My Alpha’s Mother Murdered My Fated Mate

The night air tasted like pine and cold stone, the way it always did on the eve of a Great Moon Ceremony. I stood on the packhouse balcony with my hands resting on the iron railing, watching the torches below flicker in the courtyard where pack members were already gathering, laughing, drinking, celebrating the Luna they thought they knew.

Scarlett Lee's Luna.

My Luna, for four years now.

I heard Davis before I felt him — the soft press of his footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, the way an Alpha moves when he owns every inch of the ground beneath him. Then his aura hit me. That was the part I could never fully prepare for, no matter how many times it happened. It rolled over my shoulders like a physical weight, dark and commanding, the kind of presence that made lower-ranked wolves drop their eyes without thinking. I kept mine on the courtyard.

His chest nearly touched my back. Not quite. Davis always stopped just short of contact, as if he wanted me to close the distance myself. I never did.

"Tomorrow," he said. His voice was low, meant only for me. "After tomorrow, this is permanent."

I could smell him — cedar and something darker underneath, the particular scent of an Alpha who had never once doubted his right to anything. I kept my breathing even. Somewhere beneath the perfume I wore — Scarlett's perfume, floral and sharp, chosen to mask the softer notes of my own scent — I felt the faint, traitorous warmth of a mate bond that had no business existing between us.

I hated that warmth. I had hated it for four years.

"I know," I said. Scarlett's voice. Cool, unbothered, faintly amused. I had practiced it so long it came without effort now.

Davis exhaled slowly. His hand came to rest beside mine on the railing, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. "You're not nervous."

"Should I be?"

A pause. "No," he said finally. "You shouldn't be."

I almost smiled. Not because it was tender. Because it wasn't. Davis Meyer had never once asked me what I felt. He stated what I should feel, and expected the world to arrange itself accordingly. Four years, and he still hadn't noticed the difference.

That was the thing about powerful men. They were so accustomed to being seen that they forgot to look.

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The Grand Banquet was everything a pack celebration was supposed to be — long tables heavy with food, the warm press of bodies, the low hum of pack bonds vibrating through the air like a second heartbeat. I moved through it the way Scarlett would have: spine straight, chin level, my gaze touching each high-ranking wolf just long enough to acknowledge them without inviting conversation.

The Betas deferred. The Gammas straightened. The Omegas kept their eyes down.

I accepted a glass of wine I didn't drink and smiled at things I didn't find funny, and the whole