The Wolfless Omega's Vow Of Revenge

Evelyn Thorne POV:

The cold wind cut through my thin black dress, a bitter caress against my skin. I forced my eyes to stay fixed on the two fresh mounds of earth, on the simple stone markers that bore the names of my parents: Gideon and Sarah Thorne.

The scent of pine was thick in the memorial grove, and for a heart-stopping second, I expected to hear Dad’s voice, a low rumble explaining how to read a broken twig or the meaning of a bird's call. I could almost feel Mom’s hand on my shoulder, her warmth a shield against the world. The memories were so sharp, so real, they felt like daggers twisting in the hollow space where my heart used to be.

High on the ridge overlooking the graves, Alpha Philip Blackwood’s voice boomed, each word a polished stone of tribute. He spoke of their bravery, their sacrifice for the Gloomfang Pack, how their deaths in the rogue attack had secured our peace. Heroes. That’s what they were.

The crowd murmured in agreement, their soft sobs and respectful whispers a symphony of grief that grated on my raw nerves. It all felt like a performance.

I tilted my head back, staring at the bruised purple sky where the moon hid behind a veil of clouds. *They taught me you were just, Moon Goddess,* I thought, a bitter prayer forming in my mind. *They said you protect your faithful. Were they liars? Or were my parents not faithful enough?*

The Alpha’s speech ended. One by one, the pack members began to file past the graves, each placing a smooth, white stone on the dark earth—a symbol of respect, a final farewell.

When my turn came, my legs felt like water. I stumbled, and a warm, strong hand shot out to steady my arm.

"They were heroes, Evelyn," Desmond Blackwood, the Alpha’s son, said softly. His voice was clumsy with an emotion I couldn't place.

From my other side, Lily Crest, the Beta’s daughter, squeezed my hand. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "We'll take care of you," she promised.

They were my best friends. The last remnants of warmth in my frozen world. But even their presence couldn't thaw the ice crystallizing around my soul.

I pulled my hands away gently. I reached into the pocket of my dress, my fingers closing not around a cold, hard stone, but around the fragile petals of a wild bluebell—Mom’s favorite. The act felt like a small rebellion.

A few of the elders nearby shot me disapproving looks as I knelt, their silent judgment a heavy weight in the air. I ignored them. I placed the slightly crushed flower on my mother’s grave, my fingers brushing against the cold, damp soil.

"I'm home, Mom, Dad," I whispered, the words a ghost of a sound.

As I rose, my eyes met Alpha Philip’s. There was no sympathy in his gaze. No shared grief. Only a cold, calculating assessment, the way a man might evaluate a