Chapter 9: KILL ME OR KNEEL

The burned message still glowed on the cell floor like an ember refusing to die.

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

The Matron's Daughter.

Lauren's knuckles whitened. Not from fear—fury. That title wasn't whispered. It was feared. A story rogue pups heard in nightmares. But Lauren knew better. The Matron's Daughter wasn't a myth.

She was real. And now, she wanted Lauren dead.

Behind her, boots crunched—Michael. Shirt half-buttoned, blades strapped across his back, storm in his eyes.

"Tell me you didn't go alone."

Lauren didn't turn. "I had to see if he was lying."

Michael moved closer, his shadow falling beside hers as he stared at the scorched stone.

"And?"

"He wasn't," she said flatly. "But that doesn't mean I trust him."

His jaw flexed. "You kissed him."

"I fought him. Then I kissed him."

"That's worse."

She shrugged. Cold. Bitter. "You jealous, Michael?"

"No," he snapped. "I'm smart."

Lauren brushed past him, each step a vow. "Then follow me. We've got a war to derail."

They didn't wait for dawn.

Lauren led a razor-edged strike team through the hunter tunnels beneath Evernight Ridge. The sigils burned into her vault weren't random. They matched old war signs—ones used by witches near Matron territory.

Someone inside her den was feeding the enemy.

As they climbed the jagged cliffs of Deadhowl, wind biting hard, Michael grabbed her arm.

"Wait."

Her wolf surged forward. "Let go."

"Tell me you're not walking into this to die," he growled.

"I'm walking into this because no one else will."

Michael pulled her close, voice a whisper on her cheek. "You think dying makes you strong? It doesn't. It makes you predictable. And predictable wolves die first."

His fingers pressed the brand on her neck—the Lunar Brand pulsing like a second heartbeat.

"You're still mine," he said darkly.

She didn't flinch. "You had your chance to fight for me."

His breath hitched. "Then let me fight now."

They found the first body by the river.

A rogue. Half-shifted. Eyes burned out. A sigil carved into his chest.

Michael spat. "That's her. The Matron's Daughter."

Lauren crouched, snow-white hair blowing wild in the night wind.

"She's close."

"What do we do?" one of the younger wolves asked, voice shaking.

Lauren stood.

"We make her regret it."

The ambush came at dusk.

Silver-tipped arrows rained from the trees.

Wolves dropped.

Michael tackled Lauren down, shielding her with his body.

"Still want to die alone?" he barked.

She shoved him off, golden eyes glowing. "Not if I can kill someone first."

They shifted in perfect sync—her snow-white wolf racing into the chaos, Michael's darker form at her flank.

Fangs clashed. Claws sliced. Blood soaked the earth.

And then Lauren saw her.

Cloaked in shadow. Face painted like a skull.

The Matron's Daughter.

She wasn't fighting. She was waiting.

Lauren broke from the fray. Her paws slammed into the earth, claws cutting bark as she lunged—but just before impact, the woman whispered a word.

Ancient.

Poisonous.

Lauren screamed.

Pain split her skull. Blinding. Psychic. Fire behind her eyes.

She dropped—half-shifted, convulsing.

The Matron's Daughter crouched beside her, running a claw along Lauren's cheek.

"You're marked," she murmured. "But you're not mine."

"I'm not yours," Lauren spat blood. "I'm no one's."

A cruel grin.

"Oh, little white wolf. You weren't born to lead. You were born for the altar."

Her hand touched the brand.

Lauren screamed again—this time her wolf howling inside.

Michael reached her too late.

Smoke swallowed the Matron's Daughter. Her laughter echoed as she vanished into the trees.

Michael caught Lauren before she hit the ground.

"Stay with me," he growled, pressing his forehead to hers. "If you die, I'll drag you back and kill you myself."

She coughed. "Romantic."

His voice broke. "Don't do this. I didn't come back just to watch you burn again."

She opened her eyes, the gold in them flickering.

"I don't need you to watch me," she whispered. "I need you to help me burn them first."

Later that night, her skin fevered and raw, Lauren sat wrapped in a torn blanket near the fire. The room was quiet, heavy with smoke and blood and memory.

Michael sat across from her, eyes unreadable.

She broke the silence. "You still love me?"

He didn't answer.

But his eyes—his eyes said everything.

She looked away, voice quiet. "I don't forgive you."

He stood slowly. Came to her side.

"I'm not asking for that," he said. "I'm asking for a chance to fight beside you."

She didn't move. But she didn't tell him to leave.

Outside, the sigil carved into the trees glowed like molten ash.

And far to the east, the Matron's Daughter lit the first altar flame.

Lauren wouldn't run.

This time, she'd burn first.