DAPHNE

I wake to an empty bed.

The sheets beside me are cool to the touch—both sides. They've been gone a while. I sit up slowly, feeling the ache in muscles I didn't know I had, and the memory of last night rushes back in vivid detail. Heat crawls up my neck.

I press my palms to my face and breathe.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. My dress from last night is draped carefully over a chair—someone folded it. One of them must have done that before they left. The image of either twin carefully smoothing ivory silk in the early morning darkness makes my mouth curve despite myself.

The bathroom is massive, all white marble and gold fixtures. The shower is hot enough to sting, and I stand under the spray longer than I need to. I'm stalling. I know I'm stalling. Today isn't just the morning after my wedding night. Today is my first real day as Luna of the Nightfall Pack.

No celebration to hide behind. No crowds to blend into. Just me, walking into a pack that doesn't know me, trying to prove I belong here.

I dry off and find clothes laid out on the bed—simple but well-made. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater, boots. Someone thought ahead. I dress quickly, finger-comb my hair into something manageable, and take one last look in the mirror.

I look like myself. That will have to be enough.

The hallway outside is quiet. Early morning light filters through tall windows, casting long shadows across hardwood floors. The pack house is enormous—I'd noticed that last night, but everything had been a blur of faces and noise and champagne. Now, in the stillness, I can actually see it.

Portraits line the walls. Generations of Nightfall Alphas staring down with varying degrees of severity. I recognize Krue and Arden's father near the end—same ice-blue eyes, same sharp jawline. He looks like he could cut through steel with a glance.

I'm still studying the portraits when I hear footsteps behind me.

I turn.

A woman stands at the end of the hallway, watching me. She's older—mid-fifties, maybe—with silver threading through dark hair pulled into a neat bun. She wears a deep blue dress that looks expensive without trying to be, and her eyes are the same pale blue as her sons'.

Their mother.

She crosses the distance between us with measured steps, and I straighten my spine without thinking. Everything about her radiates authority, the kind that doesn't need to be announced.

She stops directly in front of me, and I brace myself.

Her hand comes up, and I think for a split second she's going to touch my face. Instead, she reaches past me and adjusts one of the crooked portraits on the wall.

"That's been bothering me for weeks," she says. Her voice is warm, nothing like the coldness I was expecting. "No one else seems to notice it but me."

I don't know what to say to that.

She turns back to me, and her expression softens. "You must be Daphne."

"Yes, ma'am."

"None of that." She waves a hand dismissively. "Call me Eleanor. We're family now." She pauses, tilting her head. "How are you feeling this morning?"

The question catches me off guard. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Her gaze holds mine, searching. "My sons can be... intense."

Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm fine," I repeat, more firmly this time.

Eleanor laughs, low and genuine. "Good. That's good." She steps back and gestures down the hallway. "Walk with me?"

It's phrased like a question, but I understand it isn't really one.

We walk in silence for a moment, passing more portraits, more windows. The pack house wakes up around us—distant voices, footsteps on stairs, the smell of coffee drifting from somewhere below.

"I won't lie to you," Eleanor says finally. "Krue and Arden are not easy men to live with."

I glance at her sideways.

"Krue is... controlled. Almost to a fault. He carries the weight of this pack like it's a physical thing he can't put down, and it makes him sharp sometimes. Cold." She says it matter-of-factly, like she's describing the weather. "And Arden hides everything behind that smile of his. You'll think you know him, and then you'll realize you don't know him at all."

"Why are you telling me this?"

She stops walking and turns to face me fully. "Because I want you to know that whatever difficulty you have with them, it isn't your fault. They've been this way since they were children—stubborn, competitive, impossible." Her mouth curves slightly. "But they're good men. Truly. And they will be good to you, if you let them."

Something warm settles in my chest at that.

"I know they will," I say quietly.

Eleanor studies me for a long moment, and I get the sense I'm being measured against some invisible standard. Then she nods, satisfied.

"Come," she says. "Let me introduce you properly to the pack."

We descend a wide staircase into what appears to be a common area. Pack members are scattered throughout—some eating breakfast, others talking in small clusters. Conversation dies as we enter.

Every eye turns to me.

I feel the weight of their attention, their curiosity. Some faces are friendly. Others are carefully neutral. A few are openly skeptical.

Eleanor's hand settles on my shoulder, and the simple gesture shifts something in the room. She's claiming me in front of them. Backing me.

"This is Daphne," she says, her voice carrying easily. "Your new Luna. I expect you to treat her with the same respect you've always shown me."

It's not a request.

A woman near the back—older, gray-haired, sharp-eyed—steps forward. "Will she be taking on Luna duties immediately?"

"She will," Eleanor answers before I can. "Starting today."

The woman's gaze cuts to me. "And if she makes mistakes?"

"Then she'll learn from them," Eleanor says evenly. "The same way everyone else does."

I appreciate the defense, but I also don't need it.

"I'll make mistakes," I say, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "I'm not pretending I know everything about this pack yet. But I'm here to learn, and I'm here to serve. Anyone who has concerns can bring them directly to me."

Silence.

Then the gray-haired woman's mouth twitches. "Fair enough."

The tension in the room eases slightly. Conversation starts up again, quieter this time, and Eleanor guides me toward a smaller sitting area off to the side.

"Well done," she murmurs.

"I meant it."

"I know you did. That's why it worked."

We settle into chairs near a window, and a young Omega appears almost immediately with coffee. I take the cup gratefully.

"I'll be honest," Eleanor says. "There will be people in this pack who don't want you here. Who think you're too young, too inexperienced, too soft." She sips her own coffee. "Prove them wrong."

