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When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
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Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below. | I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below. | I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below. | I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below. | I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below. | I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below. | I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
A few cut postcards, neatly framed yet quietly unruly — 'Six Short Stories in Search of an Author' pieces together fragments of places, memories, and half-told tales. Each clipped postcard feels deliberate, as though the stories have been interrupted mid-sentence, waiting for someone to stitch them back together. It’s less a finished narrative and more a puzzle of possibilities, all searching for the author who might finally make sense of them. Work by Jack Milroy on view at Shapero Modern. #ShaperoModern #ArtGallery #ModernAndContemporaryArt #LondonArtGallery
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
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They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
I'm a hand therapist, and I'm about to say something that's going to make a lot of GPs angry. If your doctor told you to "just stop knitting" because of thumb pain, you were given incomplete advice. And it's probably making your problem worse. My name is Dr Simmons. I'm a hand therapist. I've spent years treating hand and wrist conditions, and in the last five years the fastest-growing group of patients I see is women who knit. Not weekend hobbyists. Serious, lifelong knitters. Women in their 50s, 60s, 70s who knit the way other people meditate or pray. It's how they decompress. For many of them it's the only time their mind actually goes quiet. And nearly every single one comes to me after seeing another doctor who told them the same thing. "Stop knitting. Wear this brace. Take ibuprofen. Come back in six weeks." That advice isn't wrong. But it is dangerously incomplete. And the gap between what these women are told and what they actually need to know is wrecking their hands and their quality of life. Here's what I see in my clinic every week. Two types of women. Both suffering. Both following their doctor's advice. Both getting worse in different ways. The first type listened. She stopped knitting completely. Wore the wrist brace every night. Rested for weeks, sometimes months. The sharp pain faded. But she never went back. She's sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a heavy sadness she can't quite explain. She tells me she feels ridiculous for being this upset about a "hobby." She avoids her yarn. She avoids her knitting basket. Some of these women are showing signs of genuine depression. The second type couldn't stop. She tried. But knitting is her emotional regulation, and without it she started unravelling. So she continues to knit. And the pain keeps coming back because she's knitting without any real support at the place the pain actually lives. She's caught in a cycle of hurting and resting. Both of these women are failed by the same gap in their treatment. Let me explain what that gap is. Because once you understand it, you'll immediately see why everything you've tried so far has failed. Knitting does something to your thumb that almost no other daily activity does. Every stitch requires a small, precise motion between your thumb and the needle. You grip, adjust, tension, release. And you repeat that motion hundreds of times in a single sitting. But the real problem isn't just repetition. It's what's happening inside the tendons that run along the side of your thumb. Two thin tendons run from the side of your wrist along the edge of your thumb. They sit inside a narrow tunnel called the tendon sheath. When your thumb moves normally — forward, backward, gripping a cup of tea — those tendons slide cleanly through the sheath. No friction. No catching. But knitting doesn't just move those tendons forward and backward. The stitching motion shifts them slightly sideways inside the sheath. So instead of gliding straight through, the tendons start rubbing against the inner walls. Flick. Stitch. Flick. Stitch. Hundreds of times an hour. Thousands of times across a long evening on the sofa. If you watch your own thumb the next time you knit, you can see this happening. The thumb isn't just bending. It's making tiny shifting movements with every stitch. Almost no other daily activity forces your thumb to repeat that same movement this many times in a row. Typing uses your thumbs differently. Cooking uses your grip differently. Even texting doesn't shift the tendons inside the sheath the way knitting does. And every time the tendon rubs the inside wall of that sheath, it creates a tiny bit of irritation. At first you don't notice it. But over time the inside of the sheath becomes inflamed. It swells inward. The space gets tighter. Now the tendons can't glide smoothly anymore. They start dragging against the swollen walls. Rubbing. Catching. Snagging. That is the clicking you feel. That is the deep ache at the base of your thumb. That is De Quervain's tenosynovitis — and for women in their 60s and 70s, it often sits alongside the arthritis at the base of the thumb that menopause and the years have already started. This is the part most knitters never get told. Knitting itself isn't the issue. The real issue is a lack of stability at the base of the thumb. Those tendons keep shifting sideways inside an already-irritated sheath. Every single session. And until something holds them steady, the rubbing continues and the inflammation builds straight back up. Compression gloves squeeze the whole hand evenly. They take the edge off general fatigue, but they don't hold the tendons steady at the place the rubbing is happening. The rigid wrist brace your GP handed you stabilises your wrist. But the moment you sit down to knit, the tendons are still shifting sideways inside the sheath under every stitch. So the rubbing continues. That's why rest helps temporarily but the pain comes right back. When you rest, the swelling inside the sheath calms down. But the moment you return to knitting, the side-to-side shifting starts again, and the irritation builds straight back up. It's not because you knit too much. It's because nothing is holding those tendons steady where they need to be held. So what actually works? Stabilising the base of the thumb where the tendons sit. That means firm, targeted support directly over the sheath. Not a brace that locks your wrist. Not a glove that squeezes everything equally. A device built to hold the one place that needs holding — while leaving your four fingers and your wrist completely free to knit. Because once the tendons stop shifting under pressure, the inside of the sheath has a chance to settle. The deep ache fades. And the cycle breaks. Most thumb supports on the market are designed for sports injuries, workplace injuries, or post-surgical recovery. They