Camille, shameless and bare, straddling Thorne, her painted nails clawing his chest. Her head thrown back, hair wild, riding him with feral hunger. Thorne gripped her like she was salvation itself.
My legs buckled. My mouth went dry.
Her voice rang out, cruel and triumphant. “Alpha, take me. Fill me the way she never could.”
And Thorne—my mate, my Alpha of thirty years—groaned, breathless. “You’re perfect. You always were.”
I fled.
My wolf howled inside me as I stumbled into the downstairs bathroom, vomiting until my ribs screamed, their betrayal echoing louder than my retching.
It wasn’t about desire.
It was about erasure.
They were stripping me of my bond, my place, my crown—letting another woman wear it while I watched.
They didn’t want me gone.
They wanted me broken.
But a she-wolf who survives this doesn’t stay curled on the floor.
She waits.
She remembers.
And she learns how to haunt quietly—
until the night she finally lets her wolf loose.