But he had no choice.

Who to frame, though? Whose life should I destroy? Lucky glanced around the Pack, keeping his face calm and disinterested despite the turmoil in his innards. Who am I going to sacrifice, just to keep myself and my lies safe and hidden?

One thing was so clear in his head it hurt: When the choice was made, he’d have to go ahead immediately. No more delays; no more excuses.

Maybe that was why he was putting off the moment of decision. But it didn’t matter how often his eyes roamed the other dogs: The choice had been obvious from the start.

Mulch.

Mulch was a known food-stealer. Mulch had pawed selfishly at that rabbit, had tried to sneak an extra portion out of turn. No one would be very surprised if it was Mulch who stole a mouthful or two of deer before it was time to eat. And horribly, Lucky was already plotting the details of his deception. Mulch had long, shiny black hair, distinctive among the others of the Pack. There were already strands of it all over his new sleeping-place among the patrol dogs, but even better—or worse—there were still plenty of them in the hunter’s den. The very bed Lucky now slept in was lined with Mulch’s molted hairs. How hard could it be to transfer some of those long rippling strands to the deer’s pale-gold hide?

How hard can it be, Lucky?

Lucky closed his eyes and shoved his nose beneath his paws, feeling sick. He tried to remember how unfriendly Mulch had been to him since he arrived, but it was no good: He still couldn’t bear to think of what he was about to do to an innocent dog.

Strangely enough, what he was about to do to the Pack seemed even worse. He was going to betray their trust, to sow resentment and hatred, to lie to his Packmates. He was more like them than he’d ever known before he began this game of Bella’s. He respected them, liked them, trusted them with his life each day . . .

I can’t do it. I CAN’T.

But I must, a small, cowardly voice inside him whispered. I have to do this, or I’ll die.

A great sigh escaped from the depths of his belly. He wasn’t just doing this for his own survival—he was doing it to help the Leashed Dogs. He opened his eyes again to gaze around at the Pack.

They’re not like me; they’re NOT. I don’t care. I’m a Lone Dog and I always will be. I survive. That’s what I do.

It comes down to one thing. Do I want to go back to being who I really am? Or do I want to give all that up, to be a Pack Dog, to be like Fiery, or Snap, or Sweet . . .

Or Omega.

Lucky shivered. No, he couldn’t be lulled into Pack life, just for the fun of a group hunt on a warm evening, or the bone-deep thrill of a Great Howl. Omega could not be allowed to tell his secret; he had to survive, to escape, to be Lucky again. Whatever he had to do must be done. That was all.