The pack gathers to watch me leave. They line the main path from the estate to the territory gates—warriors, servants, families.

The people who mocked me. Who stepped over me. Who pretended I didn’t exist when I was scrubbing their floors. Now they stare with faces twisted in shock, resentment, fear.

Because the wolf-less servant is actually a princess. Because everything they thought they knew was a lie.

Good. Let them stare.

The King’s guard forms a protective circle around the horses—six massive warriors in royal colors, their faces carved from stone. Professional. Lethal. Nothing like the pack warriors I grew up with.

Damon is already mounted, his black horse stamping impatiently. He looks bored, scanning the crowd with barely concealed contempt. When his eyes land on me, something flickers across his face.

Not quite a concern. Maybe just possession—making sure his destined kill doesn’t escape before he can finish what prophecy demands.

“Finally,” he calls out. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind. Decided to stay and scrub more floors.”

I ignore him. Move toward my horse, a gray mare with intelligent eyes. One of the guards moves to help me mount, but before I can reach the stirrup, a hand closes around my wrist.

I know his touch before I even turn around.

“Kira.” Theron’s voice is low, urgent. “Please. I need—”

“You need to let go of me.” I try to pull away, but his grip tightens.

“Five minutes. Just give me five minutes.”

“Theron…”

“Please.”

Around us, the pack watches. I can feel their eyes, hungry for drama. Damon shifts in his saddle, suspicious. The King’s guard tenses.

I should say no. Should pull away and mount my horse and leave without looking back. But something in his voice stops me.

“Fine.” I yank my wrist free. “Five minutes. Alone.”

I followed him away from the crowd, around the side of the estate to the small garden where servants used to hang laundry. It’s private here. Hidden.

The moment we’re out of sight, the words spill from him.

“I’m sorry.” His hands shake as he reaches for me, stops himself. “Goddess, Kira, I’m so sorry. For all of it. For Celeste, for the rejection, for every cruel word and every moment I made you feel like you were nothing.”

“Theron—”

“I can’t live with it.” He steps closer, and I can smell him—mate. Ex-mate. “I can’t breathe without feeling like I’m suffocating. Can’t sleep without seeing your face. Can’t—” He stops, breathing hard. “Tell me how to fix this. Tell me what to do.”

“There’s nothing to do. It’s done.”

“No.” His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “There has to be something. Some way to—”

“What? Take it back?” A bitter laugh escapes me. “You can’t undo what you did. Can’t erase the humiliation or the pain or the fact that you threw me away the second I wasn’t convenient anymore.”

“I know. I know, and I hate myself for it.”

His forehead drops to mine, and the contact sends heat racing through my body.

“But I can’t let you leave like this. Can’t let you walk into that court where your own brother wants you dead, where someone’s been plotting against you, where—”

“Where I’ll finally be free of you?” The words come out harsh. “Where I won’t have to see you with her every day? Where I can maybe figure out who I am without you making me feel worthless?”

He flinches like I’ve slapped him. “Is that really what you want? To be free of me?”

“Yes.” The lie tastes like ash.

His eyes search mine, and I know he can see the truth. Can feel it through whatever twisted magic still connects us.

“Liar,” he whispers before kisses me.

It’s desperate and consuming and absolutely devastating. His hand tangles in my hair, pulling me closer, and my traitorous body responds. My hands fist in his shirt. My mouth opens under his.

Heat floods my veins—that corrupted, artificial bond burning between us like wildfire. I hate it. Hate how good he tastes. Hate how perfectly we fit together. Hate how my wolf is singing inside me, finally, finally, mate—

It’s a power move. A claim. A silent statement that says: She’s not yours anymore.

Theron goes rigid. I can practically see him fighting himself. The Alpha instinct screaming at him to rip Malik apart for touching what’s his. His hands curl into fists, jaw clenches so hard I hear bone grinding.

But he doesn’t move. Can’t move. Because Malik is right.

I’m not his anymore.

I look between them—these two men who want me but in completely different ways.

Theron, who chose me too late, whose want is tangled up in regret and corrupted magic and the ghost of what we could have been.

And Malik, who’s wanted me from the shadows, whose want is buried under duty and restraint and years of silent protection.

Different. So completely different. And I don’t have time to untangle either of them right now.

“You’re right,” I tell Malik. “Let’s go.”

Malik leads me back to the horses, his hand steady on mine. I let him help me mount. Let him check my saddle straps and stirrups with careful, professional hands. Let him position his horse beside mine—close enough to protect, far enough to be proper.

The King’s guard closes ranks around us. Damon watches with calculating eyes, that sharp smile playing at his lips.

“Touching,” he says dryly. “Very dramatic. Can we leave now, or do you need to make out with anyone else first?”

I shoot him a look. He laughs.

The caravan starts moving. Through the pack grounds. Past the estate. Past the borders that caged me for twenty-three years.

I don’t look back at Theron.

I don’t look back at the pack that broke me.

I just face forward, toward the Lycan court, toward my twin who wants me dead, toward whoever’s been pulling strings my entire life.