Chapter 2

Five years ago, Sophia Lang set me up.

She stole the Moonstone Luna Pendant, our mother's heirloom, from Kieran and sold it on the black market. Then she said it was me.

That pendant was meant for the future Luna of our pack. When it went missing, Kieran exploded. He forced me to kneel in a blizzard for three days and nights, crushing me under his Alpha pressure, demanding to know where I'd sold it.

But how would I know?

I told him it was Sophia's doing, that she was just jealous because he and I were real siblings.

Kieran refused to believe a single word.

Stealing a sacred relic. Betraying the family. Showing no remorse.

Every one of those crimes struck at the heart of Kieran's wrath.

With Sophia whispering poison in his ear, he stripped me of every family privilege, severed my psychic bond with the pack, and tossed me out of the Harrington estate like garbage.

The first six months, I managed.

I found a sales job in the human world. Without the strength of the pack, I wasn't powerful, but I could still scrape by. Even had a little left over.

Then everything changed.

Kieran called me—his one and only call in five years.

"Haven't you crawled back to confess yet? Just tell me who you sold the pendant to, and I'll let you rejoin the pack."

The stubborn wolf in me snapped.

"I already told you it wasn't me! Ask your precious Sophia—it was her!"

Kieran hung up without another word. That very day, I was fired from my job.

He made sure no one in the entire state would hire me. Said outright that anyone who dared help Nora Harrington was an enemy of the Harrington Pack.

From then on, I couldn't find a single decent job.

I ended up working nights at The Den, a shady bar in the neutral zone. It was the only place outside his control.

It felt like Kieran was doing it on purpose. He made a public spectacle of Sophia, declaring her the sole heiress of the Harrington family. He took her to every regional werewolf council, every charity gala, and every auction.

He threw money around like it meant nothing—hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time.

Their photos were all over the finance section of the Werewolf Daily.

And I? I stayed in the shadows.

Without the psychic link to the pack, my body lost its healing factor. Years of alcohol and malnutrition broke me down. I developed stomach cancer.

For a normal werewolf, that wouldn't be a death sentence. But I was a Rogue. My healing genes had gone dormant long ago.

I tried every doctor I could and spent every cent I had.

I even borrowed from loan sharks. But it still wasn't enough.

The treatments tailored for werewolves were too expensive. Chemotherapy? I couldn't afford it, not even close.

I called Kieran once to ask for help.

I barely got a few words out before he snapped,

"Is money all you ever think about?"

"If you won't come back and apologize, don't even dream of getting a cent from me. Just die out there."

That call snuffed out what little hope I had left.

I was tired. So damn tired.

If he wanted me dead, then fine—he could have it.

At least, once I returned to the Moon Goddess, the pain would stop.

A month ago, I prepaid for cremation at a human funeral home. Werewolves usually have burial rites, but I had no territory. No right to be buried in the family plot.

I scraped together what I could, but I still owed five hundred dollars.

The funeral director called nearly every day to demand the rest.

I thought I could come up with it today.

But Kieran handed ten grand to that pathetic manager like it was pocket change and wouldn't spare me five hundred.

He marched out of the bar with his entourage, all proud and polished.

I was left in the bathroom, vomiting blood and alcohol until the walls spun around me. Clots of dark red spilled from my stomach, bitter and burning.

Only one thought echoed in my mind.

Three bottles of whiskey—wasted.

Joey, the shift lead, stood beside me, cigarette hanging from her lips.

"What the hell did you do to piss off Kieran Harrington? He left here looking like he was about to summon a storm. You two got history or something?"

Pain stabbed through my gut, and my head felt like it was splitting open.

I couldn't even keep my eyes open. I clung to the toilet bowl, trying not to fall in.

"Don't know him," I muttered, voice dry and cracked. "Probably just enemies."