Her breath caught. Red crept into her eyes—part hurt, part rising anger—and she snatched away the offerings I had prepared for Noah's memorial.
"Why have you been acting like this lately? Do you understand what it means if he attends? It means the pack will see him as the Valeheart heir-consort. You never would have allowed that before."
I paused, then gave her a bored glance.
"And that's a problem? Two moons ago, when you were helping him through his rut-fever, didn't you say it was a shame you could never give him a proper place at your side?"
I watched her face drain of color until she stood frozen like a statue carved from pale stone.
I took back the memorial items, my emotions so steady it was as if nothing had happened.
She hovered at my ear, babbling explanations—claiming she didn't love him, that she only felt responsible because they had shared a rut-bond. Her sickening words crumbled against my silence.
After that day, she stopped visiting me.
But I often saw Dorian's posts on the pack's message board. He was showing off images of them together—the three of them posing for portrait after portrait in every style imaginable. A perfect little family.
On the day she emerged from her birthing confinement, the entire Valeheart household gathered to celebrate the bastard pup's First Moon Feast.
The Matriarch sent word that my Bond Severance documents would be finalized by tomorrow.
When I returned to collect my belongings, I found that the cozy den we had once shared as mates had been completely transformed to match Dorian's tastes.
Even the portrait that used to hang by the main hearth—the one where I cradled her swollen belly—had been replaced with a new image. Her, Dorian, and the pup. A perfect family portrait.
In that photograph, Selene Valeheart was smiling radiantly.
More beautifully than she had smiled on our mating day.
I went to the sleeping chamber, intending to pack the few garments I had brought before our bond was sealed.
But no matter how thoroughly I searched the storage chests, I couldn't find the hand-stitched ceremonial suit my mother had made for me before she passed.
I was about to call and ask when I saw a new image on the pack message board—Dorian wearing that very suit at the First Moon Feast.
Rage boiled through my veins like molten silver.