4

Meanwhile, at the Wolfgang Pack — a few hours earlier

The moon hung high above the treeline, its pale glow casting sharp shadows through the pack’s settlement. Hamlet and Alex moved with the deliberate quiet of men who knew their business was best done in the dark. The two slipped toward the healer’s hut, eyes darting over their shoulders as though even the wind might overhear.

Inside, the air reeked of dried herbs, burning sage, and something darker — something that didn’t belong in a healer’s place unless the intent was far from healing.

“We need it strong,” Hamlet murmured, his voice low, urgent. “Fast. Before they even know they’ve been touched.”

The healer, an older she-wolf with more wrinkles than mercy, squinted at them. “You know what you’re asking for.”

Alex’s lip curled. “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”

Her gnarled fingers plucked jars from high shelves — crushed nightshade, powdered belladonna — before reaching for the deadliest jar of all. Wolfbane. Not the diluted stuff used to dampen shifting. No, this was the real thing. Lethal. Unforgiving. A werewolf’s natural nemesis.

By the time they left, Hamlet carried a small corked vial of death in his pocket, as casually as someone might carry loose change.

But unbeknownst to them, the plan was already sliding toward disaster.

Marigold wasn’t in her room. She hadn’t been for hours. And the person under her blankets wasn’t her at all — it was Margaux.

Margaux had been restless that night. Maybe it was the guilt, maybe it was the obsessive tug of her thoughts always circling back to Marigold, like a predator pacing outside the same cage. Either way, she’d found herself slipping into her sister’s room when she realized it was empty.

Her fingers grazed over the boring, neutral clothes Marigold always wore — so unlike Margaux’s own dramatic flair. Out of some twisted urge, she decided to put them on. Even Marigold’s favorite hoodie — the one that smelled faintly of forest and pine — ended up pulled over her head.

And because old habits die hard, Margaux decided to step into Marigold’s life just long enough to ruin it again. She padded into the kitchen and upended the spice rack, leaving trails of flour across the counter. In the living room, she knocked over a vase, deliberately left the glass shards scattered for someone else to find. It was petty, childish, and oh-so-familiar. And the CCTV would be there watching.

By morning, the luna would storm into Marigold’s room, see the mess, and unleash her fury. It was an old game Margaux never seemed to tire of.

But fate — and a glass of milk — had other plans.

When Margaux returned to Marigold’s room, there it was on the nightstand: a plain glass of milk. She eyed it, smirking. “Really, Mari? Milk before bed? What are you, eight?”

If she’d known it was laced with the very poison Hamlet and Alex had just procured, maybe she’d have hesitated. But she didn’t. She grabbed it, tipped her head back, and drained it in a few gulps.

The effect was swift.

Her smirk faltered. Her chest tightened. The glass slipped from her fingers and shattered on the wooden floor. She gasped, clawing at her throat, eyes wide with disbelief before she collapsed, her body limp, her last breath gone before the shock could even register.

Minutes later, Hamlet and Alex returned. They exchanged a glance — a mixture of satisfaction and grim practicality — before lifting the body between them. She was lighter than they expected.

No one saw them vanish into the woods, the scent of fresh-turned earth following their trail. They buried her in silence, the night swallowing the sound of the last shovelful of dirt falling over her.

They thought they’d killed Marigold.

They thought they’d won.

But the forest — and fate — knew better.

*****

Marigold POV

Back at the woodland.

Dawn crept in with that gray, sleepy light that made the woodland look like it was still deciding whether it wanted to wake up. My eyelids felt like bricks, but there was something else—something heavier—pressing down on me.

It started hours ago. A sudden pang in my chest, sharp and strange. At first, I chalked it up to exhaustion. But no… it wasn’t that. It was… familiar. Too familiar.

I’d never felt anything like it before—at least, not since Margaux severed our twin bond. Years ago, she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me beyond using my name to dodge punishments or stir trouble. The link between us was like a door she’d slammed in my face, padlocked, and nailed shut. But now… now I could feel something tugging at me from the other side.

So, I did the one thing I’d never done in years. I tried to peek.

The moment I reached for the bond, my stomach dropped.

Nothing.

Not just blocked. Not just walled off.

Empty.

Gone.

I frowned, a slow dread creeping up my spine. “What the hell happened to her?” I asked, turning to Alpha Greagor.

His gaze sharpened, that unnervingly calm voice of his cutting through the morning air. “It’s confirmed. Via the alpha link—Marigold was killed. Buried in the woodland just behind Whiteland Villa. Hamlet and Alex poisoned her milk.”

I blinked, my mind catching on the words like a fishhook. “Wait—what?”

“They put wolfsbane in her drink.” His tone didn’t even waver. “Then buried her before sunrise.”

My brain stuttered over itself. “But—”

And then it hit me.

Oh. My. God.

“Oh fuck! It was not Marigold. It was Margaux.” My voice came out half-horrified, half-incredulous.

“It wasn’t?” He grumbled.

“It wasn’t!” I slapped my forehead, suddenly remembering every stupid, petty thing Margaux had done over the years. The way she loved to sneak into my room, steal my hoodies, trash the kitchen, wreck the living room, just so I’d get blamed.

Only this time… she’d played dress-up as me in the worst possible moment.

I exhaled sharply, my emotions tangling into something I couldn’t even name.

She was my twin. My bully. My shadow. My worst critic and my cruelest tormentor. She never gave me an ounce of sisterly love… and now she was gone.

And yet—

And yet I felt… lighter. Like someone had just taken a weight off my chest I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.

Freedom.

That’s what it felt like.

Freedom with a dash of shock and maybe—just maybe—a pinch of guilt. “…Well,” I muttered under my breath, “guess breakfast is gonna feel weird.”

The rumble of the bike slowed to a stop, gravel crunching under the thick tires. Dawn bled into the horizon—streaks of gold and pink stretching across the sky like someone had sliced it open. I was too exhausted to care, but something in my chest twisted, that strange pang I’d felt hours ago.

He turned head towards me. I stared at him. Blinked once. Twice. Then my voice came out sharper than I expected.

He frowned at me and said, “What the hell did you say again?”

“That’s not Marigold who died. That was Margaux. I am Marigold.”

He stilled. For a man as massive as Gregor, it was unsettling how still he could get—like a wolf about to spring.

And me? I didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or throw up. Margaux—my bully of a sister who’d never shown me anything but cruelty—was dead. The woman who’d spent years making sure I knew I was unwanted… was gone.

And instead of grief, I felt… free. Unshackled.

Alpha Gregor’s growl vibrated in my bones.

“What do you mean—” his voice was sharp, lethal, “—the girl they wanted wasn’t you?”