Winter’s POV

My hand moved faster than I could think. It connected with his cheek, the sharp crack echoing through the room. His head twisted from the impact, and I stumbled back, gasping. My heartbeat thundered in my chest, so loud I was sure the entire pack house could hear it.

Then, silence. Everything froze. The air. The world. Even time itself seemed to hold its breath as I realized what I’d just done. I had slapped the most feared man alive. For a split second, I didn’t dare breathe. Would he hit me back? Would he kill me?

But then… he laughed.

It started as a low rumble, then grew into a deep, almost amused roar. He wiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth where my slap had actually cut him—a sight I never thought I’d live to see an alpha bleeding because of me.

“Cute,” he said, voice lazy yet dangerous, taking a deliberate step forward.

My breath hitched. I stood frozen, unable to move as his hand lifted. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the blow. But seconds passed, and nothing came.

When I finally opened my eyes, his face was inches from mine. So close I could feel his breath.

He held my waist, his grip firm but not painful, his gaze locked on mine with unsettling intensity. “I don’t hit my pets,” he murmured. “But I do punish them when they’re naughty.”

“I—”

Before I could find my words, he released me and vaulted over the balcony railing with inhuman ease. His laughter echoed as he disappeared into the night. “See you soon, little bunny.”

For a moment, I just stood there, my whole body trembling. Then my knees gave way, and I sank to the ground, gasping for air. “Not again,” I whispered to myself, my voice shaking.

But peace was short-lived. The punishment came sooner than I expected.

From the balcony, I saw it, the glow of red spreading through the night. Flames. Fireballs were raining down on the cottages where my pack lived. The gates burned. People screamed. My legs buckled, and I clutched the railing, watching helplessly as chaos unfolded below.

Tears blurred my sight. Swallowing hard, I turned away, stumbling through the room. My foot caught a chair, but I barely felt it. My body was moving on autopilot as I grabbed my phone, dialing desperately, but no one picked up. The line kept failing.

With a trembling sigh, I dropped the phone and went to my wardrobe. If I couldn’t stop the destruction, then I would face it head-on. My shaking hands pulled out my ceremonial red dress, the one meant for moments of power and farewell.

When I stepped out, the guards at the door moved to block me.

“Out of the way,” I said.

“Winter, your father gave strict orders to protect you,” one of them said, his tone pleading.

“He won’t hurt me, James,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “I’m the one he wants. Let me through.”

“But—”

“It’s an order.”

They hesitated, exchanged looks, then nodded. “We’ll come with you,” James said firmly.

There was no time to argue. Within minutes, James fetched the car while Theo took the wheel. As we drove through the pack’s territory, I watched the burning houses, the bodies, the smoke. Every scream pierced deeper into my guilt. This was my fault.

By the time we reached the border, I could see my father fighting, his silver hair catching the firelight as he tore through enemies. When he saw the car, his expression twisted in horror. He tried to break free, to stop me, but it was too late.

Crossing the border into Ashborne felt like crossing into another world.

The enemy’s camp stretched endlessly, vast and silent. They didn’t attack. They didn’t even move. It was as if they were waiting for me.

The tension in the car was unbearable. My fingers trembled as I picked up my phone again and dialed the one person I trusted. “Monika…” My voice cracked. “I’m so scared.”

For a moment, there was nothing. Just static. Then her voice came through, distant and cold. “Look, Winter, a lot’s happening right now. I can’t talk.”

Before I could respond, the line went dead.

I stared at the screen, my reflection pale against the glass. Even she had turned away from me.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. My thoughts spun until the view outside changed, the air grew heavy, metallic. The trees lining the road seemed to watch us. Then came the gates.

Tall. Steel. Alive with technology that hummed faintly in the night. Guards in black tactical gear stood like statues, eyes sharp, movements precise.

James lowered his window, his voice trembling. “Winter Veynar of Moonveil—”

Before he could finish, one of the guards barked an order. “Open the gates. The Luna has arrived.”

And as the steel doors creaked open, swallowing us into darkness, I realized that whatever waited for me inside Ashborne was far worse than the fire I left behind.

Never in my life had I seen anything so technologically advanced. The pack looked like it belonged to the future, and this was only the road leading to the mansion. Digital screens lined the sleek pathways, glowing faintly even in daylight, yet the land still held that wild, untamed beauty, the greenery, the air thick with primal energy. But beneath it all lingered a quiet tension, a feeling that fear had long settled into the soil here.

Their guards flanked us on both sides, none of them in human form. Even though there was no visible threat, they stayed shifted, massive and alert, escorting us like predators waiting for a command.

When the mansion finally came into view, I froze. An ivory-white, Victorian-looking structure stood at the heart of it all, grand, timeless, and hauntingly beautiful. Oddly, it had less security than I expected. Only a few guards moved about in their human forms, going about their duties with military precision. The black, hulking werewolves that had followed us retreated as soon as we crossed through the iron gates, disappearing into the shadows as if their task was done.

My pulse quickened as the car rolled to a stop. I braced myself, expecting to see Fadel waiting at the entrance, but the person who stepped forward wasn’t him.

A group of women stood by the doorway, all dressed elegantly, their expressions sharp and assessing. But one stood out, a woman in black, her face pale and streaked with dried tears, grief carved deep into her features.

“If it isn’t the bitch who caused my son’s death,” she spat.

Lily. Mason’s mother.