Queen of the Rogue Syndicate

Lyra

Three months before everything I knew disappeared, I was convinced I had the perfect life.

At seventeen, I had no reason to think otherwise.

I was Lyra Sinclair, the eldest daughter of Alpha Charles Sinclair and Luna Evelyn Sinclair of the Aurelia Moon Pack, a powerful wolf pack known for drawing its strength from the golden light of the moon. I was also the heir to one of the wealthiest packs in Minnesota—and one of the oldest in the world.

And, according to everyone who mattered, my future had already been decided.

I would graduate from Winterwood Preparatory Academy in the spring. I would attend a prestigious university. I would return home with a degree in Economics and a certificate in Managerial Analytics. And eventually, I would take my father's place as Alpha of the Aurelia Moon Wolf Pack.

It sounded wonderful.

It also sounded like an enormous amount of work.

"Question twelve."

I stared at the practice SAT booklet on my desk. Taking a standardized test in late February felt like a cruel joke, especially when my actual applications had been submitted weeks ago. But Northwestern was notoriously strict about mid-year updates.

"Which of the following best explains the author's use of the phrase—"

I groaned quietly and scratched my head.

Across the study room, Ms. Harper, Winterwood Prep's college guidance counselor, glanced over her glasses. "You're going to be Alpha someday," she said. "You can survive one reading-comprehension passage."

"I'd rather negotiate a land dispute."

She laughed. "Unfortunately, Northwestern doesn't accept applicants based on their ability to intimidate rival packs. And if you want to send them a higher score before the admissions committee makes their final decisions next month, you need to clear this section."

I sighed and returned to the question.

Northwestern University, Illinois.

That was where I wanted to go.

Not because I wanted to escape Aurelia Moon. I loved my pack. I loved my family. But I wanted to prove that I could build something of my own before I inherited everything my father had spent his life building.

Ms. Harper had been helping me prepare my application for months.

"Your grades are excellent," she had told me repeatedly. "Your leadership record is strong. But standard admissions are brutal. Your SAT score needs to come up."

Hence the practice tests. Hence the tutoring. Hence the fact that I was sitting in a classroom after school while half of Winterwood's seniors were probably already at the mall braving the February slush to look for gowns for the spring prom.

I glanced down at the question again. "Fine," I muttered. "I choose C."

"Correct."

I looked up.

Ms. Harper smiled. "See? Keep this up, and you'll be a Northwestern freshman before you know it."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't stop myself from smiling.

Winterwood Prep wasn't an ordinary high school. Most of its students came from the major packs scattered across the northern United States and Canada. The children of Alphas, Betas, wealthy pack families, influential merchants, physicians, lawyers, and corporate executives.

We studied the usual subjects—literature, mathematics, sciences, history. But we also had courses ordinary human schools didn't.

Pack law. Territorial management. Wolf physiology. Diplomatic relations. Applied combat.

And for students like me, advanced leadership and economics.

Our world had its own rules. And the most important one was simple: Land was power.

Land meant food. Food meant survival. And whoever controlled the land controlled the wolves and humans who depended on it.

The Aurelia Moon Pack controlled a lot of land. Thousands of acres stretched across northern Minnesota toward the Canadian border, much of it rich, fertile farmland where we grew wild rice, soybeans, and sugar beets. Our agricultural operations supplied not only our own pack but dozens of others.

Then there was Northwoods Timber Holdings, which managed our enormous pine forests. The forests weren't merely profitable. They also formed much of our northern boundary.

Hidden among the trees were surveillance stations, patrol routes, and heavily secured checkpoints. The timberlands were both an economic asset and our first line of defense.

Then there was Sinclair Iron and Taconite Mining: iron ore, taconite and steel.

My father always said that if agriculture fed the pack, steel not only protected it—it made us rich.

And because our territory reached Lake Superior, the family had substantial interests in shipping and logistics through the docks of Duluth. Produce from our farms was shipped through the port, then south to Chicago, where our distribution network took over.

It was a massive operation.

And someday, it would all be mine. Which was why I needed to understand every part of it.

At exactly four-thirty, my phone buzzed. It was my driver, letting me know he was already waiting for me outside.

I heaved a sigh of relief and stretched my arms above my head. Time to go home.

