I wasn’t stupid enough to wait for their plan to… accidentally work.

I went straight to my closet, pulled out my luggage—the one I kept under a blanket like some sentimental little hope chest — and tossed it onto the bed.

This was my emergency luggage, the one I’d packed years ago for the inevitable day when my family’s fake smiles would turn into knives. Guess what? That day was tonight.

Next, I yanked my hairbrush from the nightstand and went to work.

Blonde hair dye — not salon quality, but good enough to throw off anyone looking for a girl with black hair. I worked the chemicals in with quick, practiced hands, watching in the mirror as my black strands turned into an uneven gold. By the time I rinsed and towel-dried it, I looked like a completely different person… if that person had no time to care about perfect highlights.

I waited. Listened.

When their voices faded, I moved.

I cracked my window open. Cold night air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth. I swung one leg over the sill, then the other, my sneakers scraping against the outer wall as I lowered myself down. The drop wasn’t far, but I still landed in a crouch to keep quiet.

I slipped between the trimmed hedges lining the path and kept low. Every crunch of gravel under my shoes made my pulse spike, but I forced myself to stay steady. The villa’s entrance gate was in sight now — tall wrought iron, flanked by two guard posts.

That’s why I’d parked my old Toyota a good hundred meters away, tucked behind a row of trees just off the main road.

I scanned the area.

When I reached my Toyota, I allowed myself one quick glance back at the pack house. Its lights glowed warm and inviting, a cruel lie to anyone who didn’t know what lived inside.

“Goodbye, hellhole,” I whispered, unlocking the door.

And for the first time in my life, leaving didn’t feel like running. It felt like winning.

But of course, fate is a petty little gremlin with a twisted sense of humor.

I’d been driving for three straight hours in my trusty old Toyota — a faded relic that rattled if I breathed too hard — and I could practically smell the human territory ahead. Just a few more miles. Just a few more minutes of sweet, blissful freedom.

And then… ka-thunk, ka-thunk, wheeze.

The sound was so loud. I gripped the steering wheel like I could bully it into cooperating. “No, no, no. You’re not dying on me now, old girl,” I muttered, patting the dashboard like it was a sickly pet.

The car shuddered… and stopped.

Silence.

Then, as if the universe wanted to add a little extra seasoning to my disaster stew, I heard it — the deep, throaty roar of a motorcycle engine in the distance. Not the cheap puttering kind, either. This was the expensive, smug, I’m too rich for my own good kind of growl. A Harley-type beast, the kind that made you think of leather jackets and bad decisions.

The bike slowed. Headlights washed over me, blinding for a second, before cutting out. The air smelled faintly of gasoline, leather… and something darkly male.

From the shadows, he stepped into the glow of the moonlight. And holy crap.

This man was beautiful. Not pretty-boy beautiful — no, this was the rugged, Henry Cavill–meets-Viking-warrior kind of beautiful. Broad shoulders. Thick forearms. Hair dark enough to make night jealous. And a jawline that looked like it had been personally sharpened by the gods for the sole purpose of intimidating women and punching enemies.

He frowned at me. Not a What’s wrong, are you okay? frown. No. This was the You’re in so much trouble your descendants will feel it frown.

He reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out an iPhone — not even glancing at me while his thumbs swiped at the screen.

Finally, he looked up, voice deep enough to make the gravel under my shoes reconsider existing.

“Where do you think you’re going, Margaux?”