After My Alpha Used His Voice to Silence Me

The email came three days after I found the footage.

I was in the studio—a small room off the east wing that no one used anymore. I'd claimed it without asking, dragging my supplies in one afternoon while Cassian was at a border meeting. Buster lay in the corner, his head on his paws, watching me work. I wasn't painting. Just sketching. Lines that went nowhere. Shapes that refused to resolve.

My phone buzzed. I almost didn't look.

But Selene stirred. Not cold this time. Something else. A flicker of warmth so faint I thought I imagined it.

I picked up the phone.

The subject line read: Continental Pack Summit — Artistic Recognition Award.

My hands started shaking before I opened it.

Dear Ms. Holmes,

It is our honor to inform you that your submission, 'Fractured Light,' has been awarded the Celestial Achievement in Visual Arts at this year's Continental Pack Summit. Your work was selected unanimously by our council as a profound and visceral exploration of trauma, survival, and the indomitable spirit of the wolf. We would be honored to have you accept this recognition in person at the awards ceremony on June 14th.

I read it three times.

Then I started crying.

Not the silent, swallowed kind I'd gotten used to. Real crying. The kind that came from somewhere I'd forgotten existed. Buster was on his feet immediately, his head pushing into my lap, his weight solid and grounding.

I pressed my face into his fur and let myself break.

The painting was mine. I'd made it during recovery, in the small art therapy room the rescue facility had set up. I'd painted it in four sleepless nights, my hands shaking so badly I had to stop every few minutes to breathe. It was raw. Ugly in places. The colors were too dark, the lines too jagged. But it was the first thing I'd created that felt true.

I hadn't even known it had been submitted.

I wiped my face and stood. My legs felt unsteady but I made it to the door. Down the hallway. Cassian's office was on the first floor. I didn't knock.

He looked up from his desk, his expression shifting immediately into concern. "Annalise? What's wrong?"

I held up my phone. "I won."

He blinked. "Won what?"

"The Continental Pack Summit. The art award. My painting—'Fractured Light'—it won the highest honor."

For a moment his face was blank. Then something flickered across it—surprise, maybe, or confusion. He stood and crossed to me, taking the phone gently from my hand.

He read the email. His jaw tightened.

"Annalise," he said slowly. "This is incredible. I'm so proud of you."

But his voice was wrong. Too careful. Too measured.

"The ceremony is in two weeks," I said. "I want to go. I want to accept it."

He set the phone down and took both my hands. His grip was firm. Grounding. The way it used to be.

"I need you to think about what that means," he said softly. "The Summit is attended by every major pack in the region. Alphas, Lunas, council members. The scrutiny will be intense. There will be questions about where you've been, what you've been through. Cameras. Interviews."

He cupped my face, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones.

"You're still healing," he continued. "Your wolf is fragile. The stress of that kind of public exposure—Annalise, it could set your recovery back months. I can't let that happen to you."

"I can handle it," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"I know you think you can." His eyes held mine without blinking. "But I've watched you have episodes. I've seen how hard you're fighting just to get through each day. This isn't about whether you're strong enough. It's about protecting you from something that could break you."

Selene sent a wave of cold through me. Sharp. Insistent.

I pulled my hands back. "Then what do you suggest?"

"I'll accept on your behalf," he said immediately. "I'll represent you at the ceremony. I'll make sure everyone knows the work is yours. You'll get the recognition without the exposure."

His voice had dropped into that register—not quite Alpha tone, but carrying its weight. The undertow that made disagreement feel like rebellion.

"Cassian—"

"Annalise." He stepped closer. "Do you trust me?"

I looked at him. At the face I'd loved since I was eighteen. At the eyes that used to make me feel safe.

"Yes," I whispered.

The lie tasted like ash.

"Good." He kissed my forehead. "I'll take care of everything."

Two weeks later, I watched the ceremony on the packhouse broadcast.

I sat in the studio with Buster, the screen propped on a chair in front of me. The Summit's Great Hall was massive, glittering with chandeliers and filled with wolves in formal dress. The camera panned across the audience—Alphas in tailored suits, Lunas in gowns that probably cost more than most cars.

The art awards were announced midway through. A council member took the stage and spoke about the power of creative expression, the way art could capture what words could not.

Then they called the Celestial Achievement winner.

"This year's highest honor goes to 'Fractured Light,' a stunning and deeply moving work that explores the intersection of trauma and resilience. Please welcome the artist—Brooklyn Shaw."

The applause was deafening.

Brooklyn walked onto the stage.

She wore a gown from the Luna wardrobe. I recognized it—midnight blue silk with silver embroidery, the kind of dress I'd tried on once and never had occasion to wear. Her hair was swept up. Her makeup was flawless. She looked like she belonged there.

Cassian walked beside her, his hand at the small of her back.

The council member handed her the award—a crystal sculpture that caught the light and threw it across the stage in fractured beams.

Brooklyn accepted it with both hands. Her eyes filled with tears.

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling. "This painting—it was born from a place of deep empathy. I wanted to honor the survivors of rogue violence, to give voice to their pain and their strength. Creating it was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but also the most meaningful."

The crowd applauded again. Several Lunas dabbed at their eyes.

Cassian smiled at her. Proud. Protective.

I stared at the screen.

Selene went completely silent. Not cold. Not warm. Just—gone.

I sat there until the broadcast ended. Until the screen went dark and the studio was quiet except for Buster's breathing.

Then I stood, walked to the door, and locked it.

I pulled out my journal. Opened to a blank page. Pressed my pen to the paper so hard the tip nearly tore through.

I didn't sketch. I wrote.

Two words, over and over, until my hand cramped.

Not hers. Not hers. Not hers.

Something inside me didn't break.

It hardened.