It became clear then. All those nights he had spent in this study, all those hours he had claimed were for the sake of the pack, none of it had been about us. None of it had been about me. It was always her. Always Nyra.
The realization hollowed me out, as though my very soul had been scooped clean. My wolf recoiled, pressing claws into the walls of my chest, her anguish blending with mine until I could scarcely breathe.
By the time we arrived at my parents’ home, the Blackthorn Pack House, I felt like little more than a ghost wearing a Luna’s gown. The estate glowed beneath chandeliers, music weaving with the murmurs of the gathered wolves. The air was rich with the mingled scents of pack and kin, but none of it warmed me.
At the center stood Nyra, radiant as though the Moon Goddess herself had chosen her for the spotlight. Her gown shimmered, her beauty sharpened by perfection, every detail calculated to draw every gaze. My parents hovered near, their faces alight with pride, hands brushing against hers as though terrified to lose her again.
They had once touched me that way, held me as though I was precious. But that was before. Before Nyra had returned.