My Alpha Sacrificed Me to Save Her Sister

The healer gave me three days to live. Caleb gave me a slap.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up ten minutes.

"Elena, are you sure you want to do this now?" Dr. Vincent stood beside me in the corner of the Pack Celebration Hall, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes kept darting to the medical report clutched in my hand. The paper was already damp from my palm.

"I'm sure." I looked down at the words I'd memorized an hour ago. *Wolf Spirit Decay. Terminal. Estimated remaining time: 72 hours.* "I only have three days, Vincent. There's no better time."

He didn't argue. He just pressed his lips together and stepped back, the way people do when they've decided to let you walk off a cliff.

The hall was packed. A thousand white roses hung from the ceiling — Lydia's favorite — and the band was playing something soft and elegant. A banner stretched across the far wall: *Congratulations Lydia Vance — Lead Warrior.* My sister. My husband's favorite person.

I stood up from my corner. The dark green dress hung loose on me now. I'd lost twelve pounds in the last month. Caleb bought me this dress three years ago, told me I looked like a forest spirit in it. He didn't notice I was wearing it tonight. He wasn't even here — supposedly on a two-day border patrol. Supposedly.

I walked to the center of the hall. My heels clicked on white marble. A few heads turned. Then a few more. Being Luna still meant something, even when your own pack looked at you like an inconvenience.

I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.

"As of tonight, I formally request a Severing Ritual." The words came out steady. Steadier than I expected. "My wolf will be gone in three days. I want the bond cut clean before I go."

The music didn't stop — the band just kind of stuttered and died, one instrument at a time. The silence that followed was so thick I could hear the champagne bubbles popping in someone's glass.

Then Sarah — my mother — dropped her wine. The glass hit the marble and shattered. She stared at me with her mouth open, but not in concern. In fury.

And Lydia. God, Lydia was good. Her face went white on cue. Her hand flew to her chest. Her eyes went wide and wet. If I didn't know better, I'd have believed it myself. But I'd watched my sister rehearse that exact expression in the bathroom mirror when we were fourteen, practicing how to cry on command.

The main doors slammed open.

Caleb.

He stood in the doorway, still in his patrol jacket, his dark hair windblown. He was supposed to be at the northern border for two more days. He'd come back early — for Lydia's ceremony. Not for the wife who'd been coughing blood into the bathroom sink every morning for a month.

His