Chapter 3

That night, the fever hit hard.

Through the haze I heard the bedroom door open. Dominic sat on the edge of the mattress, and his fingers — cool, steady, smelling like pine and rain — pressed against my forehead. My wolf whimpered beneath my skin, rolling toward his touch the way a starving thing rolls toward warmth. Pathetic. Loyal. Unable to help itself.

I leaned into his hand. Maybe the fever had burned through the last of my pride. My fingers found his cuff and closed around it.

"Tonight… can you stay?"

His thumb traced my temple. Slow. The pad of it rough against my damp skin. Something moved behind those dark eyes — something I hadn't seen in months. His wolf, maybe. Pressing forward. Wanting.

Then his phone buzzed.

Lyra's voice bled through the receiver, thin as cracking ice: "Dominic… the wound is acting up again… can you come?"

His thumb stopped on my skin.

He looked at me — looked at my fingers gripping his sleeve, at the flush crawling up my throat, at my eyes that couldn't focus on anything but him.

Then he reached down and peeled my fingers off. One by one. Gentle — the way you handle something fragile that you've already decided to set down. Every single one pulled loose.

He picked up his jacket. Walked to the door. Didn't look back.

The click was soft. In the feverish quiet, it landed somewhere inside my ribcage and stayed there.

I dragged the ledger from under the pillow. My hand was shaking so badly the pen skipped twice.

"Burning with fever, I begged him to stay. He chose Lyra. −10."

"Balance: 65."

I pressed the notebook to my chest and shut my eyes. My whole body shook with fever, but my eyes were dry. Aching. Hollow.

That downpour on the chapel steps should have used up all my tears.

Dominic didn't come back for a day and a night.

The fever surged and ebbed. I lay curled alone, roasting one hour, freezing the next. Every time I opened my eyes, I expected to see him pushing through the door. All that greeted me was empty air and the fading ghost of his scent in the sheets.

By evening, the lock finally turned.

He walked in wearing different clothes. My gaze landed on his collar — a faint smear of pink, half-hidden in the fold of fabric. Not blood. Lipstick. The shade Lyra wore.

His eyes passed over my face for less than a second.

"Get changed. You're coming with me."

He didn't ask if the fever had broken. Didn't care what it felt like to survive a day and a night alone, the bond throbbing under my skin with no one on the other end.

I didn't argue. I'd already decided to leave. No point burning breath on a man who couldn't hear me.

The car stopped outside a private venue in Manhattan. Through the glass I saw columns of white flowers flanking the entrance, silk banners cascading from the second floor.

Not a pack meeting. A party.

I followed Dominic inside and stopped dead.

A banner stretched across the center in gold: Welcome Home, Lyra.

"Sera!" Lyra swept out of the crowd. Floor-length white gown, collarbones catching the light. The second she saw me, something sharp moved through her eyes — gone in a blink, swapped for breathless delight.

She caught my wrist. Her grip was stronger than it looked.

"I felt terrible about the garden. So I asked Dominic to bring you tonight." A pause — timed, measured. "I can't believe he actually listened."

There it was. Delivered with a smile, landing like a blade between my ribs. He listens to me. You're just what I requested.

I pulled my hand free. "It's done."

"Thank you for understanding." Lashes fluttering. "I hope you have a lovely evening."

Dominic's gaze pressed against the side of my face — heavy with warning. The way an Alpha watches a wolf that might bolt.

I walked to the bar and drained half a champagne flute. The bubbles burned going down. Good. Something should.

Viktor rose with a glass and announced before every allied Alpha that he was formally taking Lyra into Silvercrest as his goddaughter.

Silvercrest. The name I'd just ripped from my own skin — already pinned to her chest.

Then Lyra stood to speak. Soft. Trembling. Perfect.

"…Thank you, Dominic, for standing by me all these years." Her eyes found him across the room. "He's the most important person in my life."

The crowd pushed Dominic into responding. He raised his glass. His gaze held Lyra's, and his mouth curved into something I had never been given — not once in two years.

"Lyra is the most important person in my life. I'm glad she's home."

The hall burst into applause.

I stood in the corner watching them hold each other's gaze across the room — effortless, public, unapologetic. The thing I'd begged for in the dark and never received. My champagne glass creaked faintly between my fingers.

During the second half of dinner, I slipped out to the terrace.

A hand landed on my waist.

"The Silvercrest girl? All alone out here?"

A middle-aged wolf. Flushed. Eyes crawling.

"Remove your hand."

His fingers slid lower. I glanced through the glass doors.

Dominic was bent over Lyra, dabbing wine from the hem of her dress with a napkin. She tilted her head and murmured something close to his ear. He leaned in.

Every shred of his attention — hers.

I looked back at the hand on my waist. Then I drove four inches of stiletto into the man's instep.

His scream was brief. One look at my face and he limped away without a word.

The restroom door opened, and Lyra was already inside. As if she'd been waiting.

"Sera." She smiled. Then pulled a stack of papers from her clutch.

My handwriting. My words. Every letter I'd ever written Dominic — every clumsy confession, every desperate I love you. In her hands.

"Dominic's welcome-home gift to me." Her voice was silk. "He said he didn't want any unnecessary misunderstandings between us."

Unnecessary misunderstandings. That was what my heart looked like to him. A mess to be tidied.

She opened the one on top — the one I'd poured the most of myself into. A little crescent moon in the corner of the page.

"You don't actually think you matter to him." The softness dropped. Her voice went flat and bare. "After tonight, it should be obvious. The only one he wants is me. It always has been."

I didn't answer. Because she already knew the truth better than I did.

I walked out.

Back at the apartment, I pulled the ledger from under the pillow.

"In front of everyone, he declared Lyra the most important person in his life. −10."

"While a stranger's hands were on me, he was busy tending to his precious girl. −15."

"Balance: 40."

I flipped back through the earlier pages — the love diary with its little moons, the sketches, the pressed wildflower he'd brought me once. I'd kept it like it meant something, because he almost never gave me anything.

Beside the last crescent moon, I drew an X.

I closed the notebook, picked up my phone, and dialed an encrypted number.

"Everything I asked you to prepare — is it ready?"

A low voice confirmed.

I hung up and slid the ledger back under the pillow.

Before I go, every last one of them gets a parting gift.