Chapter 2

• Nysa POV
• 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. My head turns before I can stop it.
• Across the fire, standing with the Nightfang wolves, is Darius Fenwick.
• Older now. Broader. Scars up his arm catching the firelight. Same cold green eyes that looked down at my father’s body.
• The bond slams into me so hard I taste blood.
• Lyssandra growls, low and sure. Ours.
• I choke on a breath. No.
• 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.
• Not ours, I think. Never ours.
• The lie tastes bitter, but I hold it anyway.