POV Blake
You know what's worse than being a spy? Being a spy who's starting to enjoy the mission way too much.
Every morning I wake up tangled in Matthias’s arms, and it’s... stupidly nice. Warm, safe, and freakingly addictive.
I tell myself it’s just good cover, just part of the role—but some mornings I lie there just a little longer, memorizing the rhythm of his breathing like it matters.
Like he matters.
I won’t call it love. That would be reckless. Dangerous. But whatever this is, it’s getting under my skin, and it’s starting to feel like the best lie I’ve ever lived.
Last night didn't help.
Picture this: bonfire by the lake, the whole pack gathered like some werewolf Coachella minus the cultural appropriation. Someone's playing guitar and this wolf named Austin is singing with a voice that could make angels weep or serial killers repent.
And there's Matthias, arms around me from behind, chin resting on my head like I'm his personal armrest. His chest rumbles with laughter when Joey hits a particularly ambitious note.
The firelight dances across faces I've come to know, to care about, to—fuck—to love.
I belong here.
The thought hits like a sucker punch. I, Blake Bishop, genetic reject and professional disappointment, feel like I belong somewhere. With these people.
With him.
Which is why this morning finds me at my desk, staring at patrol schedules and defensive positions like they're nuclear launch codes.
My hand cramps around the pen as I diagram shift patterns, note weak points, document everything Kai needs to fuck over the people who've shown me nothing but kindness.
My stomach stages a full revolt. This is what selling your soul feels like—nauseating with a side of self-loathing.
But I'm nothing if not thorough. An hour later, I've got comprehensive notes that would make any military strategist weep with joy. Patrol routes, timing, blind spots, personnel assignments.
Everything needed to infiltrate or attack Bloodmoon territory.
I photograph the pages with shaking hands and send them to Kai. He answers on the third ring.
"About damn time. Starting to think you'd gone native."
If only he knew…
"The information is solid," I say, voice steady despite wanting to vomit. "Patrol patterns, defensive weaknesses, everything you asked for."
"Brilliant work." His approval makes my skin crawl. "Your parents will be thrilled. They're especially excited to see you during the merger negotiations next week."
Wait, what?
"Negotiations?" My voice cracks slightly.
"Both packs are meeting to discuss territorial expansion. Perfect opportunity for you to pass additional intel."
He chuckles like we're discussing brunch plans instead of betrayal.
"Luna Cassandra said to wear the blue dress. Makes you look more like Amelia, apparently."
The blue dress.
Because even from hundreds of miles away, they're still controlling every fucking detail.
"I have to go," I manage, ending the call before he can say anything else that makes me want to claw my own skin off.
The papers on my desk mock me with their precision. Every line is a betrayal. Every detail is another nail in the coffin of whatever Matthias and I have built.
I can't stand looking at them.
Ten minutes later, I'm deep in the forest, watching my careful documentation curl into ash. The smoke rises like my hopes of ever being a decent person—up in flames, baby.
The fire consumes everything: the maps, the schedules, my last shred of self-respect.
"That's an interesting hobby."
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Zack stands ten feet away, hands in his pockets, expression carefully neutral. But his eyes are already asking questions I can't answer.
"Zack." I force Amelia's serene smile, the one that says 'nothing to see here, just your Luna doing totally normal Luna things.' "You startled me."
"Sorry." He doesn't look sorry. He looks curious. "Everything okay? You're pretty far from the pack house."
The ashes at my feet feel like they're spelling out TRAITOR in 72-point font.
"Just..." Think, Blake. Think. "Burning some old journal entries. Personal stuff. Too heavy to keep carrying around."
His eyebrows raise slightly. "Journal entries?"
"Yeah." I warm to the lie because that's what I do—I lie and lie and lie until I can't remember what truth tastes like. "Sometimes I write about grief, about Blake… about things that hurt too much to revisit. Burning them is... cathartic. Like letting go."
Something in his expression shifts at my words.
"That's actually… kind of brilliant. You should share that at the women's circle. Therapeutic burning. Very modern mystic vibes." He pauses, then grins sheepishly. "Actually, I don't really know. I'm not a woman."
The unexpected humor breaks through my panic, and I laugh—actually laugh.
"Just admit it. You do the same thing, don't you?"
"Don't tell anyone." His grin turns conspiratorial. "I have a reputation to maintain."
I mime zipping my lips and throw away the key, winking for good measure. The moment feels easy, natural, like we're actual pack mates sharing secrets instead of me being a walking betrayal in designer jeans.
And I stare at the dying embers of my treachery. The evidence is destroyed, but the guilt remains, a constant companion that's moved into my chest and signed a long-term lease.
Next week. Merger negotiations. My parents.
The thought makes me want to run—not back to the pack house, but away. Far away. Somewhere Matthias's scent won’t haunt me. Somewhere I don't have to see the faces of people I'm systematically betraying.
Somewhere I can stop being Blake pretending to be Amelia pretending to care while actually caring too much.
But I can't run. Because despite everything, I made a promise to parents who never loved me. And Blake Bishop, professional disappointment, always keeps her promises.
Even when they're killing her.