are not designed for knitters. They don't account for the specific motion your thumb needs to make during a stitch. They either restrict too much so you can't actually knit, or they miss the right place entirely. The brace I helped design — The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser — was built specifically for knitting, crocheting, hand-sewing, embroidery. It was built around the exact thumb motion these activities demand. It puts firm support directly over the base of the thumb while preserving the full range of motion your thumb needs for every stitch. The four fingers stay free. The wrist stays free. The one place that needs holding gets held. That is why it works where generic braces and gloves do not. It was designed for the problem knitters actually have. If you stopped knitting and you're sitting at home in the evenings with empty hands and a feeling you can't quite name, you are not being dramatic. You did the right thing by resting. But rest only calms the swelling. It doesn't hold the tendons steady when you go back. You deserve both halves of the answer. And if you couldn't stop — if you knit after everyone goes to bed and feel guilty about it — you are not weak. The problem is not that you keep knitting. The problem is that nothing has been holding the base of your thumb steady. Fix that one thing, and the cycle breaks. I've linked The Knitter's Hand Stabiliser below.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
Chapter 1 A Shifter School Elodie's POV Silver Eclipse doesn’t operate like any ordinary school. It belongs to shifters—seething with adolescent hormones, ruled by a social order where cheerleaders and football players sit at the top, and everyone else scrambles for scraps below. And then there’s me. I rank lower than an omega, hunted daily by those superior beings who run the halls. The teachers turn their backs, too afraid of losing status or position if they step in. I survive alone in a world that punishes weakness and never lets you forget what you are. I move through the familiar corridors, my long brown ponytail swinging behind me, eyes scanning constantly for the next threat. The school day bleeds toward its end and I’ve somehow avoided any attack—a rare victory. But I still haven’t crossed paths with darling, precious Riona of the Ruina Hollow Pack, the Alpha’s daughter and cruelty dressed up as a homecoming queen. No secret exists between us. We’ve despised each other since childhood. I can’t stomach people who lack compassion, especially toward those who have nothing. I reach for my locker door to shut it when soft footsteps creep up behind me. A grim smile touches my mouth. I dodge left—just in time—and the metal door slams against empty air instead of crushing my hand. In the same motion, I spin and drive my elbow hard into my attacker’s gut. He doubles over, wheezing. “Ouch.” The groan belongs to none other than Karson, captain of the football team. I smirk and kick him in the shin for good measure. He hisses, his eyes bleeding toward black with rage. “Bitch,” he growls, straightening until he towers over me, contempt etched across his face. I lift an eyebrow and let my gaze drag slowly over him as his fists clench. “Interesting. I’m not the one standing there in pain, bitch,” I fire back. “Maybe reconsider your choice of words.” He slams his palm against the locker beside me, glaring. I stay still. Composed. Nothing infuriates him more than discovering his caveman act doesn’t make me flinch. “You’re nothing but a useless, pathetic mutt,” he snarls, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth. I shrug, indifferent. I’ve survived worse words than his. “Then why waste your time on me?” I taunt, offering him a wide grin as his control finally cracks. His hand strikes the locker again before he storms off, muttering under his breath. I choke back a laugh. A small crowd has gathered; they study me with quiet condemnation, whispering and exchanging glances, no doubt casting me as the villain who tormented poor Karson. I return my books to the locker and close it, turning the lock with care. The weekend stretches ahead, and I’ll spend every hour of it slaving inside the Ruina Hollow packhouse. I force the bitterness down. I need the money if I ever plan to escape this miserable hellhole. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and head outside, crossing the carpark with quick strides, my threadbare sneakers carrying me toward escape. Chaos swirls around me—cars peel onto the road, eager students racing toward freedom, while the cheerleaders and football players linger in clusters, trading gossip. “Oy, loser.” The voice hits me from behind. My heart stutters. The gate sits only feet away. I almost made it. I take another step. “Mutt,” she screams. My body stiffens. I turn, resigned. I should have known today’s peace couldn’t last. Riona stands encircled by her posse, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder and giggling at whatever expression she finds on my face. She performs for her audience, every gesture calculated. I roll my eyes and let boredom settle over my features. She looks triumphant as she waits. Sipping her coke, she fiddles with the straw and steps closer, flanked by two cheerleaders who wrinkle their noses like they smell something foul. “Whatever you want, say it faster,” I snap. “I have to get back to the packhouse.” I glance at my battered wristwatch, letting dismay show. “Oh, am I delaying the poor little slave omega?” Riona drips sarcasm, and the crowd around her laughs on cue. “Whatever.” My voice drops low. “I’m too busy for this shit.” I turn my back and instantly feel her grip clamp around my arm, nails pinching deep into flesh. A bruise already blooms beneath her fingers. “Let go, Riona,” I warn through clenched teeth, anger climbing hot and fast. Her eyes widen. “Or what, Elodie?” She sounds gleeful. “What’s a pathetic, wolfless shifter going to do? My parents will punish you regardless.” She scoffs. I know they will. I try once more to reach whatever reason she might possess. “Please let go.” I speak each word slowly, deliberately. She digs her nails in deeper. I stare back, face stone. Disappointment flickers across her features at my lack of reaction, and she releases my arm with a huff. “You know,” she says, her tone breezy and conversational, “I don’t understand why my father didn’t just kill you when you were a child. But I do know this—if you don’t shift by eighteen, the pack will throw you out. We can’t keep someone useless.” She delivers it like casual cruelty comes naturally to her. “Can’t keep someone who can’t defend herself.” A slow smile spreads across my face. “So what if they do?” Her shock registers immediately. “Any pack besides this one sounds like an upgrade.” “How can you be so ungrateful?” She hisses, indignation flashing in her eyes. “Ungrateful?” I echo the word. “I serve a pack that starves me, beats me, humiliates me every single day—and you think I should feel grateful?” I sneer. “You’re exactly as stupid as you look.” She reacts without thinking, flinging her drink full into my face. The liquid soaks me, trailing cold down my clothes. A shout tears out of me. My temper snaps completely, consequences be damned. “You’re nothing but a spoiled, rotten little bitch, Riona Corvyn!” My voice carries across the carpark; students freeze and gape, watching the scene explode before them. “If your parents weren’t the Alpha and Luna, nobody would protect you—and everyone would finally have the guts to tell you exactly what a horrible human being you are. You think you’re untouchable? Wait until the real world gets its hands on you. Let’s see how far being the Alpha’s daughter gets you when rogues attack or a battlefield looms. I hope you die, you arrogant little bitch,” I scream. “And I hope you rot in hell.” I flip her off and spin around, my backpack shoved over my shoulder as I stomp toward the gate. Students scatter out of my path. “You’ll—you’ll pay for this,” Riona gasps, finally finding her voice. I throw a narrow-eyed glance over my shoulder, still seething. “Go run to your mummy and daddy. