Chapter 1

• Nysa POV
• People say I was born cursed.
• The daughter of a traitor Alpha.
• The girl who survived the Nightfang massacre when stronger wolves didn’t.
• The child Darius Fenwick should’ve killed and didn’t.
• Silverstrike never lets me forget any of it.
• I grew up on whispers. On pity disguised as kindness. On wolves lowering their voices when I walked past.
• Poor Nysa.
• The dead Alpha’s daughter.
• The cursed girl with the white streak in her hair.
• Like grief marked me permanent.
• Thirteen years since Nightfang burned through our walls and Darius Fenwick put his claws through my father’s chest.
• Thirteen years since Kaelen—his Beta—hauled me out of the smoke and told me to keep my eyes shut.
• I didn’t.
• Now my brother wears the Alpha mark of a pack everyone calls cursed.
• Silverstrike rebuilt, but not the same. Half our wolves are gone—sold, killed, or too scared to come back. Ronan acts like the Council respects us again.
• I let him pretend.
• Someone has to.
• Bonfires eat the sky, smoke rolling so thick it stings my eyes.
• The Luna Moon Gathering always looks holy in stories—moonlight, drums, the Elders blessing the bloodlines. Up close it’s heat, sweat, and packs pretending to like each other for one night.
• Myra elbows me, grinning like this is a party. “You’re supposed to look honored, Nys.”
• “I’m honored that it’s almost over.”
• She laughs, shaking her head, all bright and untouched. I wish I still had that kind of shine.
• Ronan stands a few feet away, back straight, scanning the crowd like he’s guarding a throne instead of a fire pit.
• He’s only twenty-eight but looks older—too many fights, too many losses. His hand twitches every time the Nightfang wolves move.
• “Relax,” I mutter. “It’s neutral ground.”
• “Neutral doesn’t mean safe,” he says without looking at me.
• He’s right, but I won’t give him that.
• Drums shift. The Elders start chanting, old words that taste like iron in the air. Every Luna of age steps forward; I feel Myra’s fingers brush mine as we line up around the fire.
• Silver dust, ash, ritual—same as every year.
• Only difference is tonight I’m the last of Silverstrike’s daughters. The one who has to prove the curse didn’t stick.
• The Elder drags a line of ash across my palm. The world narrows. The heat hits hard—pulse, breath, everything. My chest tightens until I can’t breathe.
• Nysa.
• The voice curls through my head, low, calm, ancient.
• Who—?
• I am Lyssandra, it says. Your wolf.
• Light surges under my skin, silver threading through my veins. Around me other girls drop to their knees, crying or laughing.
• Myra’s shaking beside me. I should feel joy. All I feel is the weight of someone new inside my bones.
• Then Lyssandra’s tone changes—rougher, fierce.
• Mate.
• The word hits like claws to the chest.
• I nearly stumble.
• Heat crashes through my body, sharp and sudden, settling low in my stomach before I can fight it. My wolf presses against my ribs like she’s trying to claw her way toward him.
• Him.
• My head turns before I can stop it.
• Across the fire, standing with the Nightfang wolves, is Darius Fenwick.
• Older now.
• Bigger everywhere that mattered.
• Broad shoulders stretch the dark fabric across his chest, sleeves shoved to his elbows, exposing scarred forearms thick with muscle.
• Firelight cuts across the sharp lines of his face, across the faint scar near his mouth.
• Power rolls off him without effort—quiet, brutal, the kind that doesn’t need to bare its teeth to make a room submit.
• Same cold green eyes that looked down at my father’s body.
• Only now they’re on me.
• My pulse stutters.
• He doesn’t move.
• Doesn’t smile.
• But the weight of his stare drags slowly over me anyway, possessive enough to make heat crawl beneath my skin.
• The bond slams tighter.
• I taste blood.
• Lyssandra growls, low and sure.
• Ours.
• No.
• Panic spikes fast and ugly.
• His gaze finds mine across the flames. Flat, unreadable. Like he’s been waiting for this. Like he already knew.
• He did.
• Somehow, he did.
• Myra’s whisper barely reaches me. “Nys? You’re glowing.”
• Great. Fantastic. Glowing while my soul ties itself to the man who destroyed my family.
• The drums thunder again. The Elders cheer. The crowd howls for the new Lunas. I stand still, smiling for show, heart beating like it wants out.
• When it’s over, Ronan pulls me into a quick hug. “You did good, little sister.”
• “Sure. Internal voices and spontaneous fireworks. Perfect night.”
• He laughs, proud, blind. Myra’s still crying happy tears. No one notices Darius watching me as the crowd shifts and scatters.
• Lyssandra whispers, softer now. He’s ours.
• I stare through the smoke at the man who ended my father and feel the bond burn under my skin like a brand I can’t scrape off.
• Every instinct in me screams to run.
• The worse truth?
• Some traitorous part of me wants to walk straight into the fire and see what happens when he touches me.
• Not ours, I think fiercely. Never ours.
• The lie tastes bitter.
• But I hold onto it anyway.