THE ROGUE DEN (MOONLESS NIGHT)

All too naive, she was.

To think she could lead without bleeding.

To believe shadows could be locked behind iron bars.

To imagine that bond—his bond—would ever loosen its grip.

But shadows never stayed buried.

They waited. They watched. They struck.

Lauren woke with a snarl ripping from her throat, so sharp it scraped her lungs.

Her claws had shredded the cot beneath her.

Fabric spilled apart like torn flesh, stuffing scattered on the cold stone floor.

The Lunar Brand burned at her neck, pulsing so hard she swore it might split her veins open.

Pulse.

Pulse.

Pulse.

Like it was calling him.

Her wolf paced behind her eyes, restless, desperate, ready to tear through anything in its path.

She could barely tell where she ended and it began.

The second she pushed to her feet, he was there.

Michael.

Leaning against the jagged cave wall like he'd been carved from it.

Watching her with that silent, heavy stare that always made her want to break something.

"You tore a man in half yesterday," he said.

His voice was low, dangerous.

Lauren's jaw tightened as she raked a shaking hand through her damp hair.

"He deserved worse.

Moon Crest thinks they can hunt us down like dogs? Not anymore."

Michael stepped forward, shadows crawling over his shoulders.

"You're not thinking," he said, voice sharp.

"You're chasing blood, not strategy. And if you keep this up—"

"A monster?"

Her words lashed out before he could finish, brittle and venomous.

"I've already been made one, Michael. Now I'm just better at it."

But her wolf recoiled.

Not at his words. At her own.

The Lunar Brand flared hotter, mocking her.

And deep below the den, behind iron bars and stone, he was waiting.

Lauren could almost feel his eyes on her skin.

They gathered at dusk.

The war room glowed with firelight, shadows jagged across the walls.

Lauren stood at the center like a queen waiting for the blade to fall, her hands braced on the map table.

The forsaken wolves surrounded her—the rogues, the strays, the Alphas too scarred to kneel for anyone but her.

Their silence pressed in heavy, like a vow.

She circled the Moon Crest outpost in blood-red charcoal.

"We strike fast," she said. "No deaths. We don't need their bodies. We need their fear."

A ripple of approval moved through the room.

And then a voice, low and familiar, shattered it.

"You think this will make them kneel? It'll make them unite."

Lauren's head snapped toward the prison cell.

He was there.

Her Beta.

Bruised but unbroken. Eyes sharp enough to see through her like he always had.

"You don't get to speak here," she said, voice cold enough to cut.

"I have to." He stepped closer, gripping the bars until his knuckles bled.

"This path—they're leading you down it, Lauren. You're not building power.

You're giving them the excuse they need to wipe us out."

Her chest tightened.

But she held his gaze until it hurt.

"Then let them try," she said, turning her back on him.

She didn't see the way his hands slipped from the bars.

But she felt his words stick like claws under her ribs long after the door slammed.

The ambush came swift and brutal.

The forest was silent when they reached the Moon Crest perimeter.

Too silent.

Lauren's wolf shifted mid-run, snow-white fur blazing as she streaked through the trees.

Her rogues were a phantom army behind her, their paws pounding like war drums.

They reached the camp.

No guards.

No movement.

No scent of fear.

Her wolf froze.

Something was wrong.

And then fire.

Explosions tore the forest apart, a wall of flame ripping through the night.

The blast sent wolves hurtling through the air. Trees cracked like bones snapping.

Screams.

Chaos.

It was a trap.

Lauren spun, snarling orders, but her wolf was already snapping at anything that moved—ally or enemy.

She almost tore into one of her own.

And then she saw him.

Not in the prison.

Standing right in front of her.

His hands raised. Chest bare.

"Lauren—don't—"

She lunged.

He didn't fight.

He reached for her neck, his palm slamming hard against the Lunar Brand.

Everything stopped.

The fire.

The screaming.

The blood roaring in her ears.

Gone.

And then she saw.

Flashes of memory.

The fire.

Her broken body.

The Alpha's voice ordering her death.

Him.

On his knees.

Begging them to spare her.

Walking away because they told him she was already gone.

He hadn't watched her burn.

He hadn't smiled when the flames swallowed her.

He had shattered.

Lauren stumbled back, the wolf slipping from her skin. Bare. Shaking.

She dragged a jacket off a corpse and pulled it around her shoulders like armor.

"You didn't fight for me," she whispered, voice breaking like glass.

He looked gutted.

"I thought you were gone," he said.

"I didn't walk away, Lauren. I died with you instead."

They found each other later in the forest, ash still falling like snow.

"You shouldn't have come back," she said.

His laugh was bitter and soft.

"Neither should you."

And then they collided.

Fists first.

Mouths second.

The kiss was savage. Desperate.

A punishment.

A confession.

Her hands tangled in his hair. His grip bruised her hips.

Their wolves clawed under their skin, silent and restless, as if they could sense what was coming.

She shoved him back against a tree, breath tearing from her chest.

That's when she saw it.

A burn mark across his back.

A wolf's muzzle, scorched deep into his skin.

Her stomach lurched.

"What is that?"

He went still.

"The price of my silence," he said quietly.

She stepped back, heart hammering in her throat.

"You're still working with them," she accused.

"No." His voice cracked.

"But I was theirs long enough to know one thing…"

He met her gaze, eyes dark and aching.

"They're not just hunting you, Lauren.

They're preparing for something worse."

Her voice was ice. "Like what?"

He hesitated, glancing at the shadows like he feared they were listening.

"I can't protect you anymore," he whispered.

"I'm part of it."

Hours later, Michael stormed into her chambers.

"There's a traitor," he snapped, slamming a map onto the table.

A sigil had been burned into the parchment—the same one they'd carved into the chest of the dead rogue.

Now it marked the walls of her map vault.

Lauren felt the ground tilt beneath her feet.

Someone wasn't just spying.

They were planning a purge.

That night, she stalked down into the prison with fire in her veins.

She would drag the truth out of him.

She would know if he'd ever truly cared.

Or if it had all been a lie.

But when she reached the cell, her breath died in her throat.

The door was open.

The bars had been melted.

The stone was scorched black.

And burned into the floor, glowing faintly with dark magic, was a single message:

"She's not yours to save. She's mine to end."

— The Matron's Daughter

Lauren stared until her vision blurred.

A chill slid down her spine, bone-deep and sharp as teeth.

Her wolf lifted its head, a growl curling through her blood.

Let her try.