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” “Fuck you, Elodie!” Her voice splits the air, shrill and piercing. I laugh. “No thanks. You’re not my type.” And I leave her there, spluttering and screaming obscenities at my back. The second my boots touch the pack house floor, Alpha Renwick’s voice cuts through the air, summoning me straight to his study. A quiet exhale tugs at my chest. I know exactly what waits behind that closed door. Riona beats me home without a doubt, rushing to her parents to whine and twist every detail of our run-in into a petty grievance. I drop my bag beside the entrance, shoulders set, and march toward the third floor. The study’s halls are familiar; I linger there often, always for some pointless, manufactured trouble. I pause outside the door, rap my knuckles once against the wood, and roll my eyes behind my lashes. Another round of her fabricated lies unfolds ahead. I wonder what sob story she spins this time, if she feigns fresh tears to sway her father. Riona is a natural performer, I’ll grant her that much. It’s a shame her parents never see through every hollow act she puts on. “Come in.” Alpha Renwick’s tone is sharp, unyielding. I push the door open, step inside soundlessly, and seal it shut at my back. My head dips in a formal, obligatory nod. “Alpha Renwick.” I hold no foolish delusions to disregard pack authority. He holds every shred of power here; he can break me apart in an instant, and no soul in the territory dares intervene. I purposefully ignore Riona, perched in a chair off to the side, her expression thick with smug satisfaction. Alpha Renwick’s eyes narrow into sharp, unforgiving slits where they lock onto mine. My jaw tightens, bracing for the inevitable. The one-sided interrogation kicks off now. He clears his throat, the sound heavy with unspoken censure. “Did you insult Riona and humiliate her in front of the entire school crowd?” he demands flatly. Chapter 2 In the Pack House Elodie's POV I flick a quick glance toward Riona. Her features soften at once into a solemn, wounded mask. I steady my demeanor, keeping every flicker of irritation off my face. “Not the entire crowd,” I reply evenly, tone unrushed. “It was well after the final bell rang.” His brow darkens, anger creeping into his posture, and I hold my ground, calm and unwavering. “I never mean to shame your daughter, Alpha Renwick.” Every word rings true—until she chooses to needle me first, pushing every boundary I hold. Riona sits straighter the second his gaze flicks to her, quick to interject. “She’s lying through her teeth. She targets me on purpose, hurls cruel names, knowing I cannot fight back without facing consequences.” Alpha Renwick’s scowl deepens, sharp and unforgiving. “Did you call her a crude, degrading name?” he presses, voice dropping low with stern disapproval. I have no room to deny it. I sift through the sharp exchange earlier, clear that I snap that insult and harsher words besides. She earns every last one with her reckless, loose behavior, but I know better than to voice that truth to her father. No parent bears hearing such ugly truths about their child. The man likely still believes his daughter stays innocent and untouched. A harsh reality waits to shatter that illusion someday. I hold no judgment toward women owning their own autonomy, but flaunting and gossiping about intimate encounters crosses every line of basic decency. I tilt my head in unapologetic acknowledgment. “I did speak that word to her, Alpha Renwick.” I answer without fuss, without guilt. It makes no difference what I say; he will always side with his daughter over a stray like me. Shock flashes across his face, as if he expects me to argue, to twist the truth, to beg for leniency. “She cursed me, told me to burn in hell,” Riona cuts in sharply, then drags her voice into a dramatic, tearful wail. “She screamed so many other awful things too.” The Alpha lifts a hand, cutting her theatrics short. “Enough, Riona.” His snarl brooks no pushback. “I am granting Elodie the courtesy of speaking for herself.” I meet his gaze head-on, unflinching. “She throws a full cup of coke all over me first. I lose my temper after that.” I state it plainly, detached, no extra emotion laced in my voice. Alpha Renwick freezes, caught off guard by the plain admission. “That’s a lie!” Riona shrieks, rising half out of her seat. “She’s making up excuses to save herself right now.” “Believe whatever you wish,” I retort dryly, sharp edge in my tone. “We all know your mind is already made up regardless.” “Elodie Raelen.” The Alpha’s voice drops to a dangerous hiss. “You will speak with proper respect, or you will regret the outcome.” I press my lip between my teeth, holding back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Frustration bleeds thick across his features. Riona surges to her feet, urgent and indignant. “Father, you cannot truly believe her over me! You know she thrives on trouble. She’s hated me for months, and she makes it obvious to everyone around us. Ask her—she won’t even deny it.” The Alpha pins me with a heavy, grave stare. “Do you harbor hatred for Riona?” He waits, impatient, demanding a direct answer. I blink, feigning genuine confusion. “Is there any reason I should not?” Riona lets out a triumphant, mocking laugh. “There! You hear that? I told you so!” Alpha Renwick slams both palms hard against his desk, the sound echoing loud through the room. “I said enough, Riona.” His roar shakes the air. Her face bleeds pale, and she falls instantly silent. I fight the tiny, satisfied smirk tugging at my mouth, keeping my expression neutral. His eyes turn dark, challenging, as he studies me without mercy. “We have given you chance after chance to integrate into this pack with honor. We feed you, clothe you, house you. We grant you steady work and steady pay. We even ease your training requirements, out of quiet consideration for your fragile medical condition.” My muscles stiffen at the pause in his words, at the thinly veiled pity in his tone. “Most packs show zero mercy toward weak members like you. They cast strays out as outcasts, or eliminate those who cannot fight to defend their kind. Yet you spit on our kindness at every turn. You defy our rules. You