After My Three Stepchildren Betrayed Me, I Choose to Be the Wicked Stepmother

Vivian's maid found an identity token from the Flintstone Pack in my room. Without granting me even a moment to explain, the pack immediately judged me a deep-cover spy and turned against me. I was dragged to the central square and shackled to the execution pyre to be burned alive before the entire pack. My faithful maid, Caroline, was brutally beaten senseless by the maddened tribesmen merely for trying to defend my honor. She lay in the dirt, her body a mass of bruises and covered in blood, and no matter how desperately I screamed her name, she did not wake. I could only cling to the desperate hope that my three stepchildren would arrive to save us. I clung to the belief that they, of all people, would know my heart. As the first tongues of fire began to lick the wood, they finally appeared. Walking behind them, draped in an air of gentle elegance, was Vivian. "Damon! Silas! Lydia! I'm not a spy! You have to believe me!" I shrieked, my voice raw with desperation. "Please, save me! Save Caroline!" They looked at me, but there was no love in their eyes. Only venom. As the fire began to crawl up my ankles like a nest of vipers, Damon's voice cut through the crackling heat. "Shut your mouth, Ella! I don't believe a word you say. You're a shameless traitor! A snake in our midst!" His voice was a primal growl, thick with loathing. Even the thin scar on his cheek twitched with fury. "My father saved your miserable life," he spat. "He made you the Luna—the highest honor in this pack—and this is how you repay him?" I struggled to lift my head. Through the distorting haze of heat and smoke, I saw his face twisted into a mask of disgust. He stood tall, his stance firm and powerful. That left leg of his… I had hacked it from my own body. I used forbidden witchcraft to bind my flesh to his after a battle left him crippled and poisoned, his natural healing suppressed. I couldn't bear to see him a cripple; I couldn't let him lose his claim to the Alpha seat. So, I gave him my leg. My own limb never grew back. I had to settle for a crude wooden prosthetic—the very wood that was now catching fire beneath me. I opened my mouth, my throat feeling as though it were lined with razor blades. "Damon… how could I be a traitor? If I were your enemy, would I have poured my lifeblood into you?" "Nine years! For nine years, I cared for you without a single regret. That was three thousand days and nights of devotion! "Even that leg you're standing on… it belongs to me!" "Shut up!" He lunged forward, snatching a brand of burning timber and hurling it at me. It struck my chest with a sickening thud. "We found the medallion in your room. There is no defense for that!" he roared. "You gave me your leg just to buy our trust. It only proves how far a spy is willing to go to maintain her cover! "You shameless w***e—don't think I've forgotten how you crawled into my bed like a b***h in heat. What a despicable woman you are." "And this leg? It never felt right. It's sluggish. Tell me, witch—what dark spell did you cast to sabotage me?" The burning wood scorched my skin, the heat blooming into an inferno. I felt as though I had been dropped into the lowest pit of hell. Yet, the agony in my chest far outweighed the searing of my flesh. How absurd. Who would sacrifice their own body just to play the long game of a spy? The pyre beneath me groaned and popped. The heavy, cloying scent of roasting meat filled the air. It hurt. It hurt worse than the day I cut off my leg. Worse than the day the curse took hold. But being discarded—being hated by those I raised—was a fire no flame could match. I had raised him for nine years. I had watched him grow from a naive boy into a fierce Alpha. "Damon, stop listening to her lies!" Lydia's sharp, piercing voice rang out. "Don't go soft now. Just let her burn!" I turned my eyes toward her. Her beautiful, spoiled face was flushed with a sickening excitement. I stared at her in disbelief. "Lydia… you have the blood-wasting sickness. For nine years, I fed you my own blood. I became a ghost of myself for you, clinging to life with bitter herbs just so you could thrive. How can you…" "Shut up!" Lydia shrieked, cutting me off. "Your blood was foul! It tasted like rot! Because of you, I have this permanent stench of medicine clinging to my skin! "The boy I loved rejected me because of that smell! I should have been the most desired girl in the pack… and it's all your fault!" She pointed at me, her finger trembling with self-righteous rage. My heart shattered. Without my blood, she wouldn't have survived to see her eighteenth birthday. Her mother had died bringing her into this world, leaving her frail and cursed. Only by drinking my blood every New Moon could she maintain her human form and grow into the woman she was today. I wanted to scream the truth at her, but my voice failed. The heat had stolen my breath. The fire had reached my waist now, tearing at my soul. With the last of my strength, I turned my gaze toward Silas. He stood on the fringe of the crowd, his brooding eyes hooded in shadow. When our eyes met, he flinched, turning his head away. The teardrop mole on his left cheek made him look fragile—and utterly heartless. I wanted to ask him, too. But the flames were licking at my lips. Silas had been struck by a vile curse while provoking the Flintstone Pack Alpha. He returned unable to shift—a werewolf without a wolf. I had used every ounce of my power to transfer that curse to myself. I took on his burden. I endured the agony of being trapped in a static body, the mid-month convulsions, and the bone-deep tremors. Because of that curse, my hair turned white. My skin wrinkled. I became an old woman before my time so that he could be a warrior again. And still, he felt no gratitude. I remembered overhearing him whisper to his guards, "I can shift now, but I am weaker than before. It's Ella's fault. Her magic was sloppy…" Damon. Silas. Lydia. My three children. I gave them everything, only to be draped in infamy and cast into the fire. Fueled by their hatred, the pack began to chant. "Burn her! Burn the witch! Burn the traitor!" The irony was so thick I wanted to laugh, but my lungs were charred. I wanted to weep, but the fire had evaporated my tears. I wanted to scream curses, but I had no strength to open my mouth. I wanted revenge… but I was dying. The fire climbed to my chest, suffocating me. "Ella…" A soft, melodic voice broke through the haze of my fading consciousness. I forced my eyes open and saw Vivian standing at the very front of the mob. The moonlight bathed her exquisite features, illuminating the sharp, cruel curve of her smile. "You really were quite the strategist, Ella," she purred, loud enough only for me to hear. "To deceive these poor children for so many years… you've broken their hearts. They truly looked up to you as a mother. "Otherwise, why would a wandering half-breed—an outcast witch like you—ever get to marry an Alpha? How else could you have stolen the Luna's throne?" Looking at her glinting eyes, the realization hit me like a physical blow. Of course. It was her handmaid who found the medallion. It was all Vivian. A frame-up. A slow, methodical poisoning of my children's minds. My downfall wasn't just because of the children's selfishness; it was because she had tirelessly driven a wedge between us. They chose to believe their "sweet" aunt over the woman who had bled for them. I summoned every lingering spark of life in my body, a raspy, guttering sound escaping my throat. "It… was… you?"