From Broken Luna to Queen

The pack house felt like a tomb as I stood in the doorway, Palmer's blood still staining my clothes. Tanner was murmuring sweet reassurances to Esme, his hands stroking her perfect blonde hair while she played the role of the concerned Luna.

No one looked at me. No one asked about Palmer.

I turned and walked away, my footsteps silent on the polished floors. The hallways blurred together as I moved like a ghost through the place that had never truly been my home. My mind felt disconnected from my body, floating somewhere above the horror of the last hour.

I needed something. Anything to make the pain stop, to quiet the screaming silence where my wolf used to be. The healer's office was just down the hall—maybe there was something there, some sedative that could let me sleep and never wake up.

The door was unlocked. Marcus had probably rushed out when he heard the commotion, leaving his sanctuary unguarded. I slipped inside, breathing in the antiseptic smell that reminded me of death and lies.

My hands shook as I rifled through his medicine cabinet, looking for anything that might grant me peace. But as I reached for a bottle of sleeping pills, my elbow knocked against a file box on his desk.

Papers scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. I knelt to gather them, and that's when I saw the label on the box: "INCINERATE - CONFIDENTIAL."

Curiosity pierced through my numbness. Why would medical files need to be destroyed? My fingers found a manila folder marked with a name that made my blood freeze.

Sawyer Ross.

My baby. My firstborn who had died of heart failure when he was barely six months old. The son I'd buried with my own hands while Tanner stood silent beside the grave.

I opened the folder with trembling fingers.

The first page showed Sawyer's real medical records—not the ones Marcus had shown me. These records showed a perfectly healthy heart. No defects. No failure. The cause of death was listed as "cardiac arrest following surgical extraction."

Surgical extraction.

I flipped to the next page and found a transplant log dated the same day Sawyer died. Donor: Sawyer Ross, six months. Recipient: Baby Lynch, six months, illegitimate son of Esme Ross and unknown father.

The world tilted sideways. My vision blurred as the truth crashed over me like a tidal wave of ice water. They had murdered my baby. Cut out his perfect heart to save Esme's bastard child.

My hands found more papers—falsified death certificates, forged medical reports, payment receipts made out to Marcus for "special services." The conspiracy laid out in black and white, signed and dated like a business transaction.

They had killed Sawyer. And tonight, their greed and cruelty had killed Palmer too.

Something cold and terrible unfurled in my chest where my dying wolf used to live. Not grief—I was beyond grief now. This was something sharper, cleaner. This was rage distilled to its purest form.

I gathered the papers and tucked them inside my bloodstained shirt, then made my way to the small bathroom down the hall. I locked the door and sank to the floor, my back against the cold tile wall.

For the first time in years, I reached deep inside myself, past the poison and weakness, searching for the connection I'd thought was severed forever. The bloodline bond that tied me to the North, to power, to the grandfather I'd abandoned in my foolish youth.

My wolf was barely a whisper, but she was still there. Dying, but not dead. Not yet.

"Help me," I whispered to her. "One last time. Help me reach him."

The mind-link crackled to life like lightning, weak but determined. I pushed every ounce of remaining strength into the connection, sending my message across the hundreds of miles to the Royal Lycan territory.

"Grandfather." The word tasted like blood and ashes in my mind. "They killed them. Both of them."

The connection held for a heartbeat, long enough for me to feel his shock, his rage, his immediate understanding. Then it snapped, leaving me gasping on the bathroom floor.

But it was enough. He knew.

I pulled myself to my feet and unlocked the door. Time to go. Time to get out of this house of horrors before they realized what I'd discovered. I had to reach the border, had to get to neutral ground where my grandfather's people could find me.

I made it halfway down the hall before she appeared.

Esme stepped out of the shadows like a predator, her nostrils flaring as she caught my scent. Her perfect features twisted into something ugly as realization dawned.

"You know," she breathed, her voice losing all pretense of sweetness. "I can smell it on you. The knowledge. The anger."

I said nothing, just stared at the woman who had orchestrated the murder of my children.

"TANNER!" she screamed suddenly, her voice echoing through the pack house. "TANNER, HELP! ANYA'S TRYING TO ATTACK ME!"

Footsteps thundered from the great room. I had seconds before he arrived, seconds to decide whether to run or fight.

I chose neither. I stood perfectly still and smiled at Esme—a cold, terrible smile that made her take a step back.

"Let him come," I said softly. "We have so much to discuss."