Chapter 8

In the western wing, the heavy scent of musk and jasmine hung thick in the air. Maris Duffy lay draped across Ethan Blackwood’s chest, her dark wolf ears twitching lazily as she traced slow, deliberate circles over his heartbeat. But beneath her fingers, Ethan had gone completely rigid. His eyes were wide, staring blankly at the dark canopy above, entirely zoned out.

Maris shifted, her furred tail brushing against his leg as she propped herself up on her elbows. "Ethan? What's wrong? You’re a million miles away."

Ethan swallowed hard, the phantom pain that had ripped through his chest moments ago finally dulling into a faint, uneasy ache. He ran a hand over his face, a sudden chill settling deep in his bones. "It's nothing... I just suddenly recalled something. An old legend about the Conlay family."

Maris narrowed her eyes, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. "What kind of legend?"

"They say the ladies of the Conlay bloodline possess a spiritual gift," Ethan murmured, his voice tight. "That after they are marked, they can see bits of whatever their mate is experiencing through the bond. If she..." He trailed off, looking around the dimly lit room with a sudden, creeping paranoia.

Maris let out a loud, mocking scoff, trailing her fingers back down his chest with a dismissive roll of her eyes. "Ethan, you're letting old bedtime stories rattle you. Everyone knows that only true, Alpha-level Conlays ever possessed that kind of power. Lane is just an Omega. Her wolf is practically asleep. She doesn't have a single drop of that power in her. You shouldn't worry about a weak creature like that."

Ethan nodded slowly, wanting to believe her, but a stubborn seed of doubt remained firmly rooted in his chest. Lane’s expression from earlier that day—so cold, so unyielding—flashed behind his eyelids.

As he shifted his weight, his eyes suddenly dropped to the fabric beneath them. In his hazy state, he hadn't noticed it before, but now he clearly spotted the silver wolf crest peeking out from under the tangled sheets. It was the ceremonial flag Lane’s mother had woven with her own hands, gifted to the pack just before she passed away.

Now, the sacred silk was crumpled, stained, and sticky from their tryst.

A sudden, suffocating wave of guilt crashed over him. He had stood before the Moon Goddess statue and promised to treasure that flag forever, to protect it as a sacred symbol of his honor and his alliance with Lane's family. To see it treated like garbage under his mistress made something twist painfully in his gut.

Sensing his sudden withdrawal, Maris purred loudly, leaning down to press her lips against his jawline. She released a heavy wave of her dominant, feral scent, completely clouding his senses once more. The guilt in Ethan's mind began to blur, the sharp edges of his conscience melting away under her touch. Groaning, he pushed the lingering shame into the darkest corners of his mind, flipping her over and claiming her again, letting the rest of the night fade into a mindless blur of lust.

Far across the courtyard in the eastern wing, Lane didn't go back to sleep. The disgusting images from the vision burned behind her eyelids, sealing her resolve into something lethal.

Long before the first light of dawn broke, Lane slipped out of the packhouse and pushed deep into the dense forests at the back of the mountains. The air here was sharp and biting, untouched by the suffocating politics of the Blackwood Pack.

Stripping off her outer layers, Lane let go of her restraint. For the first time in years, she allowed her Alpha-ranked wolf, Nyra, to surge to the surface. Nyra was massive, her coat a brilliant, unblemished white, her eyes glowing with the fierce intensity of a winter storm.

*‘We have stayed hidden for too long,’* Nyra’s voice echoed proudly within their shared mind.

Lane didn't answer; she simply ran. She pushed Nyra to her absolute limits, leaping over jagged ravines and tearing through the dense underbrush. Nyra needed to relearn how to hunt, how to fight, and how to properly use her fangs and claws after years of being forced into a docile, Omega-like submission to please her mother's final wishes. They practiced striking, tearing into dead tree trunks until the bark shattered. Lane could feel the dormant power in her blood unlocking with every passing mile. It would take a few weeks of intense training, but Nyra would be back in peak, devastating action soon.

The next morning, Lane bathed, dressed in a structured charcoal gown, and marched straight to Brenda’s private chambers. She knew the exact person she was looking for would be inside at this hour.

When Lane pushed the doors open, Brenda’s face instantly lit up with a smug, triumphant satisfaction. The older woman sat up in bed, gesturing grandly with her hands. "Oh, Lane, darling! I knew you would come around. You came at a wonderful time, too—Maris is on her way here right now. I figured the two of you could finally meet, sit down, and talk. You can get along like sisters, Lane. A good Luna knows how to share."

"No," Lane said immediately, her voice flat and ice-cold.

Brenda’s expression soured instantly, her faux-warmth twisting into a harsh frown.

But Lane didn't even look at her. Her gaze adjusted to the older woman standing beside the bed—Dr. Jean, a highly respected elder healer with silver hair and a stern face. Jean had been Lane’s mother's best friend for decades, and she was the only reason Lane had kept paying for Brenda's treatments.

Jean quietly packed away her medical instruments, completely ignoring Brenda’s glare. She wiped her hands on a cloth, gave Lane a knowing nod, and walked out into the corridor. Lane turned on her heel and followed, leaving Brenda stewing in her own anger.

Once they were a safe distance down the hall, Lane turned to the elder healer. "Dr. Jean, you don't have to come here anymore. Your services to this pack are officially concluded."

Jean stopped walking, a brilliant, relieved smile breaking across her stern face. "Honestly, Lane, even if you hadn't said it, today was going to be my absolute last time stepping into this filthy place. I can't stand that ungrateful old hag for another second."

Jean shook her head, her eyes softening as she looked at Lane. "You know I never liked the Blackwood Pack. I only came here week after week because of my loyalty to your late mother, and because I loved you. But watching them treat you like this..." Jean’s voice hardened. "What about you, Lane? Are you really going to keep putting up with this total shit?"

"No," Lane replied, a dangerous glint appearing in her eyes. "I am breaking my mate bond with Ethan very soon, and we are leaving for good."

Jean let out a soft, proud laugh, patting Lane's shoulder. "You are a clever girl, Lane. Good. Your mother wanted you to have peace, but she never would have wanted you to tolerate such absolute nonsense. Don't give them another single copper."

After parting ways with the healer, Lane returned to her chambers, a cold, calculating focus taking over. She sat down at her desk, pulled out a stack of financial ledgers, and began to run the final numbers. She calculated every single road paved, every grain of harvest bought, every uniform tailored, and every single drop of medicine Brenda had consumed over the past twelve months.

When Lane finally dipped her quill and wrote down the final total, even she was shocked by the staggering, astronomical amount of money she had used just to feed these stray wolves. The Blackwood Pack didn't just owe her an apology—they owed her a fortune they could never hope to repay.

Suddenly, the heavy door to her bedroom swung open with a violent creak. There was no knock, a blatant violation of privacy that instantly irritated Lane.

She lifted her head from the ledgers, her eyes darkening as Ethan and Maris walked into her private sanctuary, shamelessly holding hands in front of her.