dismiss every favor we extend to you.” His voice turns icy, unforgiving. I stand silent, absorbing every cold word. I know this lecture by heart. I am meant to bow in gratitude for ragged secondhand garments, for meager scraps of food that barely sustain a child, for endless omega labor that drains me from sunrise to sunset. My so-called salary only circles back to pay for those threadbare clothes and stale rations. The bitter irony stings sharp. Survival should be a birthright, not a reward I have to beg for. “Your blatant disrespect and disdain for this pack will no longer be tolerated.” He snarls the words while I stand mute, unbroken. “A few days alone in the dungeon will teach you how fortunate you truly are. You will reflect on how much kinder we are than other ruthless packs, who would never grant you such grace. When you are released, you will apologize to Riona without argument.” He finishes with a sharp, scowling glare. I scoff internally, silent and unyielding. I will never apologize to her. I’d rot in the dungeon first before I bow and beg that girl for forgiveness. He lifts an eyebrow, sensing my unspoken defiance. Riona stifles a giddy giggle, then flinches when he shoots her a cold, cutting look that silences her at once. A fog drifts over his eyes, and I recognize the shift at once—he mind-links the pack warriors to come collect me. “Riona, you may leave.” He waves her off. She huffs a quiet, disappointed whine, robbed of the full spectacle of my punishment. “You’ve witnessed her reckoning. Go tend to something worthwhile now.” She scowls deep but obeys, lowering her neck in submission to her father before walking out. She glares daggers at me over her shoulder; I offer a cold, tight smile in return. She leaves the door ajar. Two pack warriors step into the doorway at once. Alpha Renwick jerks his chin toward me, gaze heavy and unkind. “Take her to the dungeons.” His voice is gruff, final. “You know the protocol.” One warrior strides forward, fingers clamping tight around my upper arm. The grip bites hard, already bruising my skin beneath the fabric. I refuse to flinch, refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I offer no resistance as they yank me toward the door, their pull so brutal it nearly dislocates my shoulder. The Alpha watches every second, never lifting a finger to curb their harsh handling. The second warrior shoves my back hard as we trudge toward the stairs leading down to the basement cells. “Useless mutt,” the warrior behind me snarls, shoving me again. I stumble forward, barely catching myself before I slam face-first into the floor. I straighten my spine, unbowed, and grip the stair railing tight when another shove comes. I descend the dungeon stairs fast, controlling my pace to stop them from sending me tumbling down the concrete steps. At the bottom landing, the first warrior seizes my arm again, marches me to the nearest cell, and shoves me inside without mercy. I crash down onto a thin, worn mattress, frayed at every edge. He slams the cell door shut and spits on the ground, the saliva narrowly missing my shoulder. I twist my face into a grimace of disgust. “Pathetic, weak waste of space,” he sneers, staring at me with unmasked contempt. The second warrior barks out a cruel laugh. “We ought to put you down and leave you here to rot.” I hold his stare, stone-faced and unshaken. He glares a moment longer, then turns on his heel and storms away, leaving one guard to stand watch outside my cell. I settle back on the thin mattress and close my eyes. They think cold punishment will break my spirit. They think isolation will strip me of my pride. They think they can carve me into the obedient, docile puppet they crave. But they are wrong. No torture, no cruelty, no harsh judgment will ever bend me. I stay Elodie Raelen, unbroken, unapologetic, an orphan with a steady, unyielding pride. I will never, not in a lifetime, call this cruel Ruina Hollow pack my home. Chapter 3 Keep Alive Elodie's POV The guard keeps his eyes fixed on me as I lie motionless on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I offer him nothing—no discomfort, no fear—just the heavy stillness of someone bored past caring. I know it eats at him. The second guard has disappeared; probably fetching food, I figure. My stomach growls, and I rub it without thinking. Eventually they'll toss me stale bread or some such consolation, though I can't guess when. They might not wish to keep me alive, but they fear Alpha Renwick's fury too much to let him find my corpse. Cowards. I roll onto my side and let out a long breath. The dungeon door groans open, and my body goes rigid. At first I assume it's only the missing guard returning, but then I catch two distinct sets of footsteps approaching, and I prick my ears. I sniff the air. Wolf or no wolf, my hearing remains sharp, my sense of smell keen—I can still untangle pack scents from one another. A groan escapes me when Riona's cloying floral stench floods the space. What brings her down here? Come to gloat, no doubt. I scowl. If she expects to provoke me, she's in for disappointment. I push myself upright and peer through the bars. Riona and the guards huddle close, voices dropped so low even I can't catch a syllable. I watch them, narrow-eyed. The blond guard lunges toward the cell door and wrenches it open before I can process what's happening. He tackles me to the ground before I can move or fight back, forcing my arms behind my back as I finally start to thrash. The other guard advances and lowers the long chain dangling from the ceiling. Cuffs snap around my wrists. Then they haul me upward and hook me onto the chain. They smirk. I press my lips into a thin line. So this is the game, I think, biting down on my lip. Riona means to exceed what little authority she possesses as the Alpha's daughter. The chain pulls taut. My legs dangle well above the ground, arms stretched so brutally I nearly feel my shoulders tear from their sockets. I swallow the scream clawing up my throat. Riona saunters into the cell, a heavy leather whip cradled in her hands. She smirks. I glare back, stone-faced, refusing to offer even a flicker of fear. I jerk my body toward her, and she stumbles backward, just beyond reach. "My father might not have seen fit to punish you," she purrs, "but that doesn't tie my hands." I spit. It lands on her clothes, and she shrieks, scrubbing at the fabric like I've soiled her very soul. "You're disgusting," she cries. One of the guards steps forward and backhands me across the face. My head snaps sideways from the blow, blood welling hot and metallic on my lip. I narrow my eyes at all of them. "You do realize this is illegal," I hiss, and then I kick out, connecting squarely with the blond guard's groin. Satisfaction floods through me. He doubles over, cupping himself, fury twisting his features. "You bitch," he howls, and the other guard drives a fist deep into my stomach. I wince, swinging wildly from the chain. Riona glares. She turns to the guard still upright and jerks her chin toward me. "Rip her shirt off," she commands, voice flat as ice. I brace. Claws slice through fabric—shirt and bra together—leaving my skin