The full moon hung like a pale eye above the Northcrest courtyard, casting cold silver light over the gathering. Wolves from every corner of the territory moved in ceremonial silks and leather, standing in tight clusters around the fire pits.
Mira stood at Alpha Ronan Vale’s side, chin high, hands folded tightly. She had dressed carefully tonight, braided her own hair, smoothed the neckline of the gown Ronan never once complimented. And still, she held onto hope—faint, foolish, but real.
She heard them before she saw them.
“She’s still here?” one voice whispered.
“Maybe the Alpha's are finally replacing her.”
Mira didn’t flinch. She had spent every moon cycle silencing her own pain for the sake of duty.
Tonight, she told herself, he’ll see me.
“Look at her bones poking through that dress,” Amaris, my sister-in-law, murmured as she passed. “Maybe starving is her idea of a gift.” Laughter followed like footsteps.
Lady Virella, my dearest mother-in-law, didn’t whisper at all.
“I pity the tailors,” she said, loud enough for anyone to hear. “All that effort to dress up a hollow shell.”
Mira said nothing.
Ronan’s hand didn’t reach for hers. His eyes remained ahead, cold and unreadable. She kept her posture rigid beside him as he stepped onto the stone dais. The courtyard fell quiet, expectant. Mira took a slow breath, heart pounding in her ears. This was it.
“My people,” Ronan said, voice strong, “we gather tonight to honor the moon and our future. With that, I’m pleased to announce the beginning of my courtship with Lady Seraphine of Hollowpine.”
The silence cracked. Someone gasped. A goblet fell and shattered. Mira stood still as the sound rushed out of the courtyard like a gust of wind. Seraphine stepped beside him, elegant, polished, sliding her hand along Ronan’s arm like it already belonged there. Mira couldn’t move.
Lady Virella smiled like a blade.
“We need a real Luna,” she said, loud and sharp. “Not a barren little stray.”
The crowd broke into cruel whispers. Mira’s chest rose once, sharp and shallow. She stared at Ronan, eyes wide. He didn’t meet her gaze.
“I am your Luna,” Mira said, voice trembling. “You marked me. You chose me.”
Ronan’s mouth barely moved. “I told you before, I believe in polygamy. Why do you act so surprised?”
Then he turned from her like she was nothing, walking into the moonlight with Seraphine on his arm.
“Did you hear what he said?” someone snickered behind her.
“Poor thing.”
Mira inhaled once—long and sharp—then turned on her heel. Her footsteps echoed louder than their laughter.
“Wait, is she just… leaving?” a voice murmured.
No one followed.
She walked through them, untouched. Like they didn’t know what to do with her silence.
At the edge of the clearing, she stepped onto the stone path. Wind bit at her bare shoulders. Her heels clicked slower now, dragging slightly with each step.
By the time she reached the manor, her hands trembled as they grasped the doorknob.
Click.
Inside, Mira closed the door gently. She unzipped the dress with slow fingers. One sleeve slipped off. Then the other. She folded it carefully, smoothing out a wrinkle before setting it on the chair.
Her fingers brushed the side of her neck. She hissed.
In the bathroom, the light buzzed on. She stared into the mirror.
“Get it together,” she whispered to her reflection.
Her foot wobbled as she stepped back.
“No—” she gasped, staggering sideways.
Her knees hit the floor with a dull thud.
“Breathe,” she rasped, bracing one hand against the wall. “Just breathe.”
The room offered nothing back. Just silence. She pressed her palm to her stomach.
“Come on,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Don’t do this. Not now.”
Her head dropped forward. She swallowed hard. Then—another wave. She lurched toward the toilet, dragging herself across the cold tile.
“Almost there,” she croaked, hand slipping as she grabbed the edge of the bowl.
The retch ripped from her before she could brace. The sound echoed. Again. And again.
Each time louder. Harsher.
“I’m fine,” she muttered between gasps, tears burning her lashes.
It was a lie.
Her stomach churned—not from the crying, but from something deeper, more insistent. What if I’m pregnant? The thought flickered in the shadows of her mind, faint but persistent.
No. She shook her head, tried to breathe. It’s probably just stress.
But the idea came again, sharper this time, cutting through her denial. What if I’m really pregnant?
A sob tore from her throat. She pressed a trembling hand to her abdomen, as if she could feel the truth hiding there.
I can’t be. I can’t—