Chapter 2

The first rays of dawn crept through the barred window of my servant's quarters, painting the bare walls with mocking gold. I hadn't slept. How could I, when Ethan's words still echoed in my mind? 'This is just the beginning of your punishment.' My fingers traced the blood oath mark on my palm, still raw and throbbing.

A sharp knock rattled my door before it swung open without waiting for my response. Delta Jensen stood there, his face carefully blank.

"Alpha orders you to the kennels. Now."

I pulled on the rough servant's garments, the coarse fabric scratching against my skin as a constant reminder of my fall from grace. My wolf, Lyra, whimpered within me. Once, she had been proud and graceful. Now she cowered, confused by the sudden cruelty of our mate.

The winter air bit through my thin clothes as I trudged across the frozen grounds. Frost crunched beneath my worn boots—not the dancing slippers I once wore, but heavy, ill-fitting things that had belonged to someone else.

The kennels housed our pack's hunting wolves—not shifters, but their wild cousins we kept for tracking game. As I approached, their growls rose in a threatening chorus. They sensed my distress, my uncertainty.

"Clean them all," ordered the kennel master, tossing me a rusted shovel. "Every last one. And mind yourself—they haven't been fed yet."

I stared at the dozen snarling beasts. "They'll attack me."

He shrugged, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Best work quickly then."

The first kennel held a massive gray wolf with a scarred muzzle. As I unlatched the gate, he lunged, teeth snapping inches from my hand. I jerked back, heart hammering against my ribs.

"Having trouble already?" came a silky voice.

Victoria stood watching, wrapped in a luxurious fur coat, her perfectly manicured fingers clutching a steaming mug. The steam carried the scent of cinnamon and cloves—my favorite morning tea, the one I used to share with Ethan.

"They can smell fear," she said, sipping delicately. "And guilt."

"I didn't hurt Emma," I said through gritted teeth.

"Save your breath." She waved dismissively. "No one believes you."

I turned back to my task, forcing myself to enter the kennel. The wolf growled but retreated to the corner, watching me with suspicious eyes as I began shoveling the filth.

By midmorning, my hands were raw and bleeding from the cold and the rough wood of the shovel. Three kennels down, nine to go. Pack laborers passed by, some averting their eyes, others stopping to jeer.

"Look how the mighty have fallen," one sneered. "From Alpha's mate to shit-shoveler."

"Always knew she wasn't Luna material," another added. "Too soft. Too weak."

A young wolf, barely into his teens, spat at my feet. "Traitor."

That hurt more than the cold, more than the blisters forming on my palms. I had loved this pack, had given everything to it since taking in the Sullivan siblings years ago.

By noon, I'd finished only half the kennels. My limbs trembled with exhaustion, my stomach cramping with hunger. No one had thought to bring me food or water.

"Olivia!" The sharp command cut through the air.

Ethan stood at the kennel entrance, imposing in his Alpha glory. For a heartbeat, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—concern? Regret? It vanished so quickly I must have imagined it.

"You're needed in the kitchens," he said coldly. "The feast preparation is behind schedule."

I stared at him in disbelief. "I haven't finished the kennels."

"Then you'll return to them after the feast is prepared." His tone left no room for argument. "The pack doesn't stop functioning because of your crimes."

I followed him across the grounds, aware of every eye watching us—the fallen Luna trailing behind her Alpha like a beaten dog. Once, we had walked side by side, his hand warm in mine. Now, three feet of frigid air separated us, a gulf wider than any physical distance.

The kitchens were chaos, preparations for the monthly pack feast in full swing. The head cook, Marta, looked up with undisguised disdain as Ethan pushed me forward.

"She'll assist with the main course," he ordered before turning to leave.

"Ethan," I called after him, my voice breaking. "Please. Just talk to me."

He paused, his back to me, shoulders rigid. For a moment, I thought he might turn, might give me a chance to reach the man I knew was still in there somewhere.

Instead, he continued walking, leaving me alone among people who now saw me as nothing more than a criminal.

Marta thrust a knife into my hand. "Pheasants need plucking. Don't mess it up."