Chapter 168
The reasons to commit murder are piling up, and honestly, I’m starting to sympathise with the wolves who decide “fuck the rules” and go rogue. Murder isn’t exactly encouraged among werewolves—why sneak around killing someone when you can challenge them openly and end them with honour? That’s the logic of our kind. But right now my logic is fraying at the edges, and I can see why exceptions exist. I’m halfway ready to put my name on that list.
I’m furious. My vision keeps flickering red, the heat pushing against my control, but I stay inside Gillian’s house because rampaging outside would just give Drix an excuse to storm in. I pace the sitting room like a trapped animal. My claws extend, and I bite them off one by one, growling under my breath when they grow back instantly. Even my own body is annoying me.
How can someone like Astra exist? She is the pure definition of selfish and greedy, but in the worst way—a woman with a saint complex and the morals of a swamp. She’s heartless, narcissistic, convinced she’s the sun and we’re all here orbiting her. She never sees herself as wrong, not even by accident. Did her parents raise her like this? Or did she claw her way into becoming this unhinged? How can one person be so utterly inhumane and still walk around untouched?
And how is she still alive? Aside from Lúa Infinita, why hasn’t another pack snapped and taken her out? There’s no way her abilities alone keep her safe. The only explanation is that shifters are too direct. They only ever think about attack, never strategy. If someone tried assassination instead of open challenge, she’d have been gone ages ago.
I could kill her with a leaf. A bloody leaf. The idea crosses my mind a little too easily, but I push it aside because it’s not right—not morally, not politically. And because, fine, yes, I’d feel guilty. But the truth still stands: if she’s done this to me, then what about everyone else? Her cruelty didn’t appear overnight, and she didn’t limit it to me or Gillian. The others must’ve been suffering in silence for years.
For the first time, I genuinely understand Drix’s perspective. As an Alpha, his whole existence revolves around protecting his pack. And he’s had to watch them endure her. One woman, tormenting an entire territory. No power struggle, no war, no rebellion. Just her. Her arrogance, her entitlement, her obsession.
My chest tightens. If I feel this furious over what she did to Gillian alone, then what about the rest? How much have they swallowed down? How much of their pride has she bruised? How many nightmares has she seeded in people who trusted their Alpha to shield them?
And then there’s Hendrix.
Hendrix knows exactly what she’s capable of. He’s seen first-hand how powerless he is against her—and how close she’s come to breaking him. That fear sits deep in him, deeper than he likes to admit. He’s been protecting me not because I’m fragile, but because if things get worse, he’ll be forced to choose between me and his pack.
That is the worst decision an Alpha can ever face.
And she put him there. Her and her warped obsession with control.
I hate her more than I ever have. My anger isn’t just personal anymore. She isn’t just hurting me—she’s been hurting everyone. She’s been twisting the pack into knots while pretending to be their blessed Luna.
And don’t even get me started on Hendrix’s father. The man practically handed the pack over to her. How did he fall for a trap like that? How could an Alpha—a grown man, a leader—allow a woman like Astra to turn his people into her playthings?
He failed them. And she thrived on that failure.
I stop pacing and press my palm against the nearest wall, breathing hard. I’m shaking all over. If I don’t calm down, I’ll shift and rip Gillian’s sofa apart, and honestly, he’s been through enough.
But gods, I’m close.
Very, very close.
Gillian sits on the chair like he’s settling in for a show, elbows pressed into his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. His gaze is fixed on me, following every lap I make across his sitting room. He doesn’t tell me to calm down or sit down or breathe—smart man—he just watches, eyes half-lidded, as if waiting for my rage to burn itself out.
Eventually the pacing turns useless, and I drop onto the sofa with a loud huff. My claws click against each other before I chew the ends off again.
“Astra is a slut,” I mutter.
“She’s worse than a slut,” he scoffs without missing a beat.
Silence settles between us—not comfortable, not tense, just two people mentally kicking the same woman down a flight of stairs. Then we both sigh at the same time.
Gillian sits up a little. “You shouldn’t leave your mate to suffer, Sapphire. You’re supposed to help each other through things like this, not stew in separate corners. The longer you push him away, the more strain you put on the bond.” He studies me with those tired, knowing eyes. “I get it’s difficult, I do. But if he isn’t reaching out to you… why don’t you reach out to him?”
My mouth opens… shuts… opens again… shuts again. I must look like a startled fish. “I have my pride?” I finally offer.
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head, rolls his eyes dramatically, and clicks his tongue. “If that’s the problem, then keep him on his toes.”
I narrow my eyes. He pinches his lips together like he’s hiding something. I tilt my head, and he gives a nervous chuckle.
“Why don’t you take a sip of water first?” He offers, gesturing to the flower embroidered glass cup.
Suspicious. Very suspicious. But I grab the glass anyway, mostly because he finished my Dr Pepper and condemned me to plain hydration. I take a generous mouthful, swallow—
And he says, “Why don’t you masturbate?”