My Alpha Punished Me for His Luna’s Lies

The delivery truck idles in the service entrance, engine ticking in the afternoon heat. I'm hauling crates of supplies when I see him—my father, wearing a generic courier uniform, clipboard in hand.

He shouldn't be here.

Our eyes meet for half a second before I drop my gaze and keep working. Play the part. Always play the part.

"Sign here, miss." His voice is professionally neutral, but I hear the tremor underneath.

I take the clipboard. Our fingers brush, and I feel the paper he's palmed into my hand. I slip it into my pocket without looking.

"Thank you," I murmur.

He's staring at my arm. The bandage is visible beneath my rolled sleeve, the edges stained with dried blood and burn salve. His jaw tightens, and I see his wolf flash behind his eyes—just for a moment.

"Careful with those boxes," he says, louder now, for anyone listening. "Heavy load."

Then he's gone, and I'm alone with the crates and the note burning a hole in my pocket.

I wait until I'm in the storage room to read it.

*The Council is ready. One word and Silverclaw loses everything. Say when.*

My hands shake as I fold the paper into smaller and smaller squares. The Weaver family's true power, laid bare in my father's careful handwriting. One phone call and Stefan's pack crumbles. The financial backing, the trade agreements, the protection—all of it gone.

I could end this today.

But the faces flash through my mind. Beta Liam, who still nods respectfully when he passes me in the halls. The kitchen staff who slip me extra food when no one's watching. The young wolves who don't understand why their Alpha treats me like dirt but know something's wrong.

Innocent wolves. Good wolves.

I press my forehead against the cold storage room wall and make my decision.

Twenty-four hours. The full moon gathering is tomorrow night—the sacred ceremony where wolves honor the Moon Goddess and strengthen their bonds. If Stefan's wolf doesn't recognize me then, when the Goddess's power is strongest, it never will.

Twenty-four hours, and then I'm done.

---

The storm rolls in after midnight, turning the sky black and angry. Thunder shakes the Pack House windows, and lightning illuminates my small room in violent flashes.

I pack in the dark. One bag. The essentials. Clothes that aren't Omega gray. The few photographs I have left from before. My mother's necklace.

The Silverclaw communication device sits on my nightstand—the phone that links me to the pack network, tracks my location, marks me as property. I stare at it for a long moment, then leave it behind.

Severed. Finally severed.

The hallways are empty as I make my way toward the service exit. Everyone's asleep or sheltering from the storm. My footsteps are silent on the runner carpet. Almost there. Almost—

"Going somewhere?"

I freeze at the top of the grand staircase.

Harlow stands at the landing below, backlit by the foyer chandelier. She's wearing a silk robe, one hand resting on her belly, and her smile is pure venom.

"Just getting supplies," I say carefully, adjusting my grip on the bag.

Her eyes drop to the bag. To my civilian clothes. To the absence of the communication device on my belt.

"Liar." She takes a step up. "You're running."

I don't answer. There's no point.

"You think you can just leave?" Her voice rises, shrill and sharp. "After everything? After poisoning this pack with your presence? After trying to steal what's mine?"

"I never tried to steal anything," I say quietly. "I'm just leaving. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Something flickers across her face—triumph mixed with panic. Because she's right. This is what she wanted. But a loose end walking free is still a loose end.

She reaches into her robe pocket.

"Help!" she screams suddenly, her voice echoing through the Pack House. "Someone help me! She's attacking me!"

I don't move. Don't speak. Just watch as she pulls out a small vial—glass, filled with something dark and red.

Blood.

She smashes it against her dress, and the smell hits me immediately. Blood and pheromones, the scent of distress and injury. She staggers backward, one hand flying to her stomach.

"No," I whisper. "Don't—"

Harlow throws herself down the stairs.

Not all the way. Just the last few steps. Controlled. Calculated. She hits the landing with a cry, curling around her belly, and the blood spreads across the marble like an accusation.

Doors slam open. Footsteps thunder through the halls.

Stefan appears first, wild-eyed and barefoot, and the sound that rips from his throat when he sees Harlow is pure animal anguish.

I'm still standing at the top of the stairs, bag in hand, frozen in the perfect position of guilt.

His eyes meet mine.

And I see my death in them.