The Alpha's Unwanted Daughter Returns for Blood

Ever POV:

The silver Moonpetal Ferns curled, blackened, and crumbled to ash in the flames. The girl who had cupped them with desperate hope died in that same moment.

Now, a bone-deep cold woke me. I lay on a pile of scratchy hay, my teeth chattering in a rhythm I couldn't stop. The chill seeped up from the packed earth floor, and the air was thick with the stench of horse manure and rotting straw. A wave of nausea rolled through my empty stomach.

The wooden door screeched open, kicked with a brutal force that made me flinch. A man named Jed Hicks filled the doorway, his large frame blocking the sliver of gray morning light. His face was set in a sneer of pure contempt.

He carried a small wooden bowl.

He didn't hand it to me. He tossed it onto the floor a few feet away. Thin, watery oatmeal sloshed over the rim, spattering onto the hem of my worn dress.

"Eat up, murderer," Jed grunted, nudging the bowl with the toe of his muddy boot. "The Alpha doesn't want you starving to death. Not yet, anyway."

Murderer.

The word wasn't a shout. It was a key, turning a lock deep inside my mind. The filthy stable dissolved, and the world swam out of focus.

I was back in the grand hall of the Blackwood Pack manor, a month ago.

The memory was so vivid I could feel the polished marble floor beneath my thin shoes. I stood in the center of the cavernous room, a stray in a palace, my rough-spun clothes a smudge against the opulent tapestries and gilded furniture.

They were all there, my "family."

Then she came forward. Caroline. My adoptive sister, the one who had lived the life that should have been mine. She was perfect, an angel with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of a summer sky.

She wrapped her arms around me in a warm, welcoming hug. The scent of lavender and vanilla clung to her.

"Welcome home, sister," she whispered, her voice like honey. "I'm going to make you feel the warmth of a real family."

But over my shoulder, I saw her eyes. Just for a second. They were as cold and hard as chips of ice.

The weeks that followed were a masterclass in deception. Caroline was my shadow, my guide, my protector. She taught me which fork to use, gifted me beautiful silk dresses she no longer wanted, and defended me in public from our brother's taunts. Everyone praised her kindness, her generosity.

My real parents, Alpha Fremont and Luna Juliana, were another story. Their gazes slid off me as if I were made of glass. Disappointment was a constant cloud in their eyes. I was their blood, their true daughter, but I couldn't shift. A wolfless. A disgrace.

My brother, Kane, was more direct. "Country mutt," he'd call me, his voice dripping with venom. "You smell of dirt and weakness."

The memories blurred, then sharpened on a single night. The night it all ended.

The smell of smoke.

I woke to screaming. I burst from my small room in the servants' wing and saw it. The west cottage, Caroline's private cottage, was engulfed in flames, the fire clawing at the night sky like a furious beast.

I tried to run towards it, to help, to do something.

A hand like a steel trap clamped down on my arm. It was Kane. His face was a mask of rage, illuminated by the fire. "You did this!" he roared, his voice cracking with grief. "You bitch, you did this!"

They found the body later, after the pack warriors had doused the flames. It was burned beyond recognition.

And beside it, clutched in a charred hand, they found her letter.

The suicide note.

It spoke of her despair, of the sister who had returned not with love, but with a heart full of jealousy. It claimed I had threatened her, whispered that I would ruin her, that I would take everything she had.

I would rather die, the elegant script read, than live in fear of my own sister's hatred.

Kane lunged for me, a feral snarl ripping from his throat. He would have killed me right there if Fremont hadn't held him back.

Luna Juliana clutched the letter to her chest, her sobs tearing through the night. She looked at me, and the love a mother should have for a child was replaced by a loathing so profound it felt like a physical blow.

"I didn't do it," I whispered, my voice lost in the chaos. "I didn't."

They didn't hear me. They didn't want to. My pleas were just the pathetic lies of a murderer.

In that moment, I was stripped of everything. The name Montgomery was torn from me like a piece of flesh. I was no longer a daughter, but a shame.

Two warriors grabbed my arms, their grips bruising. As they dragged me away, my eyes searched the crowd, desperate for a single face, a single flicker of belief.

I found him. Vaughn Sinclair. My betrothed.

His handsome face was pale, his jaw tight. But his eyes... there was no doubt, no pity. Only a cold, hard promise of death.

The stable door slammed shut in my memory, and I was back on the hay, the stench of manure filling my lungs.

Jed Hicks kicked the bowl again, a sharp, impatient sound. "Get on with it."

The watery gruel reflected my own face-pale, gaunt, with hollows under my eyes.

Tears? No. The tears had frozen inside me weeks ago.

