Chapter 1
The Grave
ARIEL
The rain did not wash away the sins of the Silverwood Pack. It just made the mud worse, the black umbrellas wetter, and the quiet even stronger.
I stood at the edge of the open grave, my heels sinking into the softened earth. I stared at the wooden coffin being lowered into the ground, but my eyes were dry.
I had no tears left for Alpha Marcus. My husband. The man who had saved me, trapped me, and now, by dying, had thrown me to the wolves.
Quite literally.
"Mama?" A small, trembling voice pulled my gaze downward.
Leo buried his face in the folds of my black silk dress. He was four years old, too young to understand death, but old enough to understand fear.
He could feel the hatred radiating from the hundred pack members standing in a semi-circle behind us.
"It’s okay, baby," I whispered, resting my gloved hand on his head. I smoothed his dark curls, my fingers trembling slightly. "Stay close to me."
‘They are watching,’ my inner wolf whined, pacing anxiously in the back of my mind. ‘They are waiting for you to fall.’
I lifted my chin, staring across the grave at Karen, Marcus’s first wife….or rather, the woman who had been his Luna before she was demoted to "advisor" so he could marry me.
Her eyes were harsh, focused, and shining with victory. Next to her stood the Council Elders, old men with grey beards and greedy hearts.
They did not want a twenty-four-year-old widow running the pack as Regent. They wanted the power for themselves.
"Ashes to ashes," the Pack Priest droned on, his voice barely audible over the drumming of the rain. "Dust to dust. We commit Alpha Marcus to the Goddess..."
I tuned him out. My heart was beating a nervous beat against my ribs. ‘He’s gone,’ I thought. ‘Marcus is gone. And now there is no one left to protect the lie.’
A quick gust of wind tore through the cemetery. It wasn't natural. It was violent, ripping umbrellas from hands and snapping the branches of the ancient oaks surrounding the burial grounds.
Then came the sound.
BOOM.
The heavy double oak doors of the Pack House, located a hundred yards up the hill, were blasted open. They didn't just open; they slammed against the stone surface walls with enough force to crack the wood.
The Priest stopped speaking.
Every head turned.
Every breath was held.
The wind shifted, carrying a scent down the hill that made the hair on my arms stand up. It was not the smell of rain or wet earth anymore.
It smelled like fresh rain after a lightning storm. There was also the strong smell of dark pine trees. Mixed in was a metallic smell, like old dried blood.
Him.
My stomach dropped to my feet. ‘No. It’s too soon. He wasn’t supposed to know.’
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the Pack House entrance.
Even from this distance, he was huge. He was at the top of the stone steps, with the gray light from the storm making his shape look big, much bigger than the boy I knew.
His shoulders were wide, making his black shirt look like it might rip. His legs were thick like tree trunks, wearing dark pants made for tough situations.
He began to walk down the hill toward the grave.
He didn't rush. He moved with the slow, scary pace of a predator that knows its prey can't escape. As he got closer, the details became horrifyingly clear.
Lyold.
But not the Lyold I had known four years ago. That boy had been lean, smiling, and full of light. This man was a weapon forged in darkness. His hair was longer, wet with rain, plastering against a face that had hardened into granite.
And the scar.
A jagged, raised line of white tissue ran from the corner of his jaw, slashing down his neck and disappearing under the collar of his shirt. It was a kill-mark. Someone had tried to slit his throat, and he had survived to wear the memory.
He reached the perimeter of the crowd.
Usually, pack wolves would growl at an intruder. They would snap, pose, and protect their territory. But as Lyold stepped onto the grass, a ripple of submission went through the crowd like a shockwave.
Whimpers broke out. Grown men, warriors who had fought in border squabbles, lowered their heads and averted their eyes. Their wolves sensed what their human minds couldn't process yet.
This was a Prime Alpha. A beast of pure power.
Lyold didn't look at them. He walked through the crowd as if they were ghosts, his heavy boots crushing the grass. The crowd parted for him, scrambling to get out of his path, terrified of touching him.
My breath hitched in my throat. I couldn't move. My feet were rooted to the spot.
"Mama, I am scared," Leo whispered, pressing so hard against my leg it hurt.
I quickly moved my hand to cover Leo’s head, shielding him, pulling him slightly behind my skirt.
‘Don't look at him,’ I prayed. ‘Please, Goddess, don't let him look at the boy.’
Lyold reached the gravesite.
He stopped at the foot of the coffin. The rain lashed against his face, but he didn't blink. He stared at the wooden box containing his father with an expression of utter, chilling void. No sadness. No anger. Just... nothing.
Then, slowly, his head turned.
His eyes locked onto mine.
The air left my lungs.
His eyes were the color of a stormy sea….dark, turbulent, and drowning. But there was a fire burning in the center of them that terrified me more than the coldness. It was hate. Pure, unadulterated, obsessed hate.
He took a step around the open grave. Then another.
He was coming for me.
Karen stepped forward, perhaps thinking she could play the grieving stepmother. "Lyold? Is that….."
He didn't even look at her. He simply kept walking, and the mere pressure of his Aura forced her to stumble back, gasping for air as if he had physically shoved her.
He stopped in front of me.
Up close, he was overwhelming. He smelled of rain and violence. He towered over me, blocking out the gray sky, blocking out the pack, blocking out the world. I had to crane my neck just to look him in the eye.
My heart was beating so hard I thought it would crack my ribs. I could feel the heat given off by him, a furnace of rage wrapped in wet clothes.
I tried to speak, to maintain my rank as Luna, but my voice died in my throat.
Lyold looked down at me. His gaze raked over my body, slow and insulting. He looked at my black veil, my fitted silk dress, my heaving chest.
He took a half-step closer, invading my personal space, forcing me to lean my head back further. I could see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. I could see the pulse jumping in his jaw.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. His voice was a low rumble, a sound that vibrated straight through the soles of my feet and settled deep in my womb.
"Hello, Ariel," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse.
I shivered, unable to stop myself.
His lips quirked up at the corner, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. It was a shark's smile.
"You look beautiful in mourning," he whispered, his hot breath ghosting over my cold, rain-slicked cheek. "Tell me, Mother... did you dress up for me?"
