Chapter Two – A Mark Never Lies

The council chamber of the Elders smells like old stone and moon ash.

Elder Rowan sits on the central bench, fingers laced.

“Chiara,” he says quietly, “do you understand what you’re asking for?”

I stand inside the pale inlaid circle on the floor—the ancient Oath Ring, used to swear vows, and to end them. My wolf lies curled and silent.

“I do,” I say, without blinking.

A faint stir runs through the seats behind him—wolves who once watched me stand beside Cassian at the ceremony, wolves who once bowed their heads and called me Luna.

The same wolves who said nothing when Seraphina was carrying the “heir.”

Rowan’s gaze sharpens. “You’re certain you want to sever it?”

My jaw locks. “Yes.”

The silence stretches.

At last, Elder Rowan exhales slowly. “Then come back at dawn tomorrow. You must be fasting. Your mind must be quiet. And you must accept the price.”

---

When the elevator doors slide open on the top floor, it isn’t Cassian’s scent that hits me first.

It’s milk.

My home looks like a nursery exploded in it.

A cradle has been set by the window; Soft, expensive pale blankets are folded neatly on the sofa.And tiny clothes, bottles, cloths, silver charms laid out in perfect order on the counter.

Seraphina appears in the hallway, like she’s exactly where she belongs.

“Chiara,” Her hair is loose, she says gently, “you’re back.”

I don’t answer.

She still comes closer, slowly, carefully, like she’s approaching a wounded animal. “I wanted to talk to you.”

I let out a short, sharp laugh, brittle as glass. “Do you. How brave.”

Something flickers in her eyes, but the smile stays. “I’m sorry for everything that happened.”

The lie is so clean it almost shines.

“I never wanted you to be hurt,” she adds, the baby shifting and making a small sound. “I just… wanted a child, and to help you and Cassian however I could.”

My stomach lurches.

“How thoughtful of you,” I say, my voice flat and cold. “This won’t earn you anything more than the title of mistress.”

Her smile tightens; her face twists, ugly for a heartbeat. I see there’s much more cruelty than fragility in her.

But she hides it fast.

“Cassian carries so much weight. He’s buried under grief, under duty—”

“Shut up.” My voice cracks like a whip. “Stop pretending.”

The air stutters.

Seraphina’s mouth curves, slow and small. “Chiara… I never meant to steal your place.”

My wolf growls silently in my chest.

“Whether you meant to or not doesn’t matter,” I say. “You are.”

A flush creeps up her cheeks. “I’m doing what the pack needs.”

“The pack,” I repeat, the bitterness rising at the back of my tongue. “Or what you need?”

She steps closer again, chin lifting. “You’re not the only she-wolf who can stand at an Alpha’s side.”

The words shove at me like a hand.

I’m about to answer—

And then I feel it.

That is not the faint trace a cold, clinical collection would leave.

It’s something that’s been layered over and over, taken and claimed and reaffirmed—Cassian burned into her skin, into her pulse.

It’s the scent of a deep mark.

My wolf surges upright, fur on end, every instinct screaming mine, mine, mine—and the truth closing its hand around her throat.

My blood goes to ice. My vision tunnels.

Seraphina watches my face change, and hunger glints in her eyes.

“You…” My voice is rough. “What did you let him do to you?”

Her smile returns, small and satisfied. “Careful, Chiara.”

“Answer me.” I step up, close enough to taste the lie in her breath. “Did he complete a deep mark on you?”

Seraphina doesn’t answer.

She doesn’t have to.

Her silence is admission.

My hand is shaking, but my voice is glacial. “So it was never about ‘duty.’ Never about ‘borrowing seed.’” I grab her collar and yank it aside, exposing the back of her neck. I see the mark.

“Filthy.”

Venom flares in her eyes at once.

The door opens.

Cassian’s scent surges into the room—the mate bond snaps tight like a noose at his approach, even as it rots.

His gaze lands on Seraphina first.

It’s always her first.

“What’s going on?” His voice is a bark of command.

Seraphina’s shoulders flinch, lashes lowering at the perfect moment. “I wanted to apologize. I really did. But Chiara… she hates me. Maybe I should go. I shouldn’t make her uncomfortable.”

An ugly, cold laugh rips out of me.

Cassian’s gaze flicks to her collar, then back to my face—as if I’m the problem.

“That’s enough.” His voice drops, dangerous as an order. “Let her go.”

I point at the side of Seraphina’s neck, at the truth my wolf can smell. “Why don’t you tell me why she’s carrying your deep mark?”

Cassian’s jaw clenches. His eyes rest on Seraphina for a heartbeat—warning, protective.

Then he looks back at me, like I’m the one out of line.

“You’re insane,” he says, voice knife-cold. “You’re letting jealousy blow everything out of proportion.”

Seraphina’s lips tremble delicately. “Cassian, please, don’t fight because of me.”

Then, soft as poison, she drives the words into my chest:

“A Luna shouldn’t behave like this…”

Something in me snaps.

“Say that again.”

I grab her wrist, only wanting to shove her out of my space—but she folds backward like glass. Cassian catches her instantly, putting his whole body between us. There’s a thermal container in his other hand.

He doesn’t even hesitate. He hurls the contents at me.

Scalding liquid slams into my chest and stomach, soaking through my clothes, running down my body like a brand of pure humiliation. The greasy smell hits me—postpartum broth, meant to nourish a mother after birth.

For her.

Not for me.

I suck in a breath, shock blazing into a hard, metallic-tasted rage.

Something like surprise flickers in Cassian’s eyes.

He opens his mouth, but I hear nothing. Then he shuts it again.

“Chiara…”

I wipe the broth from my chin and look up at him with a twisted smile. “Get out. Both of you.”

He starts to say my name again. I only repeat, “Get. Out.”

A second later, he’s guiding Seraphina, the baby in her arms, into the elevator that leads to the very top-floor bedroom—the one that was supposed to belong to the Luna.

The doors close.

I stand in the middle of the living room, dripping, shaking.

A sheet of white paper flutters to the floor by my foot.

I bend, my fingers stiff, and pick it up.

A prenatal record.

My eyes skim down to the date—

And the numbers suddenly stop making sense.

Five months ago, gestational age: sixteen weeks.

This child isn’t premature. This child—

Very likely was never his to begin with.

A jagged laugh scrapes out of my throat, high and broken.

It isn’t joy.

It isn’t relief.

It’s just the sound of something dying, clean and final.

Cassian doesn’t come downstairs that night.

Not once.

At dawn, I scrub myself until my skin glows red, pull on clean clothes, tie my hair back, and hide the tremor in my hands.

When the first gray light crawls over the edge of the city, I walk into the Elders’ Council—

And I do not look back.