Chapter 2

Fifteen years ago, at the Moon Feast, I met Caius.

The heir to the Frostthorn clan had no business sneaking away from a cross-pack alliance banquet—but I couldn't hold out any longer. Rooms like that had always made me feel like I was suffocating.

The wind on the sea cliff was strong. I leaned against the stone railing and drew a long, clean breath. The moonlight had shattered the water below into a thousand shifting pieces of silver.

The next moment, a man's voice came from beside me.

"Slipped out too?"

I turned.

A young man was leaning against one of the terrace pillars, his tie loosened halfway down his chest, a hint of careless amusement at the corner of his brow. His presence was powerful—that deep, mountain-forest quality particular to a true pack leader—but he wore it easily. No deliberate suppression, no deliberate display.

I recognized him. Caius Raven. The new head of the Raven Pack, recently settled into his role. At the time he wasn't yet a top name in the alliance circles—most people who mentioned him said only "old Raven's son."

He didn't know who I was. Or rather, his standing at the time hadn't brought him anywhere near the inner circles of the Frostthorn bloodline.

That was delightful.

He had no idea.

We talked on that terrace for hours. About the coastline, about the foolish things we'd each done as children running wild in the mountains, about why even members of the same species couldn't manage to speak plainly to one another—why every greeting had to sound like a territorial assessment.

That was the first time anyone had ever argued with me in earnest about whether venison tasted better roasted or stewed.

For the entire night, I was just a girl. Not the Frostthorn heir. Not the daughter Griffin Frostthorn had chosen to carry the line. Not a piece on a board to be married off to some well-matched pack leader for the sake of territorial consolidation.

Just Ella.

That feeling was too good. Good enough that I later threw every careful calculation aside trying to hold onto it.

When my father Griffin learned that I intended to marry Caius under a false name, he was silent for a long time.

He didn't rage. Griffin Frostthorn never raged at me.

"Do you know what you're giving up?" he asked, with a sigh. Those eyes that had witnessed so much blood and ruin held a kind of sorrow I was too young then to read clearly.

"I do."

He sighed again and said nothing more.

On the day I left the Frostthorn stronghold, he placed the clan seal on the table and said only: "It will always be here waiting for you."

I locked everything that belonged to the Frostthorns into the deepest part of myself and, as an ordinary wolf-girl, married into the Raven Pack.

I married the man who had asked me on that moonlit terrace whether I'd slipped out too.

"Still awake?"

Caius's voice pulled me back from the depths of memory.

He stood in the bedroom doorway, holding a bowl of porridge, his expression carrying its usual composed warmth. "Lara said you didn't eat tonight. I just made this—eat something, it's good for you and the pup."

He was like this. So gentle. So entirely unlike the man who had been laughing at me in that council room.

Caius. Which one of you is real?

I drank the porridge and sank back into a heavy sleep.

In the late stages of pregnancy I was always drowsy. By the time I woke again, Caius had already left the castle.

In the darkness, I began to cry quietly.

Forgive me—a pregnant woman ruled by hormones has every right to cry.

I cried for a long time, until the pillow was soaked through.

Then, slowly, my breathing steadied.

I sat up in the dark and padded barefoot into the study.

I had never searched through Caius's things before. I had trusted him, completely.

But that was then.

The safe's lock didn't last forty seconds against the Frostthorn clan's backup override tool.

Caius's secondary communicator lay there, perfectly still.

After unlocking it, I found an encrypted group.

Its name: Luna's Private Session.

The breath left my body.

Colt. Rex. Boulder. And Ivan. All core figures within the pack.

I scrolled up.

Ivan, three days ago: "Friday's slots are full. Two spots left for next Tuesday—first come, first served. Full deep sedation, zero memory risk."

Colt: "Last session was excellent. I want first slot this time. Payment through the usual account as before."

Rex: "I'm bringing someone. Leon from the Southern Zone—he'll pay double."

Ivan: "Outsiders require vetting at least forty-eight hours in advance. Old rules: no photos, no recordings. Anyone who breaks that is on their own."

Boulder: "The Luna's quite far along now. Any complications with that?"

Ivan: "Asked the pack healer. No issues at this stage. And didn't you all say last time... that it actually made it better? Don't worry."

Below that, a string of replies—a laughing face, someone writing "understood."

My fingers began to shake uncontrollably.

At the very bottom, a message from yesterday, from Ivan again:

"Heads up, everyone—final session before the advancement ceremony. Consider it a farewell gift before you enter the inner circle. Six spots, first come, first served. Price down by twenty percent. Sign up today—only four spots left. The Lady is in good condition."

A dozen men queued up in reply beneath it.

Disgusting.

Obscene.

Caius. What is this?

While I was sleeping—while I was unconscious—what were you doing to me?