Chapter 6

Elara POV:

The great oak door to the Alpha's house swung inward on silent hinges before my hand could touch the iron latch. I had just returned from a clandestine meeting in the woods with the Silver Moon envoy, a warrior whose silence was more reassuring than any promise, and who had confirmed that my passage was arranged. A strange rigidity had settled in my spine, as if my bones were being replaced by iron, and with every step, I felt not the familiar weight of dread, but the grim ballast of my own resolve.

Lyra was waiting for me in the drawing room. She was reclined upon the velvet settee as if it were a throne, one leg draped languidly over the other. The pup was nowhere to be seen.

With a flick of her wrist, she indicated a sheaf of documents laid upon the low table. "The Elders have prepared the papers," she said, her voice a confection of sweetness and venom. "All that is required is your signature. I thought to save you the journey."

A dry, rasping sound that might have been a laugh escaped my lips. "You seem to be in a great hurry."

The thin veneer of her civility fractured. "He is mine, Elara. You are merely prolonging the inevitable. What is it you want? Coin? A cottage at the edge of the territory? Name your price."

I moved closer, my gaze falling upon the papers. I lifted one, my thumb tracing the embossed seal of the Bloodstone Pack-a sigil I had helped design. "You seem to have forgotten a small but rather crucial point of ancient pack law, Lyra."

A crease appeared between her brows, the first flicker of uncertainty in her triumphant mien. "What are you speaking of?"

"The law is immutable," I said, my voice low but carrying the weight of generations. It was a lesson my mother, a Luna in truth and not just in title, had ingrained in me. "During the term of a mate's pregnancy, the male is stripped of the right to initiate a rejection. The Goddess herself forbids it. Unless," I paused, allowing the word to hang in the still air between us, "the female consents."

The color drained from her face. She had not known. This creature of the wilderness, who understood only the law of the fang and claw, was utterly ignorant of the sacred covenants that bound our society.

I observed the war of shock and raw fury in her eyes. Then, with a deliberate motion, I took up the pen from the table. The nib scratched against the parchment as I affixed my name-Elara Silvermoon-to the line designated for the female mate. The letters were perfectly formed, without the slightest tremor.

I set the pen down with a final click. "There. He is all yours. I have no use for him."

The rage in her eyes detonated. With a guttural snarl, she launched herself at me. The sharp crack of her hand against my cheek echoed in the room, sending a high, singing note through my skull.

I staggered back, my equilibrium lost. The sharp corner of the heavy oak table struck my side with brutal force, precisely where my belly had begun its gentle swell. A white-hot, blinding pain lanced through me, as if I were being torn asunder from within. A gasp was torn from my throat as my hand flew to my abdomen, feeling a sudden, dreadful dampness soaking the fabric of my dress.

My baby. Oh, Goddess, my baby.

Lyra saw the spreading crimson stain. A flicker of pure, reptilian calculation crossed her features. In a movement so swift it was almost a blur, she snatched her own pup from its bassinet in the corner and, with a horrifying, casual cruelty, tossed the infant onto the thick pile of the Persian rug.

The pup, startled and unharmed by the soft landing, let out a piercing wail.

Lyra instantly dropped to the floor beside it, gathering the crying infant into her arms. "My baby! My baby!" she shrieked, her voice a masterful performance of maternal terror.

At that exact moment, the front door burst open. Damien stood there, his eyes wide.

"She tried to kill him!" Lyra sobbed, pointing a shaking finger at me. "Elara pushed me! She tried to kill my son out of jealousy!"

Damien's gaze took in the scene: Lyra, a distraught Madonna on the floor, clutching her wailing child; and me, propped against the table, the dark flower of blood blooming across the front of my dress. His eyes slid over me, not with shock or concern, but with a chilling lack of interest. His gaze went past me, landing on the tapestry on the wall behind me, as if its woven depiction of a forgotten battle was more worthy of study than his bleeding mate. He skirted the spreading pool of blood at my feet, his leather boots tracing a clean, deliberate arc on the polished floorboards as he made straight for the door. He scooped Lyra's pup into his arms and was gone, his voice echoing in the hall as he bellowed for the Healer. He never even saw me slide the rest of the way to the floor, my world shrinking to the sight of my own lifeblood darkening the wood beneath me.