I Lost Our Pup While He Was with Her

I started preparing two days ahead.

The Pack Feast was the one tradition I had carried with me from Silvercrest. My mother had taught me when I was nine, standing on a wooden stool beside her at the kitchen island, my small hands pressing into dough that smelled of rosemary and honey. She had told me back then that a Luna's hands were the heart of a pack. That the food we made was a kind of prayer.

I hadn't spoken to my mother in years. But her recipes still lived in my fingers.

I hand-rolled the bread on Wednesday. Twelve loaves. I started the venison marinade that same night, rubbing the meat with juniper and black pepper, layering it in the deep ceramic dish my grandmother had given me before I left Silvercrest forever. On Thursday morning I was up before dawn, the kitchen warm and smelling like home, like the home I had given up, like the home I had tried to build here.

Julius passed through the kitchen around eight. He kissed my temple without slowing down.

"Smells incredible," he said. "Tonight, right?"

"Seven o'clock."

"I'll be there."

He was already out the door.

I set the ceremonial table myself that afternoon. The long oak slab that had been carved with Ironveil's crest the year Julius became Alpha. Forty-two seats. The good linen. The silver candlesticks that had been a gift from the Lycan Council. I lit the candles at six-thirty. I changed into the deep green dress Julius had bought me three winters ago, back when he still noticed what I wore.

The pack started arriving at seven.

Derek came first, as he always did. His eyes moved across the table, the food, my face. He didn't say anything. He just squeezed my shoulder once and took his seat.

The pack filled the hall. Voices rose. Children ran between chairs. Plates clinked. The Alpha's chair at the head of the table sat empty.

Seven-fifteen.

Seven-thirty.

I smiled at people. I poured wine. I told a young warrior's mother that her son was doing beautifully on patrols. My hands were perfectly steady.

At seven-forty-two, I felt him in the mind-link.

*Mariana.*

I closed my eyes briefly. *Where are you.*

*I'm so sorry. Camryn is struggling tonight. Bad. She's homesick, and her wolf is restless, and I can't leave her like this. Start without me. Save me a plate.*

I opened my eyes. The candlelight blurred for one second and then sharpened.

*The pack is waiting.*

*They'll understand. You're the Luna. They love you. Just tell them I had an Alpha matter.*

The mind-link closed.

I stood at the head of the table beside his empty chair. Forty-one faces turned to me. I felt Derek watching me with something that looked almost like grief.

"The Alpha sends his regrets," I said. My voice carried clear and even across the hall. "He's handling a pack matter. Please. Eat."

They ate. I sat down. I cut the venison on my plate into smaller and smaller pieces. I lifted my fork twice and set it back down. The bread I had rolled with my own hands sat untouched beside me.

When the meal ended, I thanked everyone for coming. I stood at the door and embraced each pack member as they left. I told the children they had been wonderful. I told the mothers their dishes had been delicious. I waited until the hall was completely empty.

Then I cleared the table myself. I would not let the Omegas see Julius's untouched plate.

I scraped his portion into the trash. I blew out the candles one by one.

I did not cook again for a long, long time.

***

The article came out the following Tuesday.

I was alone in the bedroom when I saw it. Julius was gone again — another late session with Camryn, something about adjusting her combat stance. My phone lit up with notifications from Alphas and Lunas across three territories.

*Congratulations on the profile! What a tribute.*

*You two are everything. Goals.*

*Julius is the standard. So lucky.*

I opened the link with numb fingers.

There he was on the cover of the inter-pack newsletter. Julius in his ceremonial Alpha coat, jaw strong, eyes bright. The headline: **THE DEVOTED ALPHA: How Julius Harper Built Ironveil on the Foundation of Love.**

I read the whole thing.

They wrote about his late awakening. About how a Silvercrest heir had chosen him when no one else would. About his fierce devotion to his Luna. There was a quote from him: *Everything I am, I owe to her. She is the reason this pack exists.*

I read that line three times.

I thought about the venison I had scraped into the trash. About the candles I had blown out alone. About the scarf folded in the passenger seat. About my wolf going silent inside me like a light switching off in an empty room.

I set the phone face-down on the nightstand beside the cedar box.

My suffering had just become invisible. The whole world now had a story about us, and in that story I was the lucky one, the chosen one, the cherished one. Any grief I voiced from this moment on would sound like ingratitude. Any complaint would make me look small.

I understood it then with a clarity that was almost peaceful.

I was completely alone.

***

The flannel came next.

I was sorting laundry on Saturday morning when I picked it up. The red one. His favorite. I lifted it to fold and the scent hit me like a slap.

Vanilla. Cedar. Her.

Not a trace. Not a passing brush. Soaked in. Worn for hours. Pressed against skin.

I carried it downstairs.

Julius was at the kitchen table on his laptop. I dropped the flannel onto the keyboard.

He looked at it. Then at me. "What."

"Smell it."

"Mariana—"

"Smell it, Julius."

He sighed. Lifted it briefly. Set it down. "She borrowed it. She got cold during the perimeter walk last week."

"She wore it long enough to bond her scent into the fibers."

"You're being territorial over a piece of clothing."

"I'm being your mate," I said quietly. "Remove her from the pack, Julius."

He stared at me. For a moment something genuine crossed his face. Disbelief.

"Are you serious right now."

"Completely."

"Mariana. Camryn has done nothing wrong. She is a pack member in good standing. You're asking me to abuse my authority and expel a she-wolf because you don't like her scent. Do you hear yourself?"

"I hear myself perfectly."

"This isn't you." He stood up. His voice softened into that tone, that careful patient tone people use on someone they have decided is unwell. "You've been off for weeks. Maybe you should talk to Healer Marsh. Get something to help you sleep."

I looked at him for a long moment.

Then I picked up the flannel and walked back upstairs. I dropped it in the trash beside the bed. I sat down on the mattress and ran my thumb across the inside of my left wrist.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

My wolf did not stir. She did not whisper. She did not move.

She was somewhere very deep now, and I could no longer reach her at all.