Three days have rewritten the architecture of my body.

I feel it in the way my hips move when I walk, in the hunger that pulses low in my belly without warning. Paul’s hands have mapped every curve I used to hate, and now those curves feel like territory he’s claimed rather than flaws I’ve hidden.

He stirs beside me, finally surfacing from the fever that consumed him.

“I’ve never experienced anything like that,” he admits, his voice rough with exhaustion. “The rut has never lasted so long or felt so complete.”

I trace the lines of his face with my fingertips, memorizing features that have become dangerously familiar over these stolen days.

“You need to rest,” I whisper, watching shadows flicker beneath his pale blue eyes. “You’ve barely slept.”

“Neither have you.” His smile carries satisfaction that makes my stomach flip. “And yet you kept up with me.”

Before I can respond, a shrill voice slices through our cocoon of tangled sheets and whispered intimacy.

“Paul!” Sarah’s fury echoes through the packhouse walls. “I demand to see my husband immediately!”

His expression goes carefully blank, all warmth draining away like water through cracks in stone. The transformation happens so quickly that I almost believe I imagined the tender man who held me moments ago.

“You need to return to your room.” He rises from the bed, already reaching for clothes. “Act normally today, give me time to manage this situation.”

The dismissal lands like a blade between my ribs, sharp and precise and devastating.

“Of course,” I manage, gathering my scattered clothing with numb fingers. “I understand my place.”

He catches my wrist before I reach the door, his grip firm but not painful.

“Morgan, this isn’t—” He stops, jaw working silently. “I need time to figure out how to protect what we have.”

What we have. The phrase should comfort me, but it only highlights the truth I’ve been avoiding.

I’m still his secret, still hidden in shadows, still not enough to acknowledge in daylight.

My own room feels foreign after three days of existing in his space, breathing his air, wearing his scent like armor. The small quarters mock me with their modest furnishings, reminding me exactly where I belong in this hierarchy.

Anger builds in my chest like a storm gathering strength. I want to scream, to throw myself against the walls, to shatter the careful composure I’ve worn my entire life.

The vase on my dresser catches my eye, delicate porcelain painted with mountain flowers.

My hand closes around it before I can think, and I hurl it against the far wall with all the fury burning through my veins. Porcelain explodes into a hundred shattered pieces.

The destruction feels good, releasing pressure I didn’t know I was carrying.

You want him to choose you publicly, I think, staring at the fragments scattered across the floor. Stupid, desperate girl.

I clean up the evidence of my outburst with methodical precision, then dress for dinner service like nothing has changed.

The formal dining hall glitters with candles and silver when I enter, invisible in my servant’s uniform. Pack members fill the long table, their laughter and conversation washing over me like waves against shore.

Sarah sits at Paul’s right hand, radiant in crimson silk, playing the devoted Luna with theatrical perfection. Her fingers brush his sleeve, her laughter rings at his every word.

I move between guests with practiced invisibility, refilling glasses and clearing plates.

Paul doesn’t look at me once.

Not a glance, not a flicker of acknowledgment, not even the careful avoidance that might betray something hidden. He simply doesn’t see me, as though three days of tangled limbs and whispered promises never happened.

This is what you agreed to, I remind myself, pouring wine for a delegate who barely registers my existence. Shadows and secrets and silent longing.

Luna ceremony. The words taste like poison on my tongue, bitter and burning. She’s cementing her position while I hide in corners.

We reach my door too quickly, and Zane lingers in the hallway with obvious reluctance to leave.

“Whatever’s bothering you,” he says softly, stepping closer, “you can tell me about it.”

His hand rises to brush a strand of hair from my cheek, and the tenderness in the gesture threatens to shatter my composure entirely.

“I’m good at keeping secrets, Morgan.” His smile carries warmth that makes my chest ache. “Better than most people realize.”

The irony of his words nearly makes me laugh, hysteria bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

If only you knew the secret I’m already keeping, I think, forcing my expression to remain neutral. If only you knew what your brother and I have done.

“Thank you, Zane.” I manage a smile that feels brittle on my lips. “I’ll remember that offer.”

He hesitates a moment longer, something unspoken flickering in his eyes, before finally retreating down the corridor.

I close my door and lean against it, pressing my palm to my racing heart.

Hours pass in restless darkness before the phone on my nightstand buzzes.

Elena’s phone, the one she pressed into my hands days ago on Paul’s orders. I hadn’t questioned the gift at the time, too consumed by his rut to wonder why I might need it.

Now I understand.

The screen glows in the darkness, an unknown number lighting up the display: The garden. Midnight.