My Mate Lied About My Death to Steal My Pack

The guest wing smelled like disuse and mothballs.

Xavier had called it "temporary accommodations for her mental health." The two young Delta warriors stationed outside my door—boys, really, barely twenty—had looked uncomfortable when they confiscated my phone, my tablet, even the small communication device I'd worn on my wrist.

"Alpha's orders, Miss Montgomery," the taller one had mumbled, not meeting my eyes.

Miss Montgomery. Not Luna. Not even Cynthia.

The door clicked shut. I heard the lock engage.

Aurora paced in my mind, furious. *We should tear through that door. Rip out his throat.*

*Not yet,* I told her, forcing calm into my thoughts. *We need information first.*

I surveyed the room with the clinical eye my Northern instructors had drilled into me. Small window, reinforced glass. Door hinges on the outside. Air vent too narrow for a wolf to fit through, but possibly large enough for—

I stopped myself. I wasn't trying to escape. Not yet.

I needed to understand what Xavier had done to my pack. How deep his corruption ran. The neglected borders, the lazy sentries, the pack house reeking of decay—these were symptoms. I needed to find the disease.

I sat cross-legged on the narrow bed and closed my eyes, slipping into the meditative state that had taken me two years to master. My breathing slowed. My heartbeat steadied. The Northern Territories' elite didn't just train warriors. They trained ghosts.

And ghosts could walk through walls.

---

The morning came too soon.

Xavier's voice boomed through the door, accompanied by the scrape of the lock. "Time for your purification ceremony, Cynthia. The pack deserves to see you cleansed."

The warriors flanking him looked eager now, emboldened by daylight and their Alpha's presence. They grabbed my arms—not roughly, but firmly enough to make a point.

The training grounds were packed.

Every wolf in the territory seemed to be there, forming a loose circle around the muddy center ring. The rain had stopped, but the ground was still soaked, churned into thick sludge by dozens of feet.

Baylee stood in the middle, wearing designer boots and a smirk. Behind her sat three large buckets.

"The rogue scent clings to those who abandon their pack," Xavier announced, his Alpha tone carrying across the grounds. "Before Cynthia Montgomery can be welcomed back, she must be purified."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some looked uncertain. Most looked entertained.

Baylee lifted the first bucket. "This will mask the rogue stench," she said sweetly, her phone propped on a nearby post, recording everything.

The mixture hit me like a physical blow. Mud, yes, but also rotting food scraps, something that smelled like sewage. It soaked through my clothes, cold and vile, dripping into my eyes.

Laughter erupted from the crowd.

Baylee dumped the second bucket. Then the third.

I stood there, silent, as filth ran down my face. Aurora howled in rage, but I kept her leashed. I kept my eyes open, scanning the crowd through the muck.

There—Delta Marcus, looking away, jaw tight.

There—young Derek Walsh, the warrior I'd trained with as a teenager, his face twisted with shame.

There—a cluster of she-wolves, laughing, phones out, recording my humiliation for posterity.

I memorized every face. Every laugh. Every turned back.

"Welcome home," Baylee whispered as she passed me, close enough that only I could hear. "This is my pack now."

I said nothing.

But I smiled.

---

Back in the guest wing, I stripped off the ruined clothes and stood under the weak shower spray until the water ran clear. The young guards had returned my confinement with visible relief, probably grateful they hadn't been ordered to participate in the spectacle.

I dried off, dressed in the plain clothes they'd left me, and sat on the bed.

Then I closed my eyes and dove deep.

Ghost Linking was forbidden in most packs. It was considered an invasion, a violation of the sacred mind-link that connected pack members. But the Northern Territories had taught me that sometimes, survival required breaking sacred rules.

I slipped into the slipstream, that rushing river of pack consciousness that flowed beneath every wolf's awareness. Xavier's mental firewalls were laughable—crude barriers that a trained tracker could bypass in seconds.

I moved through the pack's collective memory like smoke, searching for the hidden spaces, the locked doors in Xavier's mind.

And then I found it.

A folder, buried deep, labeled with sickening pride: "The Conquest List."

I opened it.

Names. Dates. Ratings. Nearly a thousand entries, each one a she-wolf Xavier had bedded, ranked by performance like they were restaurants on a review site.

Some I recognized. Pack members. Visitors. Omegas who'd probably thought sleeping with the Alpha would improve their station.

My stomach turned.

But I kept reading. Because buried in that list was something else. Something worse.

Meetings with rogues. Coordinates. Promises of "safe passage" through our territory in exchange for—

The connection snapped.

I gasped, my eyes flying open. Someone had detected the intrusion. Not Xavier—he wasn't skilled enough. But someone had felt me in the link.

Aurora's voice was grim. *They know we're hunting now.*

*Good,* I thought, my hands steady despite my racing heart. *Let them know.*

I had what I needed.

And Xavier Reynolds had no idea what was coming.