My Alpha Tried to Kill Our Pup for Power

The wind whipped my hair across my face as I stood on the highest balcony of the Black Moon Pack house, three moons after they declared my mate dead. My hands gripped the cold stone railing, the world below a blur of autumn colors. One more step. One more breath. Then it would all be over—the suffocating grief, the hollow ache in my chest where the mate bond used to pulse, the whispers of the pack that followed me like shadows.

I leaned forward, my toes curling over the edge. The ground seemed to call to me, promising an end to the nightmare. My fingers loosened on the railing.

Then my phone buzzed.

I ignored it. What could possibly matter now? But it buzzed again, more insistent. My wolf, silent for weeks, stirred restlessly.

*Check it*, she whispered.

With trembling fingers, I pulled the device from my pocket. A fractured mind-link message flickered across the screen, incomplete but unmistakable in its origin.

"Thatch... alive... Moonveil..."

My breath caught. Below that, a credit card notification: "Charge: Moonveil Hotel & Spa, $2,400. Unauthorized. Would you like to dispute this transaction?"

My mate's card. The one he'd supposedly taken with him on that final, fatal run. The one that should have been buried with him.

Suspicion crashed over me like ice water, dousing the self-destructive fog that had consumed me. My wolf surged forward, suddenly alert, suddenly furious. If he was alive—if he had faked his death—

I straightened, stepping back from the ledge. My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms.

Three days later, I tracked the charge to a nondescript corporate apartment building in the city. My heart hammered against my ribs as I slipped through the shadows of the hallway, guided by the address from the transaction records. I found the door, listened for voices, then carefully picked the lock—a skill I'd learned from Wells years ago, before rank and mates complicated everything.

I pressed myself against the wall beside the door, barely breathing. The sounds of laughter drifted through the crack—his laughter. My mate's laughter.

"...should have seen her face when they brought back the bloodied jacket," Thatcher's voice, rich and mocking, the voice that had once whispered love against my skin. "The devoted Luna, convinced her Alpha was gone. It was almost too easy."

Another voice joined his—female, sultry. "You're sure she suspects nothing?"

"Amaia? Please. She's too busy mourning to notice anything. Besides, she's pregnant. All those hormones make her...distractable."

My hand flew to my stomach, protecting the life growing there. Rage flooded my system, but I forced myself to remain still, to listen.

"The poison should work quickly," the woman said, her voice dropping lower. "One dose in her tea, and the pup is gone. No heir, no complications. Then we take everything."

The glass clinked as they toasted their plan. My vision blurred with tears of fury, not grief. My mate had faked his death. He was alive, plotting with another woman, plotting