bare before them. I stare at the three of them, daring them to continue. I will not cry. I will not beg them to cover me. My silence burns through Riona. She screams in frustration and brandishes the whip. She circles behind me. "God, I hate you," she snarls. The whip cracks. Fire erupts across my back—a pain so immense I can only hiss through clenched teeth, fighting for breath. She strikes again, and my spine arches involuntarily. I grind my molars and endure. My refusal to make a sound only feeds her rage. The guards stand back, eyes wide, watching her unspool her fury across my skin. Each stroke splits flesh; blood spatters the floor. Whack, whack, whack. She delivers the blows in rapid succession, each harder than the last. I force the air from my lungs, battling the tears. I've been whipped before. But never by her hand. It's illegal—Riona has no right to punish anyone before she officially becomes Alpha. My body trembles with the effort of holding the scream inside. My eyes sting, tears threatening to betray me, but I refuse to let them fall. Whack, whack. She doesn't relent. The whip cracks again and again until I feel flayed open, blood pulsing from the wounds. Control begins to slip. The agony claws at my composure, the room tilting and swimming. My vision blurs. My breaths come shallow. "Scream, damn you!" she shrieks, her voice bouncing off stone. "Scream and beg me to stop!" I clamp my jaw tighter. She pants now, exhausted by her own violence. The guards exchange nervous glances. My heart hammers—and then begins to slow. I wheeze. Panic spikes through me as instinct recognizes what's coming. "Stop." The blond guard's voice cracks with alarm. He steps closer, studying me—blood trickling from my lip. "Riona, stop already. That's enough. Look at her." She ignores him and lands several more blows. My chest constricts. Breathing becomes a battle. The guard swears. My heart, racing moments before, now falters, my vision clouding as my body goes slack. "For fuck's sake, can't you see she's having an attack?" He rips the whip from Riona's grip while she struggles against him. "If she dies, we all die." This reaches her. She freezes, eyes going wide. I wheeze. The other guard fumbles with my cuffs and lowers me to the floor. "What do we do?" he whispers. "If we take her to the hospital wing, the Alpha will know everything." Riona laughs, the sound ugly. "Who cares if she dies? Trust me—my father pretends to care, but it doesn't actually matter. Leave her here. If she lives, nothing happens. If she dies..." She shrugs, casual. "The pack loses a useless member." The guards stare at her in disbelief. I stare up at them, each breath arriving like it might be my last. I cough, still clawing for air. The guards mutter to one another and then rise. Consciousness flickers—barely holding. My chest feels cinched shut. It's a miracle I'm breathing at all. My heart is surrendering. Through hazy vision, I watch Riona press the whip into the blond guard's hands and kiss his cheek. Then she glides up the stairs as if nothing happened. My hand grips my chest. My eyes burn. Every breath costs me. The cell door slams shut with a sound so final I gasp. The guards turn their backs, hiding the weapon, erasing their part in this. The room spins. I feel my life loosening its grip. Will I die down here? Has Riona finally gotten what she always wanted? Resentment floods through every nerve. Even through the unbearable pain that shoots across my body with the slightest movement, I roll myself over, trying to open my airway just a fraction more. I'm so close to leaving this pack and every miserable soul in it behind. So close to seizing my own future. I rub my chest, urging my heart to keep fighting. If I die now, the pack will be rid of me—but I'll never taste the life I'm desperate to claim. Breathe, damn you, Elodie, I tell myself, weak as a kitten. Breathe and keep your heart beating. Dying means letting these bastards win. I refuse to hand them that victory. Riona will face her reckoning, and I will be the one to deliver it. Breathe and live long enough to have your revenge. Breathe. Chapter 4 Game On Elodie's POV Agony blurs into raw, endless pain. For days, I cling to the thin thread of my slipping consciousness. I drift in a fog as guards force stale bread and murky water past my lips, the only sustenance keeping my breath steady and my racing heart from collapsing entirely. This is the worst flare-up my condition has ever thrown at me, all thanks to Riona’s cruel, unrelenting provocation. Bit by bit, what little strength I have seeps back. I push myself upright and fix a cold glare on the guards loitering at their table. They keep their heads bowed, pretending I do not exist. They are lucky I survive this. My back throbs sharply; dried blood crusts over open wounds, sticking tight to my skin. I wince, dreading the sting of cleaning it away, and shudder at the thought. My body remains half-exposed. I silently pray no infection settles in my injuries. I brush a finger near my back and hiss, the light touch sending sharp, shooting pain through every muscle. Without my wolf to speed recovery, healing drags slow, and the ache lingers nonstop. The cell door scrapes open. A guard steps inside, his face twisted with unmasked disgust. He grabs me roughly under the arms, hauling me to my feet without a single word of warning. A small, involuntary cry escapes me. He drags me toward the back corridor where the communal showers stand. The second guard watches on, lazy amusement clear in his eyes. My body is drained of all fight, so I offer no resistance. The guard halts abruptly. I stare back at him blankly. He rolls his eyes. “Strip the rest of the way,” he grunts. I bend stiffly, tug off my remaining pants and underwear, and kick the fabric aside. The guard tosses me a plain bar of soap and jerks his chin toward the shower unit with its push-button faucet. “Clean yourself thoroughly,” he snaps. “Luna Fenna orders you to serve her and her guests dinner tonight in the formal dining hall.” I press the button, bracing instantly for the bitter cold water that crashes down from the overhead nozzle. My muscles lock tight. The frigid water rips over my wounded back, peeling away crusted blood and igniting fresh, burning agony across my skin. I swallow back every scream and scrub my skin clean, well aware of my sharp, stale body odor after days locked in the cell. I lather soap through my hair and wash every inch of myself until I am spotless. I shiver violently, biting hard into my lip, relieved to see barely any fresh blood swirl down the drain. My wounds are finally scabbing over, and the simple relief of feeling clean anchors me steady. A towel slams into my chest. I catch it, cut the water off, and wrap the thin fabric tight around my trembling body. My teeth chatter nonstop. I grip the towel firmly, burning with humiliation at bathing under the guards’ watchful eyes. Still, it is better than the alternative—them touching me to clean my skin. I shut everything out, focusing only on the task, pretending their leering gazes do not exist to endure the degradation. The towel brushes my tender back, and I hiss in sharp discomfort. The guard shoves me harshly toward the cell. My knees buckle weak, and I shoot him a sharp, unyielding glare. “Hold on,” the blonde guard calls out, irritation edging his tone. “You forgot to hand her clothes.” “Right.” The other guard mutters the word without an ounce of remorse. “Shame,” he mumbles under his breath. I flinch at the cold remark. The blonde guard tosses a bundle of fabric my way. I catch it, staring down in bewilderment. I would never wear something so shameless, so demeaning, not in a lifetime. I have never been forced into such humiliating garments before. This has to be a sick joke, some cruel prank the guards concoct to break me. “Real funny,” I scoff, narrowing my eyes in open contempt. “But I’m not putting this on. Not ever.” The blonde guard leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, a cruel, gleeful smirk spreading across his face. