Chapter 2

When I returned to the Blackwood manor, Damon was already there.

The air was thick with his scent—cedar and musk and something darker beneath. A warning wrapped in pheromones.

I stepped through the door and found him in the great room, flanked by two Blackwood enforcers. They stood with their hands clasped, eyes forward, wolves simmering just beneath human skin. The universal posture of men trained to kill on command.

"Seraphina." Damon rose from the leather armchair, his voice silk over steel. "You shouldn't have left pack territory without telling me."

No Where were you. No Are you okay.

Just that cold, proprietary tone. Like I was a pup who'd strayed too far from the den.

"I wanted to surprise you," I said. The lie tasted like ash. "For the winter solstice."

He crossed the room in three strides. His hand caught my chin—not gentle, not rough. Possessive. The way he used to touch me in the early days, when I still believed the bond between us meant something.

"Until our mating ceremony, your safety is my responsibility." His thumb traced my jaw. His wolf pressed against mine through the fractured bond—or what he pretended was fractured. "The Blackwoods protect what belongs to them."

What belongs to them.

Not who. What.

I understood then, with perfect clarity, what I was to him. Not a fated mate. Not even a future Luna.

A possession.

"I understand," I whispered. "It won't happen again."

His grip softened. He leaned down and pressed his nose to my temple—scent-marking me, claiming me in the old way. His breath was warm against my skin, and I fought the urge to bare my teeth.

"Good girl." His voice dropped low, intimate. "Now go freshen up. You know I need you carrying my scent."

I retreated to the bedroom wing and stripped off my traveling clothes. In the closet, rows of garments hung in muted tones—all soft, all modest, all chosen by him. Nothing that would draw attention. Nothing that would mark me as anything but his.

I pulled on a cream cashmere sweater that still held traces of his cedar scent from when he'd handled it. The costume of a compliant mate.

That night, I lay beside him in the dark, listening to his breathing slow into sleep.

He slept like a wolf without enemies—deep, untroubled, certain of his dominance.

I waited two hours. Then I slipped out of bed.

His study was at the end of the east wing. The door was always locked—"pack business," he'd said, as if I didn't know exactly what kind of business the Blackwoods ran beneath their legitimate territory holdings.

The keypad glowed faint blue in the darkness. I tried our mating ceremony date. Denied. His birthday. Denied. His mother's bloodline name. Denied.

Then, on impulse, I typed in my birthday.

Access granted.

The irony nearly made me laugh. He'd used my birthday—probably thought I'd never be bold enough to try. That his bond-blind little mate would stay docile and obedient forever.

His laptop sat open on the mahogany desk. I woke the screen—no password.

Arrogance, thy name is Damon Blackwood.

He truly believed I was too meek, too domesticated, to ever look.

I navigated through folders. Financial records. Territory acquisitions. Shell company documents linking Blackwood enterprises to a dozen human fronts.

Then I found it. A folder labeled "V."

Vivian.

Photos first. Dozens of them. Damon and the woman in red—running together in shifted form through moonlit forests, tangled in silk sheets, her head thrown back in laughter at some private joke. Date stamps going back two years. Long before his "bond blindness." Long before the lies began.

My chest tightened, but I kept clicking.

Video files. I plugged in earbuds and pressed play.

The footage was from a private meeting room—security camera quality, grainy but clear enough. Damon sat across from a male I recognized instantly: Marcus Cross. Beta of Crimson Vale. Their strongest negotiator.

"The routes are confirmed," Damon was saying. "My father's next supply run comes through the northern passage on the fifteenth. Your wolves can intercept—make it look like rogues."

Marcus smiled, showing too many teeth. "And after your mating ceremony?"

"After the ceremony, I'll have full access to Thornwood territory. Their ports, their contacts, their hunting grounds." Damon leaned back, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. "Give me a year. The old Alpha's getting weak—challenges happen. I take his seat. Then we merge the territories. Blackwoods and Crimson Vale. Equal partners."

"What about your mate?"

Damon's laugh made my blood freeze. "Seraphina? She's a Thornwood princess who's never bloodied her claws. She'll give me heirs, sign whatever I put in front of her, and stay out of pack politics." He raised his glass. "The perfect Luna."

I stopped the video.

My hands were trembling—not from heartbreak, but from rage so cold it burned like silver.

He wasn't just a cheater. He was planning to overthrow his own father. Sell out my bloodline. Use me as a treaty seal and a breeding vessel.

Vivian wasn't just a mistress. She was a Crimson Vale plant.

And Damon thought he was the apex predator in this hunt.

I pulled a drive from my pocket and copied everything. Every photo. Every video. Every file that would bury him.

Then I wiped the access logs, closed the laptop, and left the study exactly as I'd found it.

Back in the bedroom, I retrieved my mother's earring box. Beneath the velvet lining, I'd carved out a small hollow—just enough space for the drive.

The moonstones caught the pale light as I closed the lid.

I climbed back into bed. Damon stirred, his arm reaching for me automatically, draping across my waist. His wolf rumbled in contentment—the sound of a predator who believed his prey was safely caged.

"Mine," he murmured into my hair.

I stared at the ceiling, breathing slow and even.

Tomorrow I would smile. I would wear his scent. I would let him believe he had won.

And when the moment was right, I would show him exactly what happened when you underestimated a Thornwood wolf.