I packed my books, thanked Ms. Harper, and headed out.

I was almost at the front doors of the school, ready to head out to my car, when Giselle, our Student Body President, blocked my path.

"Lyra Sinclair," she said, her voice dripping with pure Miranda Priestly condescension. "You haven't paid for your ticket to the All-Night Senior Party. It's mandatory."

I rolled my eyes. I disliked having to pay $120 for a tacky human-style party I wasn't even going to attend—especially since our elite administration at Winterwood Prep was forcing us to share a venue with the two public schools in the area: Zenith Heights and North Shore.

To a Sinclair, the money was pocket change, but the principle of the forced obligation irritated me. Why our school administrators insisted on imitating mundane human graduation traditions instead of actual wolf customs was beyond me.

"Fine," I snapped. "Show me the QR code."

She raised her phone with a smug smile. I pulled out my own, opened Venmo, and scanned the QR code on her screen to send the payment.

"Actual tickets will be distributed in April," Giselle explained, tapping on her phone. "Make sure you screenshot your receipt or print it out now, just in case you lose the physical ticket later. Without a ticket or a copy of the transaction receipt, the door chaperones won't let you inside the venue on graduation night. No exceptions."

"Good to know," I grumbled, already pushing the door open.

The moment I stepped through the school's front doors, the cold Minnesota air rushed over me.

Winterwood sat deep among towering pines, its old stone buildings surrounded by snow-dusted grounds. Beyond the school gates, the forest stretched toward the distant lake, dark and endless.

A black Range Rover waited at the curb, my driver standing beside it. He opened the rear door, and I climbed into the back seat.

"Good afternoon, Miss Lyra," he greeted me with a respectful bow.

"Hi, Thomas." I glanced toward the empty passenger seat. "Where's Kira?"

"Your sister is at a study group at the public library," Thomas said. "Mr. Kincaid is nearby and has offered to pick her up and bring her home later."

I smiled. "He's always around when you need him."

The familiar scent of leather and cedar greeted me as the door closed behind me.

I pulled out my phone and texted Owen Pierce, my best friend since kindergarten.

Me: Where you at?

Owen: Miller Hill, but heading home soon. My driver doesn't like driving at night lol. And it isn't the same without you.

Me: I'll just see you tomorrow then. 🥺

Owen: Ditch tutoring tomorrow. I need your opinion on my pitch for prom, Miss Wildcat.🐾

Me: *Flattery will get you everywhere, Pierce.*😏

Fine, I’ll be there. But if this pitch involves a flash mob, I'm walking away.

Him: Ew. You know me better than that. 😫

I found myself grinning at my phone.

“Miss Lyra, do you need me to drive you to Miller Hill?” Thomas asked, as if he already knew what I was thinking.

“No need, Thomas.” I sent Owen a laughing emoji before slipping my phone back into my pocket. “Let’s go home. I’ll get some studying done tonight so I can hang out with Owen tomorrow.”

As we pulled away from Winterwood, I leaned my head against the window. The familiar landscape passed by.

Pine forests. Frozen fields. Pack-owned farmland. Small towns nestled beneath the winter sky.

Home.

For most of my life, I'd taken it for granted.

Because I knew where I belonged. I knew what I was supposed to become. And I knew who I was supposed to spend my life with.

Jax Kincaid. The Prime Beta's son. And my future mate.

He had finished university the previous year and had already begun working alongside my father, learning the family businesses and taking on more responsibilities within the pack.

Three months from now, on my graduation day, I would turn eighteen. My wolf would fully mature. And the bond everyone had been waiting for would finally become official.

Jax and I would be formally mated. He would eventually become my Alpha Consort.

Until I finished university, he would help my father manage the pack's businesses and stand in my place when necessary. Then I would return home with my degree and begin taking over the responsibilities that had been waiting for me since the day I was born.

It wasn't a bad future.

Actually, it was a wonderful one.

I loved Jax. At least, I believed I did.

I smiled faintly as Sinclair Manor appeared through the trees.

The massive stone estate stood on a hill overlooking the frozen lake, its windows glowing warmly against the approaching darkness.

My home. My family. My future.

Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

Or so I thought.

Then came the night that changed my life.