The woman who left White Moon died the moment she crossed the border.
The one who remained?
She was something else.
Something colder.
Something emptier.
Bella walked alone for days, moving through the dense forests, across forgotten towns, through places that smelled like blood and rot and death.
She never stopped.
Never looked back.
Because there was nothing to return to.
She had felt it.
The mate bond breaking.
Dante's rage. His grief.
She had felt it all.
And she hadn't turned around.
Because she had chosen this.
Chosen to burn away whatever was left of the girl she used to be.
And the fire inside her?
It was still burning.
It wanted more.
So Bella let it.
Let it consume her.
Let it turn her into something else.
And by the time she reached the next town—she was no longer running from the monster inside her.
She had become it.