[Ronan, don’t forget to grab more moonflower potions when you’re out! Last night was… intense, and we’re all out. You’re insatiable, you wild wolf! 🥰]
Two minutes later, the message was deleted, followed by another:
[Oh no! I sent that to the wrong person. Miss Ayla, you didn’t see anything, did you? ]
I stared at her words, my wolf stirring uneasily within me. Violet’s fake innocence grated against my fraying composure. But instead of replying, my fingers tapped into her social media feed, curiosity overriding better judgment.
Photo after photo unfolded before me, each one like a claw to my chest. Violet had been back in the Shadowclaw territory for an entire month, during which Ronan had spared no effort to indulge her. Seraphis Valley. Mount Kaelen. Celestria Spire. Every destination I had once begged Ronan to visit with me, he had gone to with her instead.
My thoughts raced as I pieced together the timeline. It was during those trips that Ronan claimed he was overwhelmed with Alpha duties, insisting I handle tedious administrative work on his behalf. At the time, I thought it was his way of sharing responsibility with me, a sign that he trusted me as his future Luna. Now, I saw it for what it truly was—an excuse to spend time with Violet.
Each post cut deeper than the last. The photos of them smiling together, her hand resting possessively on his chest, shattered the illusion I had clung to for years. Every time I had tried to take a photo of us together, Ronan refused, brushing me off with excuses:
“If Lizzie finds out I’m dating her best friend, she’ll rip me apart.”
“Pack gossip is brutal, Ayla. I’m just protecting you.”
But the truth was clear now—Ronan had never wanted to protect me. He had wanted to hide me.
Just as I was about to close the app, a new post from Violet appeared at the top of her feed. My heart froze.
It was a live photo. The setting was unmistakably Ronan’s quarters, the massive wolf-engraved bed in the background. Violet lounged on the bed in a silk camisole, her slender fingers trailing over a man’s muscular torso. When I clicked on the photo, it played, and I heard it—his voice.
“Ayla,” he had whispered countless times to me before, his tone always low and seductive.
But as the photo played, I realized something horrifying: the name he murmured wasn’t mine. It was hers.
Violet.