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart,” he drawls, “but you don’t get a choice. Luna Fenna personally picked this out. It’s your new permanent uniform. She wants every pack member to see you’re nothing but a lowly packhouse servant now.” “Everyone already knows my place,” I snap, anger flaring hot in my chest. “I don’t need degrading clothes to prove it.” He lifts an eyebrow while the other guard snorts in amusement. “I’m just following orders. Take it up with the Luna if you’ve got the nerve,” he says lightly. “Either way, you wear the outfit, or you stay naked. No other options.” My eyes fly wide. The second guard chuckles darkly. “I don’t mind either way,” he drawls, raking his eyes lewdly up and down my frame with a sick, twisted grin. “Her body’s fun to look at.” Nausea curdles sharp in my throat. Disgusting pervert. I never forget his earlier threats. I storm back into the cell, yank off my towel, and ignore the low, hungry growl the guard lets slip. I dress slowly, frustration coiling tight in my chest. This is the Luna’s new low, another petty power play to break me. Punishment for daring to speak against her precious Riona. I pull on the lacy underwear, the thin braid, and slide the sheer white pantyhose up my legs. The leering guard tracks every single movement, his breath heavy and ragged. The blonde guard looks away, at least possessing a shred of basic decency. I pull the short dress over my head and wriggle it into place. The fabric squeezes tight across my chest, restricting every breath. The hem barely hits my knees, the flimsy material leaving nothing to the imagination. Every piece of the set is sheer, lacy, designed only to objectify. I struggle to fasten the tight ribbon lacing up the back. The guard steps into the cell, ties it rough and quick, and lets his palm linger too long against my lower back before stepping out and slamming the door shut. The blonde guard stands and walks over, pressing a pair of low thin heels into my shaking hand. I stare down at the outfit in dread. The Luna knows exactly what she is doing. This costume draws every unwanted gaze, meant only to shame and degrade me. She cannot force me to wear this forever, can she? I sink onto the thin mattress, the dress bunching awkwardly around my thighs. The guard chuckles, his gaze dropping shamelessly to my chest. “French maid look suits you perfectly,” he sneers. “All omegas should dress like this.” I roll my eyes hard. “It’s repulsive,” I snarl. “It objectifies women, degrading and offensive in every way.” “Take it up with Luna Fenna then,” the blonde guard retorts, grinning unapologetically. “I’m sure she cares about some omega’s hurt feelings.” The other guard bursts into loud laughter. I slam the heels hard against the concrete floor, fury blazing through me. I glare at the demeaning uniform, tempted to rip every stitch to shreds. But that will only fuel the Luna’s cruelty. I need to play this smart. A sharp, cunning grin tugs at my lips. If she wants to play dirty games, I will play right back. She will hate how this ends. I hum softly under my breath. Soon, I walk free to serve dinner. The games begin now. I will not be broken. I will win this war, and the Luna will learn never to underestimate me. I giggle sweetly at the thought, tilting my head with an innocent face as the guards stare at me in confusion. To defeat cruel enemies, you have to think outside their small, cruel boxes. I will not bow. I will not surrender. I will stand defiant against every unfair rule, every humiliating insult, every petty punishment the Luna throws my way. Chapter 5 Honor Her Elodie's POV Luna Fenna's glare rakes over me. "My god, could you walk any slower?" she snarls. I teeter forward on the unfamiliar heels, plates balanced in careful hands, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Apologies, Luna. I'm not accustomed to these shoes," I answer, voice dripping honey. Her gaze drops to my attire with a grunt. Alpha Renwick frowns. "Whose idea was it to dress Elodie in such an... ahem... interesting costume?" "Mine," Luna Fenna says, waving a dismissive hand. "I wanted her to stand apart from the rest of the pack. A uniform befitting her station." I arrange their plates before them, bending deliberately low across the Alpha so he catches a generous view of my cleavage. He coughs and finds sudden interest in the far wall. Luna Fenna's expression sours. I press my smirk deep down. Something tells me she never imagined I'd wear the costume with quite so much boldness—but I'm not finished. Riona studies me with naked contempt as I serve her meal, nose lifted, eyes rolling skyward. "You look like a hooker," she declares flatly. "Riona," Luna Fenna hisses, "that's wildly inappropriate." Across the table, Rylan—the Beta's son—sits rigid, gaze trailing the curve of my backside. "Oh, please, Mother." Riona folds her arms. "Look on the bright side: at least Elodie can use that outfit to supplement her income." "Riona, enough!" Alpha Renwick's voice cracks like thunder. I seize another plate and make my way toward Rylan. That settles it—the little viper deserves every ounce of what comes next. I know she's sweet on Rylan. Most girls are. The Beta's son commands attention without trying: footballer, warrior, those broad shoulders, sandy-blond hair, and startling blue eyes that reduce girls to stammering fools. Riona is no exception. I feel her stare drilling into me as I saunter toward him, smile wide, bending forward so the creamy expanse of my chest fills his view. Riona sucks in a sharp breath. Rylan's gaze lingers, hungry. "I hope you brought your appetite." I purr the words, reaching across to fill his water glass. He watches me with naked hunger. I lean close, lips brushing his ear. "Enjoy your meal, Rylan." Color rises to his cheeks. "Elodie, could you, um, fetch the, um, condiments?" Alpha Renwick's voice wavers. He refuses to meet my eyes. "Of course, Alpha Renwick." I retrieve the bottles with calm grace and set them before him, bending so my skirt begins its slow climb upward. Luna Fenna's face flames scarlet as she glowers. I blink at her, radiating innocence. She lit this fuse—I'm merely letting it burn. Let's see who emerges victorious this time. A strangled noise escapes the Alpha's throat. I turn, brace my hands against