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Karen approached from the side of the hall. One thick grilling glove protected her right hand despite the fact that she wasn’t carrying anything that I could see.

My attention caught on the glove. Then on the way she looked at Sloane.

Intent. Certainty.

I started toward them.

Karen stopped beside Sloane. “Could you hold something for me?” she asked.

Sloane remained focused on the children. “Sure.”

She held out a hand without looking.

With the gloved hand, Karen held something out in front of her.

A coin.

I knew what it was before Karen placed it in Sloane’s palm.

An old council marker.

Pure silver.

One of Grandpa’s generation had used them for formal votes and ceremonial exchanges. Wolves could tolerate indirect contact, but bare skin against untreated silver caused immediate pain. Blistering. Burns. Instinctive withdrawal.

Sloane’s fingers closed around the coin before I could stop her.

Nothing happened. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t drop it. She barely looked down.

Karen’s face blazed with triumph. “I knew it!”

The words cut across the lawn. Conversations stopped in pieces.

Sloane looked toward her. “What?”

Karen seized Sloane’s wrist and lifted her hand between them. The coin rested against her palm. Unmarked skin surrounded it. No redness. No burn. No pain.

My heart stopped. A suffocating cold slammed into my chest, knocking the air straight out of my lungs. My mind scrambled, frantically trying to rewrite physics, to force the silver to burn, to find any alternative explanation. But the unmarked skin stared back at me, ruthless and absolute. My wolf reeled, caught in a violent, agonizing collision between the fierce urge to shield Sloane from Karen’s cruel triumph and the devastating, crushing realization that the woman I loved had been lying to me from the very beginning.

“I knew it,” Karen repeated, louder this time. “I knew there was something wrong with you.”

The music continued for several seconds before someone killed it. Silence spread.

Sloane stared at the coin. Confusion came first. Real confusion. She looked at Karen, then at me. “What is this?”

I couldn’t answer. My mind had already moved backward through every moment.

Her missing scent. Her refusal to discuss shifting. Her years away.

Karen turned toward the family, still holding Sloane’s wrist. “She isn’t a wolf.” The words entered a silence so complete I could hear Sloane’s heart.

Fast. Panicked.

Human.

20

SLOANE