Chapter 2

Three days later, I sprawled on my bed, my forehead throbbing and my left arm wrapped in thick bandages.

Outside my window, maids whispered.

"Shawn's so thoughtful, sending all these tonics and jewels. He must care about our Leah very much."

"Thoughtful?" The other one scoffed softly. "None of those gifts were to her liking. When Quinn sprained her ankle, Shawn went to her place in person and filled it with things she actually loved. But when Leah was on the brink of death, he didn't even show his face."

"Shh, don't let Leah hear."

I lied motionlessly. And a sour smile tugged at my mouth.

If he truly valued me, would he shame me like this, a high-born she-wolf by demanding I accept Quinn as an equal mate?

I shut my eyes and the past rushes in: I mixed tonics he left untouched, spent whole nights outside his study waiting for a door that never opened.

I told myself he was merely cold.

It was not until I saw every spark of his warmth light another she-wolf.

This time, I won't be that fool.

While I mend, the room hums with whispers: Shawn took Quinn out on the boat again; a whole crate of southern silk arrived, addressed only to her; he is giving her riding lessons.

I tune it out, focusing on healing.

Since I have recovered, Diana arranges the Feast and summons the high-born she-wolves of Belmor Town to the palace. Quinn and I rode in the same carriage.

At the banquet Shawn keeps to the circle of male wolves, gaze fixed on Quinn. When her throat dries he passes her tea; when heat flushes her skin he finds a fan. Her smile lands and his stare melts like early spring ice.

He doesn't spare a glance at me.

I trace the rim of my cup, pretending it doesn't sting.

Midway through, Diana, in high spirits, pulls a golden phoenix hairpin from her hair. "Let's have a contest, ladies. The winner takes this prize."

I've played the zither since I was a pup, and when my song ends, the hall erupts in awe.

Diana claps, beaming. "Leah, your skill is unmatched. The hairpin's yours."

Wolves rise to congratulate me, but Shawn stays seated, murmuring comfort to a defeated Quinn.

"Your music's amazing, sister," Quinn says, eyes glistening, voice dripping with grievance. "I can't compete even a hair of you."

Shawn smiles softly. "It's just a hairpin. If you want one, I'll scour the great pack for the finest, just for you."

Quinn's tears vanish, replaced by a grin. "Why are you so good to me?"

The pavilion goes quiet. My fingers freeze on my sleeve, breath caught in my throat.

"Three years ago," Shawn murmurs, voice soft as thawing snow, "I was ambushed and left for dead beyond the pack. You drew the poison from my wounds and kept me alive. From that instant, I vowed to cherish you for the rest of my days."

Quinn freezes, her expression dazed.

My fan slips from my hand, hitting the ground like thunder in my ears.

It was me. I saved him.

That winter night I found Shawn bleeding in the snow, hauled him to my home, drew the poison from his veins at the risk of my own life, and kept vigil for six days and nights. When he finally opened his eyes, exhaustion had already pulled me under; by the time I woke, he had vanished.

All this past life and present, he thought it was Quinn who did it.

He loved the wrong she-wolf.