the table, and let my skirt hitch above my knees. My smile could win pageants. "Is there anything else you require?" False eagerness laces every syllable. Alpha Renwick's complexion deepens to an unhealthy puce. "I'm quite all right, thank you, Elodie." He speaks hastily, then fixes his wife with a hard stare—she looks seconds away from an aneurysm. I choke back my laughter and prance back toward Rylan, bending to murmur against his ear. "Anything you need?" He clears his throat. "Perhaps more water." He indicates his empty glass, eyes glinting. Reaching across him for the jug forces my backside directly into his sightline, and he chokes mid-bite on whatever fills his mouth. I pour and hand him the glass. "Here, Rylan." Sympathy softens my voice. "You must have tried to fit a bit too much in your mouth." He splutters. Riona's gasp cuts through the air. "Stop flirting with him!" Her voice climbs to a shrill demand. "You're deliberately trying to seduce him." I arrange my features into careful confusion. "I'm only being hospitable, making certain everyone has what they need." I speak slowly. "Is there something you require, Riona? If I've neglected you, please—feel free to speak up." "Yes, she's merely responding to our requests, Riona. It's terribly unladylike to accuse her of intentions she doesn't harbor. Try to remember you're an Alpha's daughter." Her father's tone carries steel. Luna Fenna's lips curl upward while her eyes freeze over. I pivot toward her, gushing. "Luna Fenna, I must say—this dress is truly lovely. Thank you so much for providing it as my uniform." She blinks, wrong-footed. She never expected gratitude. I barrel forward, voice cloying, eyes bright with feigned delight as I smooth the fabric down my hips. Riona's confusion deepens. "Ever since I started wearing it, I've received so much more attention from pack members. Some of the boys actually speak to me now. They're far kinder than I'm used to." I pause, letting the silence stretch. The Alpha goes very still, his focus shifting toward his wife. "I worried this dress might attract the wrong sort of notice, you see. But I know as my guardians, you and Alpha Renwick would never do anything that might invite untoward attention toward me. That would violate the pack's laws and principles." My voice brightens with venomous cheer. "Wouldn't it?" Silence crashes down. You could hear a coin strike the floor. Luna Fenna's jaw works soundlessly as she scrambles for a response, fully aware that anything she utters will damn her, her husband already glaring daggers. "Well, the thing is—" she starts, voice thin, but Alpha Renwick cuts her off, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Elodie." His voice drops to something almost gentle; a soft smile touches his mouth. "I fear Luna Fenna has done you a disservice. It's a fine enough dress, but I find it rather unbecoming, and frankly, it does you no favors. Would you mind disposing of it? I believe your usual attire—jeans, sweatpants, a simple shirt—serves your work in the packhouse perfectly well." I let my face fall into careful disappointment. "But it's the first new thing I've received since I came to work here." "I understand. And since Luna Fenna organized this uniform and made the error, she will personally replace it with two new pairs of jeans." He fixes his wife with an iron stare. Luna Fenna's mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut. Resignation settles over her features. I want to dance across the room. Instead, I bow my head with perfect deference. "As you wish, Alpha Renwick." I move to bend forward again, but he interrupts. "Actually, go and change now, if you don't mind, Elodie. Bring the dress and—ahem—the other items here." His frown deepens. Confusion flickers through me. An omega slips into the room carrying jeans and a plain shirt, pressing them into my hands. I vanish into a nearby bathroom and change quickly, leaving the undergarments in place. I gather everything and return, silently handing the bundle to the seething Alpha. He accepts it, strides across the room, and hurls the entire lot into the fireplace. Gasps ripple through the room. "I never want to see such an outfit worn in this packhouse again," he snarls, turning to face the room with fury etched across his features. "Fenna—next time, I won't be nearly so lenient." "Why do you even care?" Riona bursts out, frustration twisting her face. "Who cares about this little slut? You're far too nice to her." Alpha Renwick wheels on her. "Leave. Now. And never question my authority again. Fenna—you too." Riona's mouth gapes open before she rushes from the room. Luna Fenna studies her husband with a searching look, then follows. Rylan sighs, rises, dips his head, and exits in the opposite direction. Only the Alpha and I remain. Perhaps I pushed too far. "I apologize for my behavior," I begin, but he shakes his head. "I'm far from a perfect Alpha, but even I recognize when my wife has crossed a line and abused her authority." His voice roughens. "Starting tomorrow, you'll have a room in the packhouse—on the Omega's floor—instead of that shabby cabin on the outskirts. You've reminded me that as a guardian, I bear certain responsibilities toward you. Tonight, sleep on the couch in the living room." He leaves without another word. I stare after him, half-convinced he's been possessed or I've slipped into a dream. Never—in a million years—would I have imagined stepping foot inside a room in the packhouse, let alone sleeping in one. Even if it's only the omega quarters. I practically dance toward the living area, my spirits soaring. Sometimes, it's hard to believe Alpha Renwick shares blood with Riona. Only sometimes. Chapter 6 The King King Caspian's POV I set the invitation flat on my desk, sharp green eyes narrowing with quiet irritation as I glance across at Beta Jareth. My oldest friend leans back in his chair, one leg crossed loose over the other, blue glints dancing in his gaze, completely relaxed in my presence. “Another useless gathering call,” I mutter, half tempted to toss the card straight into the flames. An eighteenth birthday celebration for some random she-wolf holds zero appeal. It feels like nothing short of a deliberate slight against my time. Jareth snatches the invitation from my grip, scans the words quickly, and grins lightheartedly. I roll my eyes. “Let me guess,” I say dryly. “You’re eager to go.” He huffs a laugh, raking a hand through his reddish-brown hair. “Am I really that easy to read?” “Absolutely,” I reply flatly. “I know how desperate you are to stumble across your fated mate.” He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug, unbothered by my blunt tone. “You’re not the only one who ought to be searching,” he counters, tone turning earnest. “You’re twenty-five, Alpha King. The pack kingdom needs a future heir. It’s your sworn duty to secure a successor.” I snap a sharp look his way. “Do you think I’m oblivious? I’m already seeing Celestia. I handle my responsibilities perfectly well.” Jareth exhales a long, weary sigh. “Your wolf, Vaelen, can barely stand her company. You never soften around her, never look like a man with a heart tied to another. Why