I don’t have a single memory of my mother; she died bringing me into this world. But every recollection I do have is scorched with the presence of my father—his fists, his boots, the searing pain of his belt. I wear his anger like a second skin, every bruise branding me as guilty.
He is the Alpha of the Crystal River Pack: looming, broad-shouldered, a shadow of terror in every room. For fifteen relentless years, he has looked at me with the same haunted fury—as if I were the executioner who stole his light. Each day he reminds me with flinty eyes and rasping words, «It should’ve been you. Not her. Not my Luna, not the mate who held my soul together. His angel. His heart. And me? I am nothing but the poison that leeched all hope from him—a blight, a curse, bad luck that he needs to crush underfoot.»
