[POV: Evan]
The moon looked broken tonight.
I sat at the edge of the riverbank, elbows resting on my knees, hands clasped loosely in front of me, just staring at it. The fractured reflection shimmered across the water—pieces of light scattered like shattered glass.
This place had always been quiet. Hidden. It was Atlas's place more than mine. He used to come here when everything became too much—after Dominic humiliated him in training, or when our instructors ignored him in favor of "the better twin."
I'd find him sitting on this very rock, legs tucked under him, sketching in that worn little notebook he guarded like it held his soul. Sometimes he'd smile when he saw me. Most times, he didn't say a word. But his presence had always been peaceful. Steady.
Goddess, I missed that.
I let out a long breath and tilted my head back to the sky. The stars were clear, cold. Unforgiving. Much like the thoughts circling in my head.
I didn't even know how I'd ended up here. My feet just moved. One step, then another, until I found myself miles from the packhouse, swallowed by trees and silence. And guilt.
A year older than Atlas and Dominic, and I'd spent most of my life entangled in theirs. Our families were close—our ranks even closer. My father, the Beta. Their father, the Alpha.
I was always told I belonged with Dominic.
"Strong should marry strong," my father used to say. "That boy's going to be Alpha. You make yourself useful."
He said it like strategy, like Dominic was a piece on the board and I was just the lucky pawn he needed. And Atlas was barely acknowledged.
Quiet. Forgettable, in their eyes.
But not in mine.
Even when I was just a boy, I saw him differently. There was something in the way he held himself—not proud, not loud, but with quiet defiance. Like even when the world told him he wasn't enough, he stood there anyway.
I liked being near him. I liked the way he made me feel human. Like I didn't have to perform or prove anything.
And still, I never defended him. Not really. Not the way I should have.
Because defending Atlas meant going against Dominic. Against the pack. Against the image carved out for me by generations who believed power came from dominance, not compassion.
Back then, I wasn't brave enough to pay that price.
"You still aren't," a voice hissed in my mind.
I stiffened. My hands clenched. Cyrus. My wolf.
"Enough with the pathetic self-pity," he snarled. "You finally did what you should've done a long time ago."
I stayed silent, jaw tight.
"You looked like a fool," Cyrus sneered. "Crawling after that miserable little weakling. Do you even remember the time Dominic—the only one with real mercy—tried to end his brother's suffering? Tossed him into the swamp with his hands tied behind his back?"
A sharp jolt ran through me, like someone had shoved ice into my spine.
Of course I remembered.
I remembered Atlas, soaked and shivering, mud clinging to his skin, his eyes wide with confusion and terror. I remembered leaping into the muck after him, cutting the ropes from his wrists with a rock, dragging him back to solid ground with his limp body slung over my shoulder.
He never asked why Dominic had done it.
And I never had the courage to tell him that Dominic had called it mercy.
"You reeked for days after that," Cyrus growled. "Even I couldn't stand the stench. You should've left him there. That's what Dominic was trying to do—end him quietly. A favor. But you—"
"I know what I did," I muttered aloud.
"Do you?" he snarled. "You chose wrong. Again and again. You thought kindness made you noble. All it did was make you weak."
My fingernails bit into the heels of my palms. It was Cyrus's voice I'd listened to the night I gave in. The night I stopped wondering and just let Dominic consume me. His fire. His ambition. His hunger.
He made my wolf burn, and Cyrus howled for him. He made us feel powerful.
But Atlas made me feel seen. Like I didn't have to be perfect to matter.
There's a difference.
I ran a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted. "Why do you hate him so much?"
"Because he's everything I refused for us to be," Cyrus hissed. "Soft. Sentimental. Small. He's the runt you tried to protect instead of devour. And in our world, Evan, the weak either serve or die."
"I don't believe that," I said quietly.
"I don't care what you believe." His voice sharpened. "I care about survival. And I won't let you drag us down with your pathetic regrets."
I shook my head, trying to drown him out. But his last words echoed anyway—so full of menace it made something in me flinch.
"The strong always devour the weak, Evan. That's the law of our kind. And I won't be the one getting devoured."
I stared at the water again, watching the moon break into fragments across the surface. Each piece drifted apart, never whole.
Was that what I'd become? A man torn in half—part honor, part monster? One half aching to protect, to love, to be more, and the other ready to burn anyone who slowed him down?
The worst part was—I didn't know which half was winning.