"I intend to."

"Good." She sets down her cup. "Now. There are a few things you should know about running this pack..."

She talks, and I listen. Details about pack hierarchy, traditional duties, ongoing projects. Names I need to remember, families I should meet, politics I need to navigate carefully. It's a lot, but I absorb it all, filing it away.

Somewhere in the middle of her explanation about the pack's medical facilities, the door opens.

Krue walks in.

He's dressed for business—dark slacks, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently. His eyes find me immediately, and something in his expression softens almost imperceptibly.

"Mother," he says, nodding to Eleanor. Then, to me: "You're awake."

"I am."

He crosses to where we're sitting, and I catch his scent—clean, masculine, familiar.

Eleanor stands smoothly. "I'll leave you two alone." She squeezes my shoulder once as she passes. "Remember what I said."

Then she's gone, and it's just us.

Krue doesn't sit. He stands near the window, hands in his pockets, looking at me like he's trying to work something out.

"You left early," I say finally.

"Pack business."

"I figured."

"You're not upset?"

I shake my head. "You're an Alpha. I understand."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe. Relief. "Most people don't."

"I'm not most people."

"No." His mouth curves slightly. "You're not."

The silence stretches, but it isn't uncomfortable. I finish my coffee and set the cup aside.

"Your mother is terrifying," I say.

He laughs—an actual laugh, short and genuine. "She is. But she likes you."

"How do you know?"

"Because she defended you in front of the pack." He moves closer, settling into the chair Eleanor vacated. "She doesn't do that for just anyone."

"She also warned me that you and Arden are difficult."

"We are."

"I noticed."

His eyes hold mine. "Are you regretting this yet?"

The question is light, but there's something underneath it. Something real.

"No," I say. "Are you?"

"No."

The word is simple, certain. Final.

The air between us shifts, charged with something I can't quite name.

"I should go," Krue says, though he doesn't move. "There's a council meeting in ten minutes."

"Then go."

He stands, and I think that's it. But then he leans down, one hand bracing on the arm of my chair, and kisses me. It's brief, controlled, but it sends heat straight through me anyway.

When he pulls back, his eyes are darker.

"Welcome to the Nightfall Pack," he says quietly.

Then he's gone.

I sit there for a moment, hand pressed to my mouth, feeling the ghost of his kiss.

Welcome home, I think.

SOPHIA

The slap comes out of nowhere.

My head snaps to the side, and pain explodes across my cheek. I stumble back, catching myself against the edge of the dining table.

Crux's mother stands in front of me, her hand still raised, her face twisted with contempt.

"You spilled tea on the carpet," she says. Her voice is cold, clipped. "Again."

I press my hand to my burning cheek. "It was an accident—"

"Everything with you is an accident." She steps closer, and I instinctively move back. "Clumsy. Careless. Useless."

"I'm sorry—"

"Sorry doesn't clean the stain."

I want to scream. I want to hit her back, claw that smug expression off her face. But I can't. Not here. Not in front of the pack members who are pretending not to watch from the doorway.

So I lower my eyes and swallow the rage burning in my throat.

"I'll clean it," I say quietly.

"You will." She turns away, dismissing me. "And then you'll join me in the sitting room. We need to discuss your behavior at yesterday's luncheon."

My behavior. As if I'd done anything wrong.

I drop to my knees and start scrubbing the carpet, my hands shaking. The tea stain is barely visible—she's making me do this to humiliate me. To remind me of my place.

In my past life, I married the twins. Cold. Distant. They barely looked at me. But at least no one dared slap me in front of the pack.

Now I'm on my hands and knees, scrubbing carpet while Crux's mother watches.

Footsteps approach, and I don't look up. I already know who it is.

Crux stops beside me. "What happened?"

"I spilled tea," I say flatly.

"Did you apologize?"

The question makes my hands still. I look up at him—at his perfect face, his gentle expression. The same face that smiled at me during our engagement. The same face that whispered sweet things to me on our wedding night.

"Of course I did."

He nods slowly. "Then I'm sure it's fine." He glances at his mother, who's watching us from across the room. "Mother can be particular, but she means well."

She means well.

I want to laugh. Or cry. Maybe both.

"Of course," I say instead.

He reaches down and touches my hair—just once, briefly—and then he's walking away. Toward his mother. To her side, where he always stands.

I finish scrubbing the carpet and rinse the cloth in the bathroom. My reflection stares back at me—red cheek, smudged makeup, hair falling out of its pins.

I look exactly like what I am.

A prisoner.

This wasn't supposed to happen. In my past life, Crux was gentle. Devoted. He treated Daphne like she was precious, even when she didn't deserve it.

I grip the edge of the sink, breathing hard.

This is Daphne's fault. All of it. She must have done something—said something—to make this life different. Because in my version of events, I was supposed to have everything she had.

The wealth. The status. The devoted husband.

"Instead, I'm the one being slapped. The one cleaning floors. The one eating—

My phone buzzes.

I pull it out. My father's name on the screen.

Hope flares so bright it hurts. He called back. He's going to help. He has to help—I'm his daughter.

I open the message.

Stop calling. You made your choice. Live with it.

The words blur.

I read them again. Then again.

You made your choice.

I'd called him three times yesterday. Left voicemails. Sent texts explaining everything, and this is his answer.

My hands shake so badly I almost drop the phone.

He doesn't care. My own father doesn't care that I'm suffering. He picked his alliance with Crux's pack over his own daughter.

I stare at my reflection.

No one is coming.