Chapter 3

At the final combat trial before the Open Assessment, I placed first overall.

Silas placed dead last.

He crumpled his scorecard and tossed it into the fire pit.

"Doesn't matter. I'm not fighting in the Assessment anyway."

Lyla was right there, gazing up at him with worship in her eyes. "Silas, you're so amazing."

He grinned, pinched her cheek. "Obviously. I'm inheriting the pack. Why would I need to fight?"

I walked past them. Silas called out.

"Maeve."

I stopped.

"Still pissed about the slot?"

I didn't answer.

"I know it sucked for you. But you saw Lyla's situation. She needed it more than you did."

He walked up to me, voice softening.

"Take the gold. I left three hundred coins with the vault guard under your name. Just tell him who you are and it's yours."

He actually believed money could fix everything.

Could erase what he did to me. Could buy back what I lost.

"I don't need it," I said flatly.

"Here we go again." Irritation crept into his voice. "When are you going to drop this pathetic pride thing? You earn, what, scraps at the shop? I'm offering you more than you'd see in a lifetime."

Lyla walked over, tugging at his sleeve.

"Silas, don't say that to her. She's just... not used to it yet."

She turned to me, pity dripping from her eyes.

"Maeve, I know you resent me. But I was truly desperate. My old pack, they... they left me to die."

Her eyes went red again. The scent of distressed Omega poured off her.

I watched the performance.

All season, I'd watched it. Over and over.

She always played the wounded pup in front of Silas.

And I was always cast as the big bad wolf.

"Silas promised he'd make it up to you," Lyla said, like she was the Luna of the pack making an announcement. "Whatever you want, just tell us."

I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. I actually laughed.

First time in days.

Silas blinked. "What's funny?"

"I'm laughing because you two deserve each other. A match made in hell."

I said it, turned, and walked away.

Silas shouted behind me. "Maeve! Get back here!"

I didn't look back.

That night, Bree sent a messenger with a sketch from the feast.

Silas and Lyla at the grand feast hall. He was standing at the head of the table, raising a goblet. She was curled up against him, beaming.

In the background, pack members held up a banner made of stitched hide.

It read: Congratulations Lyla on the Royal Slot! Long live Silas and Lyla!

A note from Bree was tucked behind it. Don't look at this. She's not worth it.

I tossed the sketch into the fire. Let the silence fill the room.

Picked up my training blade. Started running drills, one strike at a time.

Drowning in the work was the only way to stop thinking.