In the third, they posed together—Selene leaning against Fenris's shoulder, smiling, while his gaze remained fixed on her face with a tenderness that had once belonged only to Lyra. The way he looked at her—like she was his true mate, like her scent was the only one that called to his wolf.
She recognized the wound on Selene's finger immediately. It was from yesterday—a stray shard of ceremonial porcelain that had grazed her when she'd smashed the vase over Lyra's head.
Thirteen stitches. Blood pooling on the stone floor. Nearly dead.
And in his version, she'd "done it to herself."
Meanwhile, that tiny scratch on Selene's finger warranted this level of devotion—him kneeling before her, ready to lay the entire territory at her feet.
Lyra stared at the screen, gripping the communicator so hard her fingertips turned white, her knuckles audibly cracking.
The glow of the screen reflected in her reddened eyes. Every memory of her time with Fenris—every promise, every vow, every time he'd nuzzled against her neck and sworn she was his fated one—now twisted into blades that carved into her heart. The pain was suffocating. Her throat closed up. She couldn't make a sound.
It took a full thirty seconds before she could draw a breath deep enough to swallow the sob rising in her throat.
She opened her personal archive and pulled up the surveillance recording from the Ashenvale den's main hall—captured by the hidden scry-stone she'd installed behind a decorative tapestry, a precaution she'd taken against Selene long ago.
The recording was crystal clear: Selene raising the ceremonial porcelain vase. The impact. The triumphant smirk on her face afterward. Her scent spiking with satisfaction rather than distress.
Once she'd confirmed the evidence was intact, Lyra sent word to the Pack Enforcers without hesitation. Her voice was hoarse but every word was precise: "I wish to report an assault to the Territory Wardens. I have complete scry-stone evidence."
Less than an hour later, the door to her healing chamber burst open, slamming against the stone wall with a sharp bang that shattered the silence.
Fenris strode in wearing formal pack attire—a fitted dark coat that marked his Alpha status, every aspect of his appearance immaculate. He'd clearly come straight from some official pack function.