They're filming me. I can see the phone's red recording light even through the blood in my eyes. Eight months pregnant, on my knees in the mud, and these rogue bastards are *filming* me. "Smile for your pack, Luna," the one with the scar sneers, yanking my hair back so hard I feel strands rip from my scalp. "Let them see what their precious Alpha's mate really looks like." I try to shift—goddess, I *try*—but the wolfsbane they injected burns through my veins like liquid fire. My wolf whimpers somewhere deep inside, unreachable. Useless. My hands instinctively cradle my swollen belly. The baby kicks, strong and insistent, oblivious to the danger we're in. "Don't you *dare* touch her," I spit, tasting copper. Scar-face laughs. It's a sound that'll haunt my nightmares—if I survive long enough to have nightmares. "Her? Oh, you think it's a girl?" He leans closer, breath reeking of stale beer and rot. "The whole pack's gonna watch this. Every. Single. Wolf." My stomach lurches. Broadcasting to all packs means using the Council's emergency network. The one reserved for declarations of war or deaths of Alphas. The one that requires Alpha-level access codes. The thought tries to form, but I shove it away. Focus on survival. Focus on the baby. "Jaxen will kill you," I manage, my voice stronger than I feel. "My mate will hunt every single one of you down and—" "Your mate?" Another rogue—younger, with dead eyes—crouches in front of me. "That's cute. Really cute." He glances at the camera. "Should we tell her?" "Nah," Scar-face says. "More fun this way." Tell me *what*? Before I can process, Dead-Eyes grabs my face, forcing me to look directly into the camera lens. Into the eyes of every pack in the territory. Into Jaxen's eyes. "Beg," he commands. "Beg your Alpha to save you." Pride wars with desperation. I'm Lyanna Silvercrest, daughter of the late Alpha Marcus. I don't beg. But the baby kicks again, and pride doesn't matter anymore. "Jaxen," I whisper, hating how my voice breaks. "Please. Please, I need you. The baby needs you. Please—" The blow comes from nowhere, snapping my head to the side. Stars explode across my vision. "Pathetic," Scar-face mutters. They drag me through the mud, my pregnant belly scraping against rocks and roots. I try to protect it, try to curl around my child, but there are too many hands. Too much pain. The beating continues. Methodical. Calculated. They're careful—so *careful*—to avoid my stomach. Every other part of me is fair game, but not the baby. Why? Why would rogues care about— "That's enough," a new voice cuts through the haze. Female. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. The hands release me. I collapse, gasping, every nerve ending screaming. Through swollen eyes, I see her. Tall, elegant, with honey-blonde hair that catches the moonlight. She's wearing designer clothes completely inappropriate for the forest, and her perfume—jasmine and vanilla—makes me want to vomit. Leya Thornwood. Jaxen's first love. The she-wolf who left him three years ago to pursue some Alpha in the northern territories. The one he still keeps a photo of in his desk drawer, hidden behind pack documents. The one he says he's "over." "Hello, Lyanna," she says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You look... tired." I try to speak, but blood fills my mouth. Leya crouches down, careful not to let her expensive boots touch the mud. "I want you to know this isn't personal. Well," she tilts her head, "maybe a little personal. You were never supposed to be his Luna. That was always *my* place." The pieces click together with horrifying clarity. The rogues knowing exactly where I'd be during my evening walk. The Alpha-level access codes. The careful avoidance of my stomach during the beating. "Jaxen," I rasp. "Where is he?" Leya's smile could cut glass. "Oh, honey. Why do you think we're filming?" No. No, no, no— "He should be riding in on his white horse right about..." She checks her watch. "Now." On cue, howls pierce the night. The cavalry. My pack. Jaxen's massive black wolf explodes into the clearing, followed by a dozen warriors. The rogues scatter—too easily, I notice. Like they were *supposed* to scatter. Jaxen shifts mid-leap, landing in human form beside me. His hands cup my face, and the mate bond flares to life despite everything, singing with relief and love and— Lies. It's all lies. "Lyanna," he breathes, and goddess help me, he sounds genuinely terrified. He looks at the camera, still recording, and his expression hardens. "Get that thing off." A warrior crushes the phone. Too late. The damage is done. Every pack in the territory just watched their Luna get beaten within an inch of her life. Jaxen gathers me in his arms, and I want to fight, want to scream the truth, but the wolfsbane is dragging me under. The last thing I see before darkness takes me is Leya, standing at the edge of the clearing. She's smiling. And Jaxen doesn't even glance her way.