Chapter 2

I woke to the violent sound of fabric tearing.

For several agonizing seconds, I lay perfectly still beneath the covers, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The Carter Pack estate was deathly quiet at dawn. Cold gray light bled through the tall windows, smelling of damp stone and faded woodsmoke.

Then came another sharp, deliberate rip.

My eyes snapped open, and I bolted upright.

A ragged shred of black-and-silver silk fluttered off the edge of my mattress, settling onto the cold floor.

My stomach dropped.

The scarf.

I scrambled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the stones as my father's voice echoed like a cruel phantom in my memory: Keep this, Nora. No matter where life takes you, never forget where you came from.

It had been the last gift my father gave me before I married Damon. Not because I needed a reminder of my home, but because he wanted me to remember that I possessed a worth of my own outside the Carter Pack.

Now, that was nothing but a pile of shredded ribbons.

The silk had been systematically cut into thin strips, the intricate silver embroidery destroyed. Each tear had been calculated to inflict maximum pain.

"No..."

I knelt, my fingertips trembling as I touched a ruined edge.

The faint scent of silverwood oil and Mirella’s cloying jasmine perfume clung to the fibers. She had used silverwood oil to neutralize my wolf's tracking scent on the fabric, but her personal scent still lingered beneath it.

This wasn't an accident. It was a desecration.

On my pillow sat a small white note.

My hands shook so violently I could barely unfold it.

Nora, I saw you shredding this in your sleep. I tried to stop you, but your wolf was so frantic. Please, rest before you hurt yourself more.

The neat, looping handwriting was unmistakable.

Mirella.

A bitter chill washed over my skin. She hadn't simply destroyed my father's scarf; she was building a narrative that made me look unstable, dangerous, and untrustworthy.

I shoved the note deep into my pocket and stormed out.

I found Mirella where she always liked to pose: the eastern garden. She sat beneath the blooming moonflower arbor, wrapped in a cream cashmere shawl while two pack Omegas served her breakfast.

The moment her eyes landed on me, her smile vanished, replaced by practiced concern. "Nora?"

I marched up to the table, slapping the note down between us. "What did you do?"

The Omegas backed away with frantic efficiency.

Mirella's brows knitted together. "I don't know what you mean."

"My father's scarf. The one he gave me before I married Damon."

Her expression flickered…a second of mocking triumph…before she sighed. "Oh. That."

"You destroyed it," I hissed.

"I did no such thing."

"You left this note in my room!"

"I wrote the note out of concern," her lips curved into a tiny, viperous smile. "That doesn't mean I touched your little scarf."

I leaned over the iron table, my inner wolf pacing behind my ribs. "Explain why you were in my room."

Mirella's eyes brimming with sudden tears. "I was trying to protect you. You're under so much stress, Nora. After yesterday, perhaps you shifted in your sleep and don't remember."

"You are a liar," I whispered, every muscle in my body coiled to strike.

Mirella's face crumpled beautifully. "I was afraid you'd react like this..."

Just then heavy, aggressive footsteps echoed on the stone path. Heavy pine and ozone filled the air seconds before Damon stepped into the garden.

His eyes immediately flew to Mirella's tear-stained face. "What happened here?"

Mirella tucked herself into her shawl. "Nothing, Damon. Truly. It's fine."

Damon's gaze snapped to me, his jaw hard as granite. "Nora. What did you do?"

"She destroyed my father's scarf," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "She left a note admitting she was in my room."

Damon barely glanced at the paper. "That note isn't proof of anything."

I let out a hollow laugh. "Of course. She destroys my belongings, and I'm still the one on the wrong."

"You are harassing a grieving woman," Damon growled.

"She is not vulnerable! She's a snake!"

My wolf bared her teeth beneath my skin, and in response, Damon’s Alpha aura slammed into the garden like a physical shockwave.

The sheer force of his dominant energy compressed the air in my lungs. The invisible weight drove my inner wolf straight to her knees, forcing my head to bow in helpless submission. My claws pricked against my palms as I fought the urge to cower.

"I said enough," Damon commanded.

Mirella stepped behind his broad shoulders. Over his arm, she flashed me a venomous, triumphant smile.

By midday, I was locked inside my chambers, organizing my belongings. If I was going to accept Ryker Solberg’s offer, I needed a complete inventory of what was legally mine. My trade ledgers, my personal jewelry, my family keepsakes.

I pulled open the heavy cedar chest at the foot of my bed. Reaching into the bottom, my knuckles struck something cold and metallic.

I pushed aside a heavy winter cloak, and my breath caught in a sharp, suffocating knot.

A small, silver urn sat concealed beneath my clothes.

Intricate runes were carved around its base, and a single name was engraved across the polished surface: EVANGELINE.

My pulse hammered. The urn containing the ashes of Damon's dead first mate was sacred, kept under a guardian spell in her memorial shrine. No one touched it without the Alpha's blessing.

Bang.

The bedroom door exploded inward. Damon stood in the threshold, pale, his nostrils flaring as his wolf picked up the scent of silver and bone before he even crossed the room.

His amber eyes locked onto the urn in my hands.

"Nora," he breathed.

I backed away on my knees, dropping the metal. "Damon... I didn't put that there."

He didn't answer. His chest heaved with terrifying, quiet rage.

"I swear to you! I just opened the chest to pack, and it was sitting under my clothes!"

"You expect me to believe you?"

"I would never desecrate her remains!" Tears blurred my vision. "Look at me! I am not a monster!"

Damon dropped to his knees and picked up the urn with trembling, reverent hands. "You hated her," he whispered. "You resented every single thing she left behind."

"I never hated Evangeline! I didn't even know her!"

"You wanted her place," he said, his eyes cold and burning.

"I have her place," I cried out, my voice breaking. "I'm your wife!"

"No." He shook his head slowly, the words landing with absolute finality. "You wear her title. But you will never, ever be her."

The room went dead silent.

"Why would you do this?" he asked, looking down at the urn. "To hurt me?"

"I didn't do it!" I screamed, but the words withered against his fortress of belief.

He stood up, cradling the silver urn against his chest, and walked toward the exit.

"Damon, please," I begged, chasing him to the threshold. "Listen to me!"

He pause, his back turned. For one second, I prayed his wolf would recognize the honesty in my voice.

Then he spoke: "I should have known better than to bring another woman into her home."

The door slammed shut, and the lock clicked like a gunshot.

I sank onto the cold stone floor among the stray silver threads. Two years of trying to be good enough. Two years of trying to earn a scrap of affection beside a ghost. And when given a choice between believing me or believing the absolute worst of me, my husband hadn't hesitated for a single second.

My wolf curled into a tight, silent ball in my chest, and for the first time in my life, I didn't try to comfort her.