Slowly, I lifted my head. My eyes met his. The blue of my irises, once clear, now felt like a frozen lake. And deep beneath the surface, something had settled. Not despair. Not sadness.

It was hate. A quiet, patient, and utterly bottomless hate.

My hand, trembling from cold and weakness, moved. Not for the bowl.

It clenched into a fist.

My fingernails, dirty and broken, bit deep into the soft flesh of my palm. The sharp sting of pain was a welcome anchor in the swirling vortex of my memory. It was real. It was mine.

And it was all I had left.

Ever POV:

The pain in my palm was a sharp, clarifying sting. It cut through the fog of the past, making the edges of my hatred clean and precise. I didn't just remember the fire and the accusations. I remembered the thousand tiny cuts that came before.

I remembered Luna Juliana. My mother. She never looked at me directly, always just past my shoulder, as if focusing on me might contaminate her. Once, I'd accidentally brushed her arm as I passed in a hallway. I watched her, from the corner of my eye, as she took out a silk handkerchief and scrubbed at the spot, her expression one of profound disgust.

Alpha Fremont, my father, only spoke to me to ask one question, in variations. "Has it happened yet?" or "Still nothing?" Each time, his voice was flat, impatient. He wasn't asking about my well-being. He was asking if I had managed to stop being a genetic failure. His questions were always public, in the dining hall or the training yard, designed to remind everyone of my deficiency.

And Kane. His cruelty wasn't subtle. It was his favorite sport. He once "accidentally" tripped me during a training drill, sending me sprawling into the mud. He and his friends had laughed, a chorus of deep, mocking sounds, as I struggled to my feet, covered in filth. "Look," he'd said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "The pack's shame, right where she belongs. In the dirt."

Caroline was always there, right on cue. She would rush to my side, her expression a perfect mask of sisterly concern. She'd help me up, dabbing at the mud on my cheek with her own pristine handkerchief, all while scolding Kane in a soft, gentle voice.

"Kane, stop it. She's our sister."

But looking back now, through the lens of betrayal, I saw it. I saw the flicker of triumph in her eyes. The small, satisfied smile she hid behind her hand. She wasn't my defender. She was the director of my humiliation.

The worst memory, the one that truly broke me, wasn't about public shame. It was about a secret hope.

I had overheard two maids whispering that Luna Juliana was unwell. A strange malady, they said, a recurring ache in her bones that only a rare herb, Moonpetal Fern, could soothe.

A foolish, desperate idea took root in my heart. This was my chance. A way to prove my worth. A way to earn a single glance of maternal affection.

The fern grew only in the Whisperwood, a dangerous stretch of forest at the very edge of our territory, known for rogue patrols. I didn't care.

I slipped out of the manor at dawn. For three days, I searched. Thorns tore at my skin and clothes. I slept in hollow logs, my stomach aching with hunger, and I drank from streams, my ears straining at every snapped twig, terrified of being found by rogues. Twice, I had to hide in dense undergrowth, holding my breath as the scent of strange wolves passed nearby.

Finally, on the third day, I found it. A small patch of delicate, silver-leafed ferns, glowing faintly in the dappled sunlight.

I returned to the manor, exhausted but triumphant, clutching my muddy prize. I was a mess of scratches and dirt, but my heart was soaring. I was going to help my mother.

I reached her chambers, my hand raised to knock. But I froze when I heard voices from within. Kane's and Caroline's.

"Can you believe she actually went?" Kane's voice was thick with amusement. "She really bought it? Mom just made that up because she couldn't stand the sight of her moping face for another day."

Then Caroline's, sweet as poison. "Don't be so mean, brother. She meant well. Even if... these weeds are completely useless."

The Moonpetal Ferns in my hand suddenly felt like they were burning my skin. I couldn't breathe. The air in my lungs turned to stone.

I backed away from the door, silent as a ghost, and hid behind a statue in the hall. A moment later, Kane emerged from the room. He was holding my ferns.

He walked with a casual stride across the manicured courtyard, straight to the stone incinerator where the household trash was burned. Without a second glance, he tossed them in.

I watched the delicate silver leaves curl, blacken, and turn to ash.

Just like my heart.

That moment. That was the real death. Being called a murderer was a sharp, violent blow. But this... this was the slow, grinding realization that I had never, ever been wanted. That every path to their affection was a dead end they had designed themselves.

Back in the stable, the wind howled outside, a lonely, mournful sound.

I closed my eyes, sealing that memory away not in sadness, but in a cold, hard vault inside my chest. The Ever who had sought their love was dead. She had died in that hallway, watching her hope turn to ash.

I opened my eyes. The hate was gone. In its place was a terrifying calm. It was the quiet of a frozen sea, vast and deep and deadly.

I was done trying to explain. Done trying to beg.

