Chapter 4

Three days later, the Blackmoor Pack hosted an alliance dinner at their estate on the Hudson.

Unlike every gathering before, tonight Dominic had a she-wolf on his arm.

Two years he'd refused to let me stand beside him in public — always in the name of protecting our bond. "If rival packs know you're my weakness, they'll use you against me." I'd believed him. Swallowed it like medicine. The moment Lyra came back, every one of those reasons collapsed into nothing.

And me? Seated three places from the head of the table — close enough to read every shift in his expression, far enough that his gaze never once found mine.

He pulled out her chair. Poured her wine. When her wrap slipped, he leaned across and retied it — fingers brushing her shoulder, lingering there a beat too long. She tilted her head and smiled up at him. When she spoke, he bent closer to listen. His mouth near her ear. And the man the whole Eastern Seaboard called cold and untouchable — the Blackmoor heir — let a smile touch his lips.

I finished the last of my champagne. The bubbles seared my throat. My chest seized tight, and every breath felt like pulling air through a fist.

Then the windows exploded inward.

Rogue wolves. Three of them — massive, scarred, feral — came crashing through the glass in full shift. Screams erupted. Guests scattered. Tables overturned. The scent of blood and broken glass hit the air like a wall.

Through the chaos, I watched Dominic move.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't think. His body folded over Lyra's in a single motion — back arched, arms caging her completely, his wolf surging beneath his skin as he shielded every inch of her.

And me?

A rogue's claw caught my left arm. White-hot pain ripped from shoulder to elbow. The force threw me sideways, and the back of my skull cracked against the marble floor.

Consciousness started to splinter.

The pain was blinding, but what tore deeper was the raw, animal understanding of being discarded. Frames of what I'd once believed was love flickered past — him pushing open my door at midnight, pressing me against the wall, his voice low and wrecked calling me little moon. Those rare moments he almost smiled. Those nights I fell asleep on his chest, counting his heartbeats, foolish enough to believe I was the one he'd protect.

One moment shattered every illusion: the instant the attack came, his body went to Lyra. Instinct. Bone-deep. Unchosen and irreversible.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in the pack's medical wing. A healer stood beside me, examining the wound. Dominic was nowhere.

"You're awake." The healer frowned at my arm. "It's deep. Eight stitches, at least." He turned to his assistant. "Prep a sedative."

"No." My voice came out like gravel. "Just stitch it."

"Miss Voss, the pain—"

"I know."

The needle piercing flesh was sharp and precise. I stared at the ceiling tiles and didn't make a sound.

I needed this. Needed it branded into my nerve endings — a physical record of everything that happened tonight.

After the wound was dressed, I checked myself out. Passing the nurses' station, I caught their murmured voices.

"That adopted Silvercrest girl is getting the royal treatment — the Blackmoor heir reserved the entire private wing for her, sitting by her bed himself."

"Right? The girl barely got scratched, but he's acting like she's dying. I heard he's hand-feeding her bone broth…"

"And the other one — her arm's ripped open and nobody even checked on her…"

My steps faltered. Just for a beat.

Then I lifted my head and kept walking.

I didn't go back to Dominic's apartment. I paid cash for three nights at a motel outside pack territory.

Over those three days, his calls came in endlessly. The screen lit up over and over — his name pulsing against the dark like a heartbeat I no longer wanted. I rejected every one.

On the third evening, someone knocked.

I opened the door. Dominic stood in the hallway, jaw set, eyes dark.

"Why aren't you answering?"

I leaned against the doorframe. Made no move to let him in. "Something you need?"

"I heard you were hurt." His gaze dropped to the bandage on my arm, a crease forming between his brows. "Why haven't you come back?"

I pulled at the corner of my mouth. The smile didn't reach my eyes. "It's nothing. Almost healed."

He studied me for several seconds. Waiting, I realized, for the explosion. The tantrum. The tears. The version of me he was used to managing.

But I just looked back at him. Calm. Quiet.

"Sera." His brow tightened. "That night — I went to Lyra because she was right beside me. And she's fragile. Her wolf can't absorb impact the way yours can—"

"I know," I said. "You shielded the one who needed it most. Makes sense."

His expression froze. Just for a fraction of a second — but I caught it. This stillness in me unsettled him more than any outburst ever had.

He stepped closer and caught my chin, tilting my face up. The move he always made — possessive, commanding. His thumb resting against my lower lip, his eyes scanning mine for the crack, the give, the place where I'd break and fall back into him.

That touch used to make my wolf roll over. Now it made my stomach turn.

"Sera, what's going on in that head of yours?"

"Nothing." I turned my face, slipping free of his grip.

He stared at me. Something unreadable passed through his eyes.

Then his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. The instant he answered, his voice softened — dropped into that low, careful register I used to think was reserved for me.

"Lyra?… Your shoulder's hurting again?… I'm on my way."

He hung up. Looked at me.

"I have to go."

"Go," I said. "She needs you."

"I'll come check on you later."

He turned and left. His footsteps faded down the hallway — quick, urgent. The way you move toward something that matters.

The second the door closed, I slid down against it until I hit the floor.

The tears came. Hard. Silent. Shaking through me in waves I couldn't stop.

But I knew — these were the last ones I would ever cry for him.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out the ledger.

"When the rogues attacked, he threw himself over Lyra. I took a claw to the arm. −15."

"Lyra walked away without a scratch and got a private wing. I got eight stitches with no sedative and nobody came. −10."

"Balance: 15."

I stared at that number for a long time.

Fifteen points.

I never expected this ledger to hit bottom so fast. The moment I stopped running and looked at this bond head-on, I saw how thin it had always been.

I closed the notebook and tucked it away.

Enough. I would never again burn myself alive for a wolf who only ever handed me ashes.