Page 8

Pain rips through my chest, sharp and unrelenting.

My wolf howls.

I grit my teeth, shove the feeling down, and remind my wolf where our loyalty lies.

“She’s not the one. Our Mate will always be Irene, and we’ll find her soon.”

The scentof roasted meat and wine wafts through the air, the rich laughter of some of the Betas in Blackwood pack as well as the aristocrats stirs heavily in the grand hall.

To the Alpha of the Blackwood Pack, this is what constitutes a family gathering: wolves united under one roof, pretending loyalty, swearing devotion. But only two names matter tonight.

Mine and Julian’s.

There are a lot of wolves who would kill for him in this very room, but he chose us to fight for the throne. I was honored, of course.

But pitting me against my nephew? That’s a disaster waiting to happen. We’ll both do whatever it takes to win.

Julian already played his hand once, sending his ex to ruin me. I have no doubt he has more cards up his sleeve.

We sit at the long, fifty-six-seater table, a feast spread before us. The Alpha occupies the head chair, his presence diminished by the blood he coughs into his handkerchief every five minutes.

He’s dying. That’s reason number one why he needs to see who is worthy to take up his mantle.

And speaking of my dear nephew, my grip tightens around the flute of my glass the moment Julian stands.

Here we go.

I expect him to bring up Lila. To turn the room against me.

But even I can’t predict the move he chooses to make.

Julian raises his glass, his voice as smug as his face. “Alpha, allow me to end the suspense. The reason I wanted everyone here tonight is because I have found the lost daughter of the Moonlight Pack’s Alpha.” He pauses for theatrics. “Allow me to introduce Irene.”

Heavy silence crashes over the room, then bursts into murmurs and gasps.

I remain still.

Surprised? Yes.

Patient enough to see the so-called Irene? Also, yes.

My wolf stirs, howling at the possibility that it’s her.

I scoff. The odds are slim.

Then the doors to the hall are opened, and a woman steps in.

She is draped in a silk dress, the finest I’ve ever seen. Golden-brown hair cascades over her shoulders, and her lips are painted the same red shade as her gown.

She plays the part well—poised, demure, an image of how the daughter of an Alpha should behave.

It only takes me a second to see through the lie.

A few gasps sound around the room.

The Alpha looks at me.

I look at my nephew.