Chapter 2 You Have Been Abandoned

Old Martha's drowsy voice came through the phone. "Ms. Sinclair?"

"Martha, I need you to bring me a change of clothes. I'm in a private room on the second floor of Moonveil Taphouse." Leah's voice came out hoarse and unfamiliar.

Martha responded obediently, "Yes, miss. I'll be right there."

After hanging up, Leah curled into the corner of the sofa, covering herself with the torn fabric.

Ethan's scent still lingered in the air. She closed her eyes, but the images only grew sharper—his solid arms, his low, raspy voice, the warmth of his fingertips when they gripped her throat.

She bit her lower lip hard, forcing the sob back down.

She couldn't cry. Crying meant admitting total defeat.

Time crawled by. Outside, the party wound down in a cacophony.

Someone pushed the door open, then quickly left—probably the wrong room.

Leah hugged her knees for what felt like an eternity, nearly dozing off on the sofa.

Finally, the door opened again.

But it wasn't Martha.

A group of burly men walked in, their aggressive presence instantly filling the room.

Leading them was Harold, the Rourke Pack's second-in-command, followed by several high-ranking young wolves.

They carried clothing—velvet pieces, silk garments, and a nearly transparent negligee. Nothing like the proper outfits Martha usually prepared.

Leah's heart plummeted.

"Where's Martha?" She tried to keep her voice steady, but it came out tight and trembling.

Harold tossed the clothes carelessly onto the armrest, his gaze roaming shamelessly over her bare shoulders and limbs.

He was a wolf in his early forties, an old scar running from his brow to his jaw. When he smiled, the scar twisted grotesquely. "The butler called Martha away. I figured no one else would bail you out, so I volunteered."

Leah grabbed her torn jacket, pulling it tighter around herself, pressing back into the corner. "Leave the clothes and get out. Now."

Harold didn't move.

Behind him, the young wolves exchanged knowing looks. One of them actually laughed.

"Ms. Sinclair," Harold took two steps forward, looming over her, dangling the sheer negligee from his fingers. "You probably haven't heard what's going on outside."

Leah stayed silent, clutching the fabric at her throat.

"Chloe's back." Harold drew out each word deliberately, his tone dripping with amusement. "Your sister. The one Ethan keeps on a pedestal. Guess where he is right now?"

Leah's nails dug into her palms.

"He's already at the airport." Harold leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of her, trapping her in a tiny space.

The stench of cheap tobacco and raw meat hit her face. "I watched him tear out of here, speeding like a madman. That kind of urgency—tsk, tsk—he's never treated you that way, has he?"

Leah turned her head, avoiding his eyes. "This has nothing to do with you."

"Nothing to do with us?" Harold grabbed her chin, forcing her face back toward him. "Ethan's done with you. You're just an outsider in the Rourke Pack. And your birth father? Ha. He never really cared about you. He shipped you off to the pack like cargo years ago. He's sure as hell not taking you back now."

Leah slapped his hand away, deliberately raising her voice. "You're out of line! I'm Ethan's mate, the Rourke Pack's Luna. You dare disrespect me?"

The room fell silent for a beat.

Then Harold burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the walls. The young wolves behind him joined in, their laughter growing louder and more shameless.

"Luna?" Harold made a show of wiping his eyes. "You've never been officially marked by Ethan. The pack has never publicly recognized you. In three years, has anyone—even once—called you Luna?"

Leah's lips trembled. She clenched her jaw, forcing down the rising panic.

"Ethan has never acknowledged you." Harold straightened, looking down at her with contempt. "To him, you're just a convenient outlet. When he's in a good mood, he indulges you. When he's not, you're invisible. Now that the real Luna's back, what do you think he'll do with you?"

One of the young wolves chimed in. "Boss, stop. Look at her—she's about to cry."

"Don't cry." Harold leaned in again, his rough fingertips brushing her cheek. "If you're willing, we can take you in. A few of us could easily support you. You'd be comfortable, well-off—better than staying with Ethan and getting the cold shoulder."

His fingers trailed down to her collarbone. Leah's skin crawled, every instinct screaming rejection.

"Get your filthy hands off me." Her voice came out low and icy, fury blazing in her eyes.

Harold didn't pull back. Instead, he pressed harder, his fingertips circling her collarbone. "Feisty. I like that. The stubborn ones are always more fun."

Leah shoved him with all her strength and bolted from the sofa, running for the door.

She barely made it two steps before Harold caught her wrist.

His strength was overwhelming. With one hand, he yanked her back and threw her onto the sofa. Her head slammed against the armrest. Everything went black. Dizziness crashed over her in waves.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you." Harold dropped all pretense, the scar on his face looking even more vicious in the dim light. "You think you're still the precious daughter of the Sinclair Pack? You have nothing in the wolf world. No one cares about you. No one's going to protect you. You're just abandoned, unwanted—"

"I'm calling Ethan right now." Leah fumbled for her phone with shaking hands. "He'll—"

Harold raised an eyebrow, his expression mocking. "Go ahead. Call him."

His complete indifference made her stomach drop.

But she dialed anyway.

The phone rang and rang. Just as Leah was about to hang up, Ethan's voice came through—impatient, laced with irritation at being bothered. "What?"

"Ethan," Leah's voice shook uncontrollably, "I'm in a private room at Moonveil Taphouse. Harold and his men—"

"Ethan, come help me. This luggage is so heavy." A soft, sweet voice cut through the line—Chloe's playful, wheedling tone.

The words died in Leah's throat.