The silver blade felt cold against my palm as I turned it over in the moonlight. Marcus had given it to me on our mating ceremony—ornate handle wrapped in midnight leather, my initials carved into the hilt. "To protect what's ours," he'd whispered against my neck that night, his wolf's possessiveness bleeding into every word. I never imagined I'd use it the way I did. The memory crashes over me even now, three years later, as I sit in this eight-by-ten cell that's been my entire world. The concrete walls have become as familiar as Marcus's face once was—every crack, every stain, every sound echoing through the prison block at night. I've had plenty of time to replay that evening. To dissect every moment that led to my hand moving almost of its own accord, the blade singing through the air, Vanessa's scream splitting the night. My stepsister. His mistress. His betrayal wrapped in her perfume. I close my eyes and I'm back there, standing in the doorway of our bedroom—mine and Marcus's—watching them tangled in sheets that still smelled like me. The wolf inside me had gone silent, shock freezing every instinct. Then Vanessa had looked up, seen me standing there, and smiled. Actually smiled. "Elena," she'd purred, making no move to cover herself. "We were wondering when you'd get home." Marcus had at least had the decency to look startled. He'd sat up, sheets pooling at his waist, his mouth opening to say—what? What possible words existed for this moment? "It's not what it looks like," he'd started, and I'd laughed. Actually laughed, the sound brittle and strange in my own ears. "Really?" I'd stepped into the room, my hand finding the silver blade on my dresser—the one he'd given me, the irony so sharp it cut. "Because it looks like my mate is fucking my stepsister in our bed." Vanessa had stood then, gloriously naked, her wolf's confidence radiating from every pore. She'd always been beautiful—where I was dark-haired and angular, she was golden and curved. Where I was sharp edges, she was soft invitation. And apparently, Marcus had decided he preferred soft. "Don't be dramatic," Vanessa had said, reaching for her dress. "You can't be surprised, Elena. You had to know you weren't enough for an Alpha like Marcus." The words had landed like physical blows. Because part of me—the part that had grown up as the unwanted stepdaughter, the part that had never quite believed Marcus Wolfe, Alpha of the Silvercrest Pack, had actually chosen me—that part had always been waiting for this. "Vanessa, shut up," Marcus had snapped, finally finding his voice. He'd looked at me then, really looked at me, and I'd seen something flicker in his dark eyes. Guilt? Regret? "Elena, let me explain—" "Explain what?" My voice had been steady, detached. The wolf inside me was still silent, still frozen. "Explain how long? Explain how many times? Explain which of our friends knew and didn't tell me?" He'd flinched, and that told me everything. This wasn't a one-time mistake. This was a pattern, a choice, a betrayal that had roots. Vanessa had laughed, pulling her dress over her head. "Oh, Elena. Everyone knew. We've been together for months. Marcus and I—we're actually compatible. The pack sees it. Even your precious mate bond can't compete with real connection." I'd looked at Marcus then, waiting for him to deny it. To tell her she was lying. To defend what we'd built together over three years of mating. He'd looked away. That's when the wolf inside me had finally woken up. Not with rage—rage would have been cleaner, simpler. No, she'd woken with something colder. Calculation. The instinct to wound as deeply as I'd been wounded. "You're right," I'd said softly, moving closer to Vanessa. She'd preened, thinking she'd won. "You are beautiful. Perfect, really. That's always been your power, hasn't it?" The blade had been in my hand, though I didn't remember raising it. Vanessa's eyes had widened, finally sensing danger, but she'd moved too slow. Wolves are fast, but shock makes you sloppy. The silver had caught her across the face, from temple to jaw. A perfect, deliberate arc. Her scream had brought the entire pack house running. Marcus had shifted partially, his wolf bursting through in protective rage—not for me, I'd noted distantly, but for her. He'd knocked me aside, cradling Vanessa as blood poured between her fingers, her perfect face split open. "What have you done?" he'd roared, and I'd looked at him—really looked at him—and realized I didn't know this man at all. Maybe I never had. "Gave her a scar to match the one she gave me," I'd said, pressing my hand to my chest, over my heart. "Except mine doesn't show." The pack enforcers had arrived then. I'd let them take the blade, let them bind my wrists, let them lead me away. I'd looked back once and seen Marcus holding Vanessa, whispering to her, his entire focus on her pain. He hadn't looked at me at all. The trial had been swift. Assault with a silver weapon—a serious crime in werewolf law. The fact that Marcus was Alpha and Vanessa was the victim made it political. The fact that I'd shown no remorse made it easy. Three years in Irongate Prison, the facility built specifically for supernatural offenders. I'd accepted the sentence without protest. What was there to fight for? My mate had betrayed me. My bond was broken—I'd felt it snap the moment I'd scarred Vanessa, the connection between Marcus and me severing like a cut rope. My pack had chosen their Alpha over his spurned mate. I had nothing left to lose. The first year inside was the hardest. The bond withdrawal nearly killed me—fever, chills, the constant ache of phantom connection trying to reestablish itself. But I'd gritted my teeth and endured. Let the pain burn through me until there was nothing left but scar tissue. The second year, I learned the rhythms of prison life. Made allies. Kept my head down. Trained in the yard until my body was harder, leaner, stronger than it had ever been. Turned myself into something new. The third year, I planned. Because word filtered in, even to Irongate. Word that Marcus had publicly claimed Vanessa as his mate. That they'd had a ceremony. That the pack had celebrated. That Vanessa's scar—the one I'd given her—had healed into a thin silver line that she apparently wore like a badge of honor. "The mark of Elena's jealousy," she called it in interviews. They'd made me the villain of their love story. The unstable ex who couldn't handle being replaced. Fine. Let them have their narrative. I had three months left on my sentence when the first letter arrived.