What Exactly Are You Good Gor?

POV：Sera

Drip.

Blood ran down my fingers and struck the cold marble floor of Main Manor's Great Hall, soaking into the Moonstone Tapestry spread beneath me.

I knelt on the hard stone, cradling the trembling little raven against my chest. Ash's heart — smaller than my thumb — hammered as though it might burst through his ribs.

"Have you lost your mind?" Lydia's voice rang through the empty Great Hall, sharper even than her claws. "You'd ruin the most precious thing Alpha owns — for a filthy animal like this?" Her Wolf Claw hadn't fully retracted; scraps of my skin still clung to the edges of her nails.

Minutes ago, when she had raised those claws under the pretext of punishing me for damaging a sacred relic, my only instinct had been to throw out my hands. The price was what I was looking at now: palms torn open, bone showing through the ruin of flesh.

"Step aside, Luna." Lydia looked down at me. As both Damien's most devoted admirer — someone he treated like a younger sister — and the pack's Beta, she had never once spoken my title with anything resembling respect.

The Great Hall had filled without my noticing. Someone let out a low whistle, the kind you'd give a dog performing a trick. A few muffled laughs broke out nearby, cut short when an elbow found someone's ribs, then swelled into something louder. From the shadows to my left, a voice pitched itself just loud enough for me to catch: "…staying close to something that cursed — she's not afraid of a bad omen?"

"Look at our Luna. Can't even shift — of course she belongs with a crow."

"Ruined Alpha's treasure and couldn't even dodge a Beta's strike. Pathetic."

No one moved. No one intervened. More than twenty pairs of eyes gleamed faintly in the dim wall sconces — that particular phosphorescent shimmer unique to wolf pupils — and my eyes would never shine like that.

I ignored the murmuring and worked my blood-slicked right hand into the folds of my clothing until my fingers closed around the Reagent Bottle. Inside was a concentrated Evening Primrose Essence I had distilled across countless sleepless nights. As someone born unable to Shift — not quite Omega, not quite anything the pack had a name for — I had poured every hour I might have spent running beneath the moon into herbalism and healing magic instead. My knowledge of pharmacology had long surpassed the pack's Healer. The years that should have belonged to the moonlit forest I had given, entirely, to the mortar and the old texts. It was the only value I had ever been able to offer this pack — or myself.

I bit the cork free and let the liquid fall onto Ash's broken wing. Where it touched the wound, flesh began to knit itself closed at a visible pace.

A hand shot out and seized my wrist, wrenching the bottle away without ceremony. "Wasting medicine this good on a creature like that? What is wrong with you?" Lydia snatched the bottle and stood over me. "Stop wasting pack resources," she said pleasantly, and as she spoke, she raised one foot and brought the pointed heel of her boot down — deliberately, precisely — onto the back of my bleeding hand.

"Ngh—" I bit down on my lip until I tasted iron, swallowing the cry before it could leave my throat. Several fragments of Moonstone scattered from the tapestry were ground, under that heel, directly into my flesh.

Quiet laughter moved through the onlookers. No one stopped her. Because an Omega, the consensus seemed to be, was simply worth less than the tapestry Seraphina had left behind.

The heavy oak double doors of the Great Hall exploded inward.

The temperature dropped as if a window had been thrown open in winter. A wave of Pine-scented pheromone — violent, suffocating — swept through the hall like a gale, and every high-ranking wolf who had been watching the spectacle a moment before collapsed with a choked grunt, knees cracking against the obsidian floor. Submission was written into their bones. The Great Hall went absolutely silent except for the ragged sound of labored breathing.

Alpha had returned.

For me — unable to Shift, impossible to classify, belonging to this pack in legal terms only — the pressure was psychological rather than physical. I used the moment, pressed my palm flat against the floor, and gave Ash a push. He beat his half-healed wings and vanished into the dark beyond the windows.

I stayed where I was, kneeling, and looked up at the man who had just walked through the doors.

Damien.

He was in black tactical gear, and his frame was broad enough to blot out the light behind him. He wasn't looking at the ruined Moonstone Tapestry on the floor. His bloodshot amber eyes were fixed on my hands, still dripping, and the muscle along his jaw stood out hard and tight.

"Who gave any of you the nerve," he said, his voice quiet in a way that made the room feel smaller, "to let your Luna bleed on my land?"

Not a single person answered. Lydia lay flat against the floor, shaking like a leaf in wind.

Damien stepped over the prostrate bodies without looking at them, closed his hand around my arm with a grip that threatened bone, and scooped up the blood-stained Moonstone Tapestry from the floor. He threw it around me the way you'd throw a drop cloth over something, careless and thorough, and half-carried me out of the hall and down the corridor. He kicked the master bedroom door open, brought me inside, and slammed it shut behind us. The lock turned.

The moment it clicked, the savage Alpha aura simply ceased.

His large frame lurched, and had I not caught him in time, he would have gone to his knees. Only then, with the heavy Pine scent beginning to thin, did I register what had been underneath it all along: the smell of blood — his blood. The negotiation at the Border with the Ironridge pack had clearly gone somewhere well past talking.

His arm tightened around my waist, nearly painful. His nose dropped to the Gland at the side of my neck, lips grazing the skin there. I felt his canines move slowly across the place where a mark would go. His entire body was trembling.

"Sera…"

His voice was hoarse against my ear, barely held together. I had already begun to raise my hand toward his back — some reflex toward comfort — when the rest of it reached me.

"Phina…"

My hand stopped in the air.

Seraphina. My sister. Phina was what Damien had always called her, and from the night he first took me to his bed, he had called me that too. I had never once misunderstood what he was asking for. He wanted to keep my sister forever. He wanted me to be her stand-in.

And the ones who despised me had learned to call me by his mistake — not out of carelessness, but because they understood, better than he ever would, what it actually meant. It was not a nickname. It was his confusion handed down as a slur.

I had stopped correcting him a long time ago. Correcting someone lost inside a ghost is crueler than correcting someone who is only pretending to sleep — and considerably more humiliating.

My stillness, and whatever my scent was doing in that moment, reached him through the fog. Wolves are terrifyingly attuned to a mate's slightest change in feeling. Damien's eyes opened, and he pulled back as though he'd touched something scalding — every trace of vulnerability and longing gone from his face in under half a second.

He shoved me away. I stumbled back two steps and caught the edge of the dresser to keep from falling. The Moonstone Tapestry slipped from my shoulders with the movement, and in the pale wash of moonlight through the window, Damien finally saw clearly what was draped around me — the tapestry Seraphina had left him, the one now split by a long, clean tear.

The slap landed hard across my right cheek. My head snapped to the side. My ears rang. A faint sweetness spread across my tongue.

Damien stood before me, chest heaving. The internal injuries he'd been suppressing had caught up with him; a thin line of blood had appeared at the corner of his mouth.

I turned my face slightly away and let my hair fall forward over the smile I couldn't quite suppress — the bitter, private kind that had nowhere else to go.

"You know what that was." His voice came out ground down to almost nothing, hatred and helplessness wound together in every word. "The only thing she left me. You couldn't protect it — you can't even Shift. Phina, what exactly are you good for?"

The words seemed to spend the last of him. He sank onto the velvet sofa and did not get up.