A Female Alpha’s Revenge novel Chapter 678

**TITLE: Novel Male 678**

**Chapter 678**

**Third Person’s POV**

The moment Mallory’s investigation team set foot on the Bloodmoon Pack’s territory, an unsettling weight enveloped the air, making it feel almost tangible. The atmosphere was perpetually cold, heavy with an oppressive silence that seemed to echo the unspoken fears and buried secrets of the pack. As the forensic werewolf officers crossed the threshold of the main house, they were immediately struck by the acrid blend of emotions that hung in the air—fear, anger, and a pervasive sense of guilt that clung to the walls like a second skin.

As they began their inquiries into Tamara’s “character before death,” the responses they gathered painted a disjointed portrait of the she-wolf, revealing a kaleidoscope of opinions that reflected the complex tapestry of her existence.

Gloria, her voice sharp as a knife, interjected with a disdainful huff, “She was nothing but selfish and lazy, acting as if the world owed her a debt. It was infuriating!” Her words dripped with contempt, each syllable a testament to her disdain.

Ulrik, his voice strained and hesitant, countered, “It wasn’t all bad… she had her moments of understanding. She just lacked the will to stand up for herself.” There was a hint of defensiveness in his tone, as if he were trying to justify a friend’s failings.

Rosemary, venom lacing her tone, spat out, “Her? A vicious, cunning, lazy, and greedy wolf! She tarnished the Bloodmoon Pack’s name beyond repair! Honestly, her death is no loss to anyone!” Her words were like daggers, aimed to wound.

Velda, typically reclusive, stepped out of her self-imposed isolation to declare, “It had nothing to do with me.” Her statement was curt, leaving no room for interpretation.

The omegas, their eyes glistening with unshed tears, lamented, “She was kind-hearted, just too soft. She never fought back when others bullied her.” Their voices were a chorus of sorrow, echoing the pain of a life unfulfilled.

Vanya, her voice trembling with emotion, gasped through her tears, “She was a poor, miserable she-wolf who never lived the life she truly wanted.” Her words resonated with a deep-seated empathy, reflecting a shared understanding of unspoken struggles.

Amidst the cacophony of voices, only Simon, her mate, remained eerily silent, his stillness so profound it felt like the temperature around him had dropped. The officers pressed him for five long minutes, but he was lost in a fog of memories, unable to articulate a single coherent thought. All that surfaced were fragmented images—Tamara coming home drunk, her gentle hands steadying him, wiping the sweat from his brow with an old, tattered towel. She had always kept her head down, never prying into his life, always careful to remain unobtrusive. When she cared for others, her scent was faint, almost as if she had tried to erase her very presence from the world.

Who was she, really? The question gnawed at him, and he found himself unable to answer.

Given Tamara’s previous suicide attempt, the investigation team was compelled to delve into her mental and behavioral profile. The results they uncovered were stark and unyielding: she had succumbed to despair, her life extinguished by the weight of prolonged emotional abuse.

Yet, the Royal Werewolf Law was mercilessly clear on one critical point: for abuse to be classified as a crime, it had to result in “physical damage.” Tamara had endured two slaps and had been forced to kneel for hours—a reality that, in the eyes of the law, was merely an “internal family conflict.” It did not meet the legal definition of “abuse.”

The law could not touch the Bloodmoon Pack, but the outrage of the public was a force that required no legal justification. Across the city, thousands of werewolves donned anonymous scent blockers, rallying against the Bloodmoon Pack. The whispers of dissent flowed from the highest echelons of the Palace to the street patrols, igniting a fire of fury that could not be quenched.

Within the Bloodmoon Pack, it felt as if a collective burden had been thrust upon their shoulders, rendering them incapable of lifting their heads in pride. Yet, this ancient and obstinate pack had weathered storms before, and they had emerged intact.

Tamara’s funeral was an exercise in silence. It was so hushed that it felt as though she had never existed at all.

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