Chapter 2

After I hung up, I started packing.

Ten years in the Silver Moon Pack, and I owned pitifully little that was actually mine.

The expensive bags, the designer clothes Caine had given me—I dumped all of it in the trash.

The next morning, my phone wouldn't stop ringing.

All Caine. I didn't answer a single call.

At two in the afternoon, someone kicked the door in.

“Miss Celina's welcome party is today.” Dray, the Beta, shoved inside with four warriors behind him. “She's got a kind heart. Asked for you by name.”

Before I could refuse, they were on me, hauling me into a car and driving me to the pack house.

For ten years this had been my home. The villa where Caine and I lived.

The door opened and I froze.

Everything inside had changed.

The curtains I'd picked were gone.

The living room I'd put together seven years ago—every lamp, every rug, every piece I'd chosen by hand—gone.

In its place, a whole white bohemian set, and on the wall, one enormous photograph.

In it, Celina had her arms around Caine's neck, smiling, sweet and radiant.

I'd begged him so many times to take a couples' photo with me.

He never had the time. The last time I asked, he turned me down the same as always, scoffing. “I don't get why you she-wolves are always after this stuff. What's the point of it?”

Then he went and took photos with another she-wolf.

“Beautiful, isn't it? Caine picked this one himself.” Celina's sweet voice came from behind me.

I turned.

She had her arm through Caine's, the two of them like they'd just stepped off a magazine cover.

“Celina,” he said, introducing me, careless. “This is Sophia. My secretary. She's handled a lot of messy business for me.”

Celina looked at me, a flicker of innocent curiosity in those blue eyes.

“I've heard so much about you,” she said, voice cloyingly sweet. “Caine always says he wouldn't know who to call for the... unsavory things without you. It must be exhausting.”

She leaned on unsavory just enough, her face full of sympathy.

Then the elders drifted over toward the two of them.

One of them, Victor, looked at me, then at Caine, and smiled like he knew something.

“Caine, Sophia's been with you all these years. We always assumed—”

The room went quiet.

My back went rigid.

Before Caine could speak, Celina stepped forward and took his arm.

“Elder Victor, you've got it all wrong.” Her voice went soft and sweet, like she was rescuing me. “Caine and Sophia are just superior and subordinate, of course. I've heard all about it—Sophia handles all the dirty work for him. So capable.”

She turned her head, eyes shining at me.

“Oh, that reminds me. I've been fretting over the wedding gown. Since you're so good with your hands, why don't you stitch a little of it yourself? A blessing for Caine and me. Wouldn't that be lovely?”

My stomach dropped. I started to refuse—and Caine's gaze landed on me.

His Alpha aura rolled out and pinned the words in my throat.

Celina waved a hand. A servant came forward at once, carrying a lavish gown and a wooden sewing box.

“The gown still needs some embroidery to symbolize our love. It's our token, Caine's and mine.” She stroked the white fabric, her voice full of longing. “I really do hope you'll bless us, Sophia.”

Everyone was watching me.

Caine spoke, flat as if he were assigning routine paperwork.

“Do it.”

I clenched my fist. Four more days. Then I'd be gone.

I walked over, opened the box, and reached for a needle.

The burn shot up instantly, like fire driven straight into bone.

Silver.

I snatched my hand back. The needle dropped and rang against the floor.

My fingertip was already red and swollen, an unnatural scald rising under the skin.

Hurt flickered across Celina's face, her voice going small.

“Sophia... you wouldn't refuse to bless Caine and me, would you?”

Every elder's eyes swung to me. The whispering started.

Caine's face darkened.

The next second, the heavy weight of his aura slammed down without warning.

The air in the whole hall froze solid, and my knees nearly buckled under the pressure.

“Pick it up.” His voice was quiet. The force behind it left no room to argue.

I bit down hard, dropped to one knee, and lifted the silver needle off the floor.

The burn crept up from my fingertips, but I didn't dare let go again.

I threaded it. The first stitch went in, my fingers already shaking from the silver, the stitches crooked.

The second went wide and drove straight into my fingertip.

Blood welled up, mixing with the scalded skin.

“Oh dear.” Celina leaned in, not a trace of real concern in her eyes. “Do be careful.”

I said nothing and kept going.

Third stitch, fourth, each one biting deeper into the flesh.

Caine stood a little way off, a glass in his hand, watching all of it. He said nothing.

On the fifth stitch I finally lost it—a low grunt escaped me, and blood ran off my fingertip onto the pure white fabric, blooming into one small, glaring red flower.

Caine finally moved.

“Enough,” he said, flat.