The Alpha's Unwanted Daughter Returns for Blood

Ever POV:

The silver Moonpetal Ferns curled, blackened, and crumbled to ash in the flames. The girl who had cupped them with desperate hope died in that same moment.

Later too lateI would learn the truth. That my death was not a tragedy. It was a family project. My mother's voice, warm and doting, speaking of me as if I were already gone. My brother laughing about how neatly they had arranged my execution. And Caroline, my sweet, perfect adopted sister, alive and smiling, nestled in the arms of the family that had killed me for her.

But that revelation was still weeks away.

Now, a bone-deep cold woke me. I lay on a pile of scratchy hay, my teeth chattering in a rhythm I couldn't stop. The chill seeped up from the packed earth floor, and the air was thick with the stench of horse manure and rotting straw. A wave of nausea rolled through my empty stomach.

The wooden door screeched open, kicked with a brutal force that made me flinch. A man named Jed Hicks filled the doorway, his large frame blocking the sliver of gray morning light. His face was set in a sneer of pure contempt.

He carried a small wooden bowl.

He didn't hand it to me. He tossed it onto the floor a few feet away. Thin, watery oatmeal sloshed over the rim, spattering onto the hem of my worn dress.

"Eat up, murderer," Jed grunted, nudging the bowl with the toe of his muddy boot. "The Alpha doesn't want you starving to death. Not yet, anyway."

Murderer.

The word wasn't a shout. It was a key, turning a lock deep inside my mind. The filthy stable dissolved, and the world swam out of focus.

I was back in the grand hall of the Blackwood Pack manor, a month ago.

The memory was so vivid I could feel the polished marble floor beneath my thin shoes. I stood in the center of the cavernous room, a stray in a palace, my rough-spun clothes a smudge against the opulent tapestries and gilded furniture.

They were all there, my "family."

Then she came forward. Caroline. My adoptive sister, the one who had lived the life that should have been mine. She was perfect, an angel with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of a summer sky.

She wrapped her arms around me in a warm, welcoming hug. The scent of lavender and vanilla clung to her.

"Welcome home, sister," she whispered, her voice like honey. "I'm going to make you feel the warmth of a real family."

But over my shoulder, I saw her eyes. Just for a second. They were as cold and hard as chips of ice.

The weeks that followed were a masterclass in deception. Caroline was my shadow, my guide, my protector. She taught me which fork to use, gifted me beautiful silk dresses she no longer wanted, and defended me in public from our brother's taunts. Everyone praised her kindness, her generosity.

My real parents, Alpha Fremont and Luna Juliana, were another story. Their gazes slid off me as if I were made of glass. Disappointment was a constant cloud in their eyes. I was their blood, their true daughter, but I couldn't shift. A wolfless. A disgrace.

My brother, Kane, was more direct. "Country mutt," he'd call me, his voice dripping with venom. "You smell of dirt and weakness."

The memories blurred, then sharpened on a single night. The night it all ended.

The smell of smoke.

I woke to screaming. I burst from my small room in the servants' wing and saw it. The west cottage, Caroline's private cottage, was engulfed in flames, the fire clawing at the night sky like a furious beast.

I tried to run towards it, to help, to do something.

A hand like a steel trap clamped down on my arm. It was Kane. His face was a mask of rage, illuminated by the fire. "You did this!" he roared, his voice cracking with grief. "You bitch, you did this!"

They found the body later, after the pack warriors had doused the flames. It was burned beyond recognition.

And beside it, clutched in a charred hand, they found her letter.

The suicide note.

It spoke of her despair, of the sister who had returned not with love, but with a heart full of jealousy. It claimed I had threatened her, whispered that I would ruin her, that I would take everything she had.

I would rather die, the elegant script read, than live in fear of my own sister's hatred.

Kane lunged for me, a feral snarl ripping from his throat. He would have killed me right there if Fremont hadn't held him back.

Luna Juliana clutched the letter to her chest, her sobs tearing through the night. She looked at me, and the love a mother should have for a child was replaced by a loathing so profound it felt like a physical blow.

"I didn't do it," I whispered, my voice lost in the chaos. "I didn't."

They didn't hear me. They didn't want to. My pleas were just the pathetic lies of a murderer.

In that moment, I was stripped of everything. The name Montgomery was torn from me like a piece of flesh. I was no longer a daughter, but a shame.

Two warriors grabbed my arms, their grips bruising. As they dragged me away, my eyes searched the crowd, desperate for a single face, a single flicker of belief.

I found him. Vaughn Sinclair. My betrothed.

His handsome face was pale, his jaw tight. But his eyes... there was no doubt, no pity. Only a cold, hard promise of death.

The stable door slammed shut in my memory, and I was back on the hay, the stench of manure filling my lungs.

Jed Hicks kicked the bowl again, a sharp, impatient sound. "Get on with it."

The watery gruel reflected my own face—pale, gaunt, with hollows under my eyes.

Tears? No. The tears had frozen inside me weeks ago.

Slowly, I lifted my head. My eyes met his. The blue of my irises, once clear, now felt like a frozen lake. And deep beneath the surface, something had settled. Not despair. Not sadness.

It was hate. A quiet, patient, and utterly bottomless hate.

My hand, trembling from cold and weakness, moved. Not for the bowl.

It clenched into a fist.

My fingernails, dirty and broken, bit deep into the soft flesh of my palm. The sharp sting of pain was a welcome anchor in the swirling vortex of my memory. It was real. It was mine.

And it was all I had left.