Her fingers paused on a section titled "Counteragents for Moon-bane and Hemlock Extracts." The ingredients were rare but not impossible to obtain. Some she recognized from her training. Others, she would have to source carefully.
A slow smile curled at the edges of her lips. If she could craft this antidote, she would hold yet another card in her favor—a safeguard against treachery, a means of control.
And in this world, control was everything.
What the doctor didn't know was that she had poisoned herself deliberately, methodically. She had wanted to die, but for some reason the moon goddess had saved her. And as horrible as it sounded, she had poisoned several others, carefully selecting her test subjects to observe the poison's effects, adjusting the dosage, and refining the formula until she understood it inside and out. The innocent animals she had experimented on had suffered for her knowledge; their whimpers and dying gasps burned into her memory. But guilt had no place in survival. She had done what she must.
Lauretta was not as innocent as she looked.
Her delicate features, wide, guileless eyes, and soft-spoken demeanor had always worked to her advantage, disarming those around her, making them underestimate her. But beneath that fragile mask lay a sharp mind, a calculating will. She was, in every sense, a spy—but not for any master, any cause, or any kingdom. She worked for herself and herself alone—and her pack that had been lost.
Tucking the book under her arm, she let her gaze flicker toward the library door before exhaling softly. No one knew the full extent of her capabilities. They thought her a mere survivor, a girl plucked from tragedy, trying to find her place in a world that had taken everything from her. Let them believe that. It made things easier.
Hidden in her chambers, deep within the confines of a locked drawer, she still had a large stash of the poison she had spent years perfecting. A potent, near-undetectable blend that took effect slowly, ensuring the victim never suspected until it was far too late.
She had been ready to use it—no, eager to use it—on Marcus and his pack if she had uncovered even the slightest proof that they had anything to do with the massacre of her own. Had she found evidence, she wouldn't have hesitated. A single drop in their food, a whisper of it in their drinks, and their entire pack would have fallen one by one, just as hers had.
But she hadn't found proof. Not yet.
Still, the poison remained, waiting. And if the day ever came when she needed it, she would not hesitate. Because vengeance was not just a possibility—it was a promise.
She was slowly beginning to realize that Marcus was innocent. The rage that had burned so hot within her was cooling, leaving behind a strange emptiness she didn't know how to fill. She had spent so long sharpening her hate, preparing for vengeance, yet now, faced with the truth, she almost felt sorry for him.
At least she had gone through her pain, had faced the fire, and emerged stronger. But Marcus—he was like a sitting duck, waiting for death and disaster to strike without even realizing it. He had no idea how close he had come to being her target. No idea how fragile his life had been, teetering on the edge of an execution he hadn't even earned.
Lauretta exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. That kind of blind vulnerability was dangerous. It made her stomach twist uncomfortably. If she had wanted him dead, he wouldn't have stood a chance. That meant others could come for him, too—others would come for him and his pack, and they would fall so easily because they wouldn't be looking at sabotage; they believed in honor and defensive combat.
And that, she realized, was something she could not allow.
They had given her shelter when she had been lost, when she had needed it the most. They had fed her, clothed her, and given her a place to rest when she had nothing left but vengeance and a poison-stained soul. They had not asked for anything in return, had not looked at her with suspicion even though she had been full of secrets.
That meant something.
She would fight not just for vengeance anymore, but for them. For this pack.
Even if it cost her everything.
Lauretta's grip tightened on the book in her hands. If war came to their doorstep, she would not sit idly by. If someone wanted to tear this pack apart, they would have to go through her first.
And if that meant she had to die alongside them, so be it.
Yes, there had been awful people—arrogant wolves who sneered at her presence, whispered about her when they thought she wasn't listening. But every pack had its bullies. That was nothing new. She had endured worse.
The heat was suffocating today, pressing against her skin like a second layer. Even with the window wide open, the air inside was thick and heavy, offering little relief. The only saving grace was the occasional breeze drifting in from the ocean, carrying the scent of salt and freedom. Without it, she was certain she would have been miserable, her skin breaking into irritated rashes like it always did when the heat became unbearable.
With a sigh, she peeled off the clothes that clung to her, reaching for something lighter. She chose a short yellow gown, its fabric thin and airy, a whisper against her skin. The color complimented her hair perfectly, making her black strands appear even more vibrant under the dim lighting—glistening, she looked and felt like a goddess.
The dress left nothing to the imagination.
The neckline dipped just enough to tease, the hem barely brushing the tops of her thighs. It wasn't a choice made for vanity—she simply refused to suffocate in thick clothing tonight. Still, she knew how it would look, how the male wolves in this pack would react if they saw her like this.