A single thought echoed in the silence of my mind: Survive.

Slowly, painfully, I crawled on my hands and knees across the filthy floor. I reached the wooden bowl. The oatmeal was cold now, a gray, congealed paste with bits of dirt and hay floating in it.

I picked it up with a steady hand.

I ignored the grime. I ignored the sour smell.

I lifted the bowl to my lips and drank.

The gruel was vile. It tasted like despair. But I forced myself to swallow every last drop. This wasn't food. It was fuel.

And I had a long, long fire to build.

Ever POV:

A few days later, they came for me. The cold and hunger had weakened me to the point where the world was a constant, hazy blur. Two guards hauled me from the stable, my feet dragging uselessly on the frozen ground.

They took me to the pack's ancestral hall.

It was a large, circular chamber built of cold, gray stone, with high, narrow windows that let in only the weakest of the late autumn light. There was no fireplace, no warmth. The wind whistled through cracks in the stone, a constant, biting presence.

Alpha Fremont's decree was read aloud. I was to perform public penance for Caroline's soul. I was to kneel here until I was "forgiven."

They stripped me of my ragged dress and forced me into a thin, white linen shift. Then they pushed me to my knees on the stone floor before a makeshift altar. On it sat a framed portrait of Caroline, smiling her perfect, angelic smile.

Pack members came and went in a steady stream. They stared. They pointed. Some spat on the floor near me. Their whispers were like a swarm of angry wasps. "Murderer." "Witch." "She-devil."

My body was already failing. A fever had taken hold, making my skin burn and my limbs ache. The cold from the stone floor was a living thing, creeping up my legs, into my spine, stealing the last of my strength.

My vision swam. The whispers faded into a dull roar. I swayed, my body about to give out.

The heavy oak doors creaked open.

Through the blur, I saw a figure walk in. Tall, broad-shouldered.

Vaughn.

A tiny, stupid flicker of hope ignited in my chest. He had come. He had realized it was all a mistake. He had come to save me.

He strode across the stone floor, his boots echoing in the silent hall. He knelt in front of me, his face close to mine. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, were even colder than the stone beneath my knees.

"Why didn't you just die like her?" he hissed, his voice a low, violent tremor. He grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw, forcing my head up. "If you think you can copy her death to get sympathy, I will tear you apart with my own hands."

The tiny flame of hope didn't just die. It was annihilated. He hadn't come to save me. He had come to make sure I died the right way.

He released me with a shove, wiping his fingers on his trousers as if he'd touched something foul. He turned and walked away without another word.

That was it. The last thread holding me together snapped.

My body gave out completely. I crumpled sideways, my head hitting the stone floor with a dull crack.

The cold rushed in, a final, merciful wave. It washed over me, extinguishing the fever's fire, silencing the whispers. My breathing grew shallow, each one a tiny, painful puff of air.

I felt a strange, pulling sensation. A lightness.

My perspective shifted. I was rising, floating upwards, looking down at the pathetic sight of my own body, a crumpled white heap on the gray floor.

I was a ghost. A spirit.

I drifted through the stone wall, the cold of it passing through me without sensation. I floated across the courtyard, towards the main manor. I didn't guide myself; I was pulled, drawn by the source of my own destruction.

I passed through the thick oak of the front door and up the grand staircase. I was drawn to the Luna's private sitting room.

I saw Juliana. I saw Kane. They were talking to a guest, their backs to me.

Then the guest turned.

My spirit, my very essence, recoiled in a silent, soul-shattering scream.

It was Caroline.

Alive. Unharmed. Her golden hair was perfectly styled, her blue eyes bright with a triumphant smile.

She was nestled against Juliana, whining in that sweet, childish voice. "Mother, I came back as soon as I took care of things. Is that fool dead yet?"

Juliana stroked her hair, her face glowing with a sick, doting love. "Soon, my darling. Once she's gone, Vaughn will be all yours, officially."

Kane stood nearby, his arms crossed. "I've made the arrangements. It will look like she took her own life out of guilt."

It wasn't just a frame-up. It was a murder.

This whole thing, this "penance," was my execution chamber. A slow, cold, deniable death sentence. They were going to let me freeze to death on the floor of their sacred hall.

The sheer scale of the betrayal was a force of nature. It ripped through my consciousness, a hurricane of agony and rage.

Darkness swarmed at the edges of my vision, a final, crushing void. My last thought was not of pain or fear, but of a hate so pure and concentrated it became a prayer.

I will have my revenge. I will make them pay.

As the blackness consumed me, a voice echoed in the void. It was ancient, female, and filled with a strange, sad power.

Do you want a chance?

With the last shred of my being, I screamed back into the abyss.

I'll give anything.