Chapter 11 Weeks bled into one another. My strikes grew sharper. My body is stronger. My reflection is clearer. And one night, sweat still drying across my skin, I stood in front of the mirror and for the first time in decades, I did not see a woman merely surviving. I saw a wolf preparing for war. I sat in my room, lights off, the faint glow of my phone illuminating the ceiling like moonlight over dark water. The kind of quiet that presses against your skin, that hums through your bones. Damien Angelo had gone to sleep hours ago, muttering something about my midnight doom-scrolling being "the digital version of bleeding out." He wasn't wrong. I wasn't trying to bleed tonight. But curiosity was a loaded claw, and I let it strike anyway. I opened Instagram, and I instantly regretted it. Marga's birthday post popped up first, bright, sparkly, artificial as wolf perfume clinging to her fur. "Blessed to spend my 46th birthday with the family I never knew I needed. Thank you, @AlphaShawn, for the seven-day cruise. I asked for waves. You gave me a storm of love." Seven-day cruise. Of course. The photos followed: Alpha Shawn laughing, oblivious, his arm draped around my boys, my grandsons. Mark clung to Marga like she was some fairy-tale stepmother. Ken and Kurt smiled, wide, real smiles. My chest constricted. I didn't cry. Jaw tight. 'They look like mine," I whispered to the dark, thumb frozen on the screen. "Because they are." Then the comments cut like claws. 'She's glowing! That's what peace looks like when the other woman finally leaves." 'When's the wedding? You two are goals." 'Can we talk about how happy Alpha Shawn looks? He found his real queen." 'LOL, the upgrade is unreal. Marga whatever-her-name-was." 'Stella is probably watching this from some dusty room, drinking bitter tea." I saved the post. Then I took a screenshot of every comment. Not for nostalgia. Not for mourning. For ammunition. Maybe a touch of masochism, too. I scrolled through my gallery. Past the training clips, Damien Moonveil snuck in. Past the food, I'd started photographing again, like a human rediscovering color. And there they were, the folder I never deleted. Marga + Alpha Shawn. Hundreds of snapshots. Hidden smiles. Touches that made my skin crawl. Airport photos, hotel lobbies, intercepted texts, stolen moments I pretended I hadn't seen while believing in a marriage that had died a long time ago. They looked desperate, young, addicted to one another. I laughed once. Short. Dry. Then I remembered exactly how she had wormed her way into my life. Marga had been Alpha Shawn's first. Teenage infatuation. Married his brother after they broke apart. Poor Greg, he 213 20.1% 6:45 pm A deserved better than her. No one did. When Greg died in that rogue attack, Marga crawled back to Alpha Shawn like some tragic widow, sobbing into his arms, wearing white at a funeral that demanded black. He became her shoulder, her comfort, her second chance. I remembered the night I confronted him, furious over missed piano recitals, tired of sharing a husband who was already a ghost. And he shrugged. "She's got no one, Stella. No husband. No kids. My brother left Marga for me." Like her misery entitled her to everything. I locked my phone and sat up, feet cold on marble like I was waking from a decade-long hibernation. I didn't cry. I didn't curse. I reached for Damien Moonbveil's notebook and scribblec one word: War. Let Marga keep her cruise smiles. Her hashtags and fairytales, her false happy ending. Let the world crown her queen. She's sitting on a throne stolen from my life. And I'm the wolf coming for ** Not even six in the morning, my phone screamed like sirens tearing through a quiet forest. I groaned, face buried in the pillow, Damien grumbling somewhere about coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I reached for the phone. Marga. Of course. hadn't blocked her number. Maybe on purpose. Waiting. Hoping she'd finally unravel in public. answered. Calm. Cold. 'What?" Her voice exploded like a banshee set loose in a storm. 'You sick witch! You STARVED my dogs while I was in the Bahamas with Alpha Shawn! THEY'RE DEAD! Both of them! DEAD this morning!" I said nothing. Walked to the espresso machine, hit the button, letting her wails echo across the marble like a distant howl. 'You had them killed! You always hated me! I told you to feed them!" I sipped coffee slowly, letting the bitter warmth fill me. "I'm not your maid, Marga. You're the owner. Should've made sure your staff came back before jetting off like some tacky reality star." "Don't you dare play innocent!" she screeched. "You've hated me from day one, admit it! Alpha Shawn told you to feed them! They're dead!" I leaned back on the couch, loose robe, still sipping. "I don't need to kill your dogs to ruin you. I can do that in a Chanel dress with clean hands." "You're jealous!" she wailed. "Just because Alpha Shawn didn't bring you on the cruise you begged for, you took it out on my babies. He'll punish you! He'll-" I let out a soft laugh, low, controlled. "Go on then. Call the cops. Post it on Instagram. Tell your Chapter 11 6:46 pm Botoxed followers I poisoned your pets. Alpha Shawn? Free. We're divorced, Marga. He's all yours now. Suck him dry like the parasite you are.' She went silent. Then she screamed so loud my phone practically shuddered. Click. Call ended. I stared at the black screen for a heartbeat, then sipped my coffee, letting the heat anchor me. Damien appeared in the doorway, half-dressed, holding a protein shake like it weighed nothing, the morning light glinting off his sharp angles. His eyes locked on me, unreadable. "Do I want to ask?" he murmured, voice low, laced with something dangerous and amused. I raised my mug, a slow, deliberate shrug. "Just a crazy ex-sister-in-law, mourning her dogs and her delusions." He exhaled, already bored, a predator sparing energy for the hunt. "You ready for training?" I grinned, teeth flashing like a wolf's under moonlight. "More than ever." 6:46 pm ALPHA SHAWN'S POV