force a political bond when you could wait for your real fated mate?” My expression darkens into a scowl. “Time is not on my side, as you just said. If a true mate was out there for me, I would have found her already. Every passing year makes Vaelen more volatile, harder to restrain. Without a chosen bond soon, he will turn feral—and leave our entire kingdom without a ruler.” My voice drops, grave and unyielding. My wolf is far stronger than any ordinary Alpha’s, yet that power comes with a cruel price. Without a mate’s tether or a marked chosen partner, Vaelen’s instincts unravel slow and steady. Eventually, I lose all human reason, trapped permanently in my beast form. It is a fate I refuse to accept. Jareth’s jaw tightens. He knows no other heir stands ready to take my place. My people depend on me to hold the kingdom steady. “I just wish you could find your real other half,” he murmurs. “Not her.” No secret exists about his disdain for Celestia, and the feeling burns entirely mutual between them. I push the thought aside, mood grim. I reach to take back the invitation, but he lifts it just out of my reach, teasing. “Just this once,” he presses, earnest now. “Attend the party. Loosen up. Enjoy one last night of freedom before you lock yourself into a lifeless political bond.” I study him, weighing the idea. I rarely attend trivial social functions, deeming them empty distractions. Still, the request clearly matters to him. I sigh and extend my hand. “I’ll go. But you drop the endless lectures about Celestia. She is not as terrible as you make her out to be.” “I’ll try my best,” he quips, handing over the card with obvious reluctance. I roll my eyes and lean in to read the script clearly. “Riona Corvyn, of the Ruina Hollow Pack,” I read aloud, nose wrinkling faintly. I glance up at Jareth, mild curiosity stirring. “What do I need to know about Ruina Hollow? I’ve never set foot there.” “Compared to our kingdom, it’s small, unremarkable territory,” he answers evenly. Naturally. My Leonas Kingdom stands as the largest, most powerful pack realm in the entire supernatural world. “Their Alpha and Luna keep the peace, by all reports, but lack drive and tactical ambition. They never push for more power, never stir trouble. You’ve never needed to step in to discipline them or enforce royal laws.” I tap the card, impatience edging my tone. “What of the girl, Riona Corvyn? She is their Alpha’s daughter, obviously. What is her reputation among the packs?” Jareth huffs a short, knowing laugh. “Word travels fast. She’s a spoiled, entitled pack princess, widely disliked by her own members. Whispers circulate that she mistreats her omega staff, though no solid proof ever surfaces to confirm the claims.” I lift a sharp eyebrow. “You hold this information back until now?” I growl faintly. He shifts, looking faintly guilty. “I looked into the rumors long ago. Nothing stuck to her name. Besides, most Alpha fathers spoil their daughters rotten. It’s nothing new.” “And you still insist I attend?” I ask, tone incredulous. His cheeks flush pink. “Go for me. I haven’t left the packhouse in months, haven’t had a moment of real fun. I might even meet my mate tonight.” He blinks, pulling out an exaggerated puppy-eyed plea. I regard him coolly. “That behavior is unbecoming of my Beta.” “Not even a little,” he grins, unashamed. “I’m desperate. Even a single night of decent company would do. No she-wolf here holds my interest anymore.” “You mean you’ve already romanced every available female in the pack and burned every bridge,” I state plainly. “That too,” he agrees without embarrassment. “You’re hopeless. As my second-in-command, you ought to set a proper example.” “I’ll behave perfectly,” he promises, batting his eyes playfully. I scoff internally—sure he will do no such thing. I glare down at the invitation, resolve hardening. “Fine. I will attend. I’ll use the night to inspect Ruina Hollow’s structure, assess their weaknesses, and gauge their Alpha’s competence. If he lacks the strength to lead, I’ll replace him. It saves me a separate trip later.” “Always business before pleasure,” Jareth grumbles. I shoot him a sharp look. “Be grateful I’m agreeing at all. I still have final legislation to draft, and it’s going to ruffle countless Alpha feathers.” I exhale, leaning back heavy in my chair. “Every Alpha will seethe,” Jareth agrees, grinning faintly. “Good. That outdated law should’ve been torn down generations ago. I respect your courage.” I smile grimly. “Wait for the backlash before you praise me. Once this order goes out, tempers will flare across every pack territory.” Jareth smirks, pushing to his feet and stretching lazily. “That’s what makes it worth it. A king no one resents is no king at all.” I glance down at the half-written document spread across my desk and groan quietly. Jareth slips toward the door, a mischievous, satisfied grin on his face, already celebrating his small victory. I barely register him leaving, my focus fixed on the official draft. The title alone makes my expression harden. This law will shatter long-held traditions, enraging every old-fashioned leader. For too long, the forced breeding program has enslaved she-wolves against their free will, stripping them of autonomy, dignity, and choice. It is barbaric, degrading, and unforgivable. I will end it. No more silent suffering. No more powerful elites preying on vulnerable lower-ranked females. Our kind is better than this. I vow to make it true. The Abolishment and Disbandment of the Breeding Program. All enforcement ceases immediately across every pack realm. Any leader refusing compliance faces severe, immediate royal consequence. I only need to finish the clauses, seal it with legal witness signatures, and distribute the order nationwide. I resolve to complete every last line before the party begins. I straighten in my seat, fingers hovering over my work, silently hoping Celestia does not choose today to interrupt my focus.
They called the mark on my body a curse and mocked me as a freak. But my twin bosses called it proof—I was their only mate and princess. “Did you just sniff me?” Jacqueline looked at her boss, Wilder Vaughn, in horror. Jacqueline’d been obsessively stalking Wilder Vaughn on social media, news sites and even the company training videos since she joined the company five years ago as an intern. The untouchable man was charisma and sensuality appeal wrapped up in billionaire clothing. But she never imagined that after her first project presentation to the boss in five years, he would rush out of the conference room and corner her in the elevator lobby. “Yes. You’re my mate.” Wilder lifted his head. Too many damn years of his life searching for his mate and she’d been working for his company for five years, several floors beneath him. “I’m sorry. I’m what?” “My mate. Surely you have been looking for me?” “I am so confused,” she muttered as she looked away from him and stared at the floor. “What are you confused about? We are mates. I touched your hand and the threads of our bond joined and we are now mated, for life.” He reached for her, and she stepped backwards away from him and his heart clenched miserably. “Why are you