After My Alpha Killed Our Pup for an Heir

The sun came up while I was still at the kitchen table, and I didn't notice until the light turned the ledger pages gray to gold.

I had nine years of my own handwriting to work with — every grocery run, every roof repair, every month I'd stretched eighty dollars further than it should have gone because Nathan said the territory tax was up again, the trade routes were down again, the pack couldn't spare more. I laid my ledger open beside the photographs from his study and I started matching dates.

March, four years ago. Nathan told me we couldn't afford to fix the boiler. I remembered because Cason wore two sweatshirts to bed for a week. The shell account records showed a transfer of forty-one thousand dollars to a holding company called Ashgrove Trust, routed through a rogue-territory processor, landing three days later in an account tied to the Blackridge deed.

I wrote the number down. Then I kept going.

July, six years ago. "Thin year, Anya, the whole territory's thin." Sixty-two thousand dollars, same route, same week I'd sold my mother's ring to cover Cason's healer bills.

By 3 a.m. my hands weren't shaking anymore. They were steady in the specific way hands get when grief has finished arguing with itself and settled into work. I built a spreadsheet on my laptop, cross-referenced every diverted transfer against every excuse he'd fed me, and watched nine years turn into a single unbroken line running straight from my kitchen table to a Christmas tree in Blackridge.

By morning I had four hundred and thirteen thousand dollars documented, traceable, dated, and matched to Nathan's own words. It would hold before any Council in the world.

I wrote the tribunal petition myself, in the same plain language I used for the household accounts — no embellishment, because embellishment invites doubt and I had none left to invite. Wolfsbane poisoning of a Luna. Death of an unborn pup. Nine years of diverted pack resources. I signed it *Anya Wagner, Luna of the Silverfang Pack* and sent it to the Lycan Council registry before I let myself reread it.

Then I searched the Council's active investigations directory for anything touching rogue territory fraud, and found a name already circling the exact shell network I'd just spent all night mapping.

*Dominic Ashford. Lycan Prince. Case file: Blackridge estate — flagged.*

I attached the evidence package and sent it before I could talk myself into softening a single line.

His office replied by early afternoon, faster than I expected from anyone with a title. The letter was formal, precise, almost clinical — an acknowledgment of the alliance, a confirmation that his Beta, Marcus Hale, would arrive within the day to conduct an independent audit of the Silverfang ledgers. Nothing in the wording gave anything away. But at the very bottom, beneath the seal, one line sat by itself, slightly out of register with the rest: *Your documentation is the most complete evidentiary trail I have seen in fourteen months of investigation. I don't say that lightly.*

I read it twice and set it aside, too tired to wonder why it warmed something in my chest that had no business being warm.

Nathan came home a little after ten.

I heard the front door meet the wards and stop there, a soft, useless push against a barrier that hadn't existed yesterday. I watched from the upstairs window as he stood on the porch, staring at his own hand against the invisible line, and I felt nothing where I expected to feel fear.

He didn't force it. He never does anything that would look bad from the street. Within the hour, Beau knocked on my locked bedroom door, his voice careful, apologetic, a man delivering a message he clearly didn't want to carry.

"Luna. The Alpha's asking — requesting — a family dinner tonight. Main hall. Says it's about unity. Says he wants Cason there."

"A request," I repeated.

"That's the word he used." Beau's eyes wouldn't quite meet mine. "He was specific about that word."

Of course he was. No Alpha tone this time — not with a petition already sitting in the Council registry with his name on it, waiting to become the kind of evidence that outlives an apology. He wanted the pack to see a father and son sitting together, wanted witnesses who could say, later, that things weren't so broken after all. He wanted Cason's face beside his at the head of that hall before anyone in Blackridge finished picking themselves up off the floor.

"Tell him," I said, "I'll consider it."

I closed the door before Beau could see what considering actually looked like on my face.

Downstairs, Cason was already awake, sitting at the kitchen table in his pajamas, swinging his feet under the chair the way he did when he was working up to saying something. He looked at me with the particular directness he never learned from either of his parents.

"Dad wants me at dinner tonight," he said. "Beau told the other guard. I heard."

I sat down across from him, folded my hands, and waited for whatever he was about to say next.