Claiming My Chosen Mate Over Fate

My twin stole my mate, my crown, and—after she clawed back from the dead—my newborn son.

I was never the Luna. I was the spare—matched blood shoved into Alpha Theron's bed the day my "dead" sister vanished, because twin blood keeps a grieving pack from splitting apart.

Two years of an Alpha who growled Rowan's name into his whiskey. Two years branded the counterfeit.

Then Rowan strolled back through the gates, alive and smiling, and Theron signed my rejection in front of the whole pack.

They buried an empty box and called it me.

Now I command the deadliest rogue-hunting pack in the Frostlands—and I keep a file thick with my sister's treason.

Then a half-starved pup tracks my blood across three territories, silver burns from Rowan's abuse up both arms, and whispers, "Mom?"

When Theron kneels at my door, the bond I swore I'd killed roars back—his mouth hot at my throat, fangs at the mark he never finished.

He wants forgiveness. Rowan wants war. Neither knows I've been hunting them both.