I watched the wolf who should have been confined in the binding den for three more days. He stood there in ceremonial attire that cost more than everything I possessed, looking every inch the ruthless Alpha Heir.
He pulled Lily—his precious little Omega—into his arms, his expression softening with adoration as he wished her a joyful birth-moon.
Then I turned away, my face revealing nothing, and made my way back to my underground den.
Dark. Damp. I had survived here for three years.
The washing alcove sat just inside the entrance. Mold crept across the walls in patches that had built up over moons and seasons. The scent of decay drifted through the stale air without warning.
When I first took shelter here, I retched every single day.
For the first twenty-five years of my life, I had been cherished. The precious firstborn daughter of the Nightveil bloodline. I had never known a day of true hardship.
I was a moon-blessed artist, celebrated across territories. Recognition and honors lined my shelves—so many I had lost count.
At the height of my renown, Alaric Blackthorn—the golden heir of the Blackthorn Pack—dropped to one knee and offered his claiming promise.
After we completed our mating bond, he indulged me even more.
Just like that, I had become the she-wolf every female dreamed of being. The pack whispers called me "fortune's chosen."
Until Alaric brought a timid, soft-voiced Omega Liaison into his service named Lily Ashgrove.
She was the daughter of my family's household attendant, yet she competed with me at every turn.
Her garments were not as fine as mine, so she mocked me as a useless trophy mate.
Her abilities could not match mine, so she whispered behind my back that I had either been born under a lucky moon or spread my legs to reach my standing.
Worse still, she had schemed her way into becoming Alaric's personal Omega Liaison—and never missed a chance to poison his thoughts against me.
She told him I tormented her mother in our estate. That I destroyed her clothing.
That I had forced her to kneel and serve me like a lowborn servant.
I believed the truth would speak for itself. I never bothered to defend my honor.
Until the day I finally completed the painting I had worked on for two years.
I was about to have it properly mounted and preserved. I stepped away for just a moment.
When I returned, it was covered in ink.