Betrayed by the Wolf Who Swore to Protect Me

At the pack banquet, I realized Weston hadn’t exaggerated.

Archer Medina had indeed taken in many sons—eight in total, scattered across the pack’s borders, each vying for power. Weston, however, preferred to stay out of the fray, content with a quiet life as a Delta. His brothers, ambitious and ruthless, often overlooked him, making this banquet in his honor a rare and unexpected event.

I discreetly scanned the room. The other adopted sons, all around Weston’s age, carried themselves with the same imposing aura as Archer, their Alpha. They were like younger versions of him—cold, calculating, and intimidating. Among them, one caught my attention. A scar cut across his brow, and when his gaze met mine, I froze.

I recognized him instantly.

Years ago, when Archer had sent me to live within the pack’s territory as leverage, Makai had been desperate. He’d clung to the gates, refusing to let go even as Archer’s warriors beat him bloody. I could still see the fire in his eyes as he’d sworn, “Adele, don’t be afraid. One day, I’ll kill Archer and bring you home.”

But that day never came.

The memory stirred something in me, but I quickly pushed it down. Promises were fleeting, and I’d learned not to rely on them.

Just then, Weston poured me a drink. I took a sip and immediately regretted it. The bitter tang of wolfsbane-laced wine burned my throat, and I fought the urge to spit it out. Wolfsbane was harmless to most, but it triggered a severe reaction in me—itching, rashes, and sleepless nights. Back in the Blue Moon Pack, Paul had banned it entirely to spare me the discomfort. But here, in this unfamiliar setting, I couldn’t afford to draw attention.

I swallowed the drink, hoping the symptoms would hold off until the banquet ended.

Archer, as usual, was late. When he finally arrived, he lingered longer than expected, sitting silently at the head table, his expression unreadable behind the dim lighting. His presence cast a heavy shadow over the room, and no one dared leave before him.

Weston leaned in, his voice low. “The Alpha’s been in a foul mood since he returned from the border patrol. Normally, he’d lock himself away and take it out on someone privately. I don’t know why he’s staying here tonight.”

Before I could ask who he usually took his anger out on, the doors swung open. Two warriors dragged in a shackled figure, their chains clinking against the floor. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

I stared at the figure’s thin wrists, where a faded pack bracelet still clung. My heart sank.

Someone whispered, “Is that Paul Shaw? He’s alive?”