After My Mate Killed Our Pup

Sophie found me in the courtyard at mid-morning, when the sun was high enough to cast sharp shadows and six warriors were gathered near the training posts, waiting for Emmett to brief them on border patrol rotations.

I had a serving tray in my hands. Tea service for the Luna suite. The same route I walked every morning now, invisible as furniture, my wheelchair left behind because Sophie preferred her Omega upright and useful.

She came across the stones with her forearm held out like an offering, four parallel scratches running from wrist to elbow, red and deliberate. Her voice carried before she reached me.

"That animal you've been feeding," she said, breathless and warm with distress. "It attacked me. I was only trying to move it off pack property, and it lunged."

I looked at the scratches. Too even. Too shallow. The kind of marks you make when you drag your own nails down your own skin, controlled and careful.

I said nothing.

Emmett turned from the warriors, his jaw already tight with irritation. He didn't want this disruption. Didn't want Sophie's voice carrying across the courtyard where his authority required a visible response. But she had staged it perfectly—six witnesses, broad daylight, her Luna pendant catching the sun.

"The dog needs to be put down," Sophie said, looking at Emmett now, not me. "And she needs to be disciplined for endangering pack members."

Emmett's eyes flicked to me. I stood with the tray balanced in both hands, my face blank, my body still. I had learned stillness in the four weeks since the rejection. I had learned to hold everything inside my chest where no one could see it move.

He crossed the courtyard in four strides. I didn't flinch. Didn't brace. I watched his hand come up and felt the blow land across my cheek with enough force to send me sideways into the courtyard wall.

The tray hit the stone. Porcelain shattered. Tea spread in a dark stain across the ground.

I tasted blood. The impact had split something inside my mouth, and I felt the copper warmth spread across my tongue. My vision blurred for half a second, then cleared.

Six warriors watched. Reid Calloway's jaw went tight, a muscle jumping under the skin, but his boots stayed planted. No one moved. No one spoke.

I pushed myself upright against the wall. Slowly. My hands found the stone, pressed flat, and I levered myself back to standing without assistance. I did not touch my face. Did not wipe the blood from my lip. I looked at the shattered tray on the ground, at the tea spreading between the cracks, and I bent to pick up the pieces.

My hands didn't shake. Not here. Not in front of them.

I set the tray upright. Collected the largest shards of porcelain and placed them carefully in the center. Then I straightened, turned, and walked back toward the pack house at the same measured pace I had walked out.

Behind me, Sophie's voice rose again, something about gratitude and discipline. Emmett's reply was clipped and dismissive. I didn't turn to listen.

I walked inside. Set the tray on the kitchen counter. Pressed two fingers to the dead mark on my neck and felt nothing answer.

Then I went to the servants' quarters and waited for night.

—

At 2:51 in the morning, I rolled myself to the terminal for the last time.

My cheek throbbed. The split inside my mouth had stopped bleeding hours ago, but I could still taste copper when I swallowed. The crescent brand on my forearm was four days old, still raw, still weeping clear fluid when I moved wrong. My wolf was silent. She had been silent for weeks now, buried so deep under the wolfsbane and silver that some nights I forgot she had ever spoken at all.

But my hands remembered how to work.

I logged in. My credentials held. They always held.

I opened the file I had been building piece by piece, night after night, in the narrow window between patrol passes and camera arcs. Medical wing footage: Emmett's voice, cold and clinical, ordering Marcus to inject silver into my mark site and administer concentrated wolfsbane twice daily. Banquet hall footage: my collapse, the blood, Emmett's hand resting on Sophie's back while I bled out our pup on the floor. Financial records: three transfers from the Luna discretionary account to an external supplier, procuring wolfsbane tinctures in bulk. And my own written account, timestamped and detailed, documenting the silver branding, the forced suppression, the staged confrontation in the courtyard.

I compiled it into a single encrypted file.

Then I opened the emergency protocol I had installed two years ago, when I was still Luna, still useful, still someone Emmett pretended to value. It was designed for direct contact with the Lycan Council in the event of a territorial crisis or a challenge to pack law that required external arbitration. I had built it myself. Tested it once. Never revoked.

I attached the file. Entered the Council's secure relay code. And pressed send.

The screen blinked. Processing. Then: Delivery confirmed. 3:17 a.m.

I stared at the confirmation for a long moment. My hands were steady. My breathing was even. Somewhere far below all of that, in a place the wolfsbane couldn't reach, something that had been keeping score for weeks finally closed the ledger.

I logged out. Wiped the terminal history. Rolled back through the blind on the four-count.

In the servants' quarters, I lay on the cot and pressed two fingers to the cold place on my neck. My wolf didn't answer. But I didn't need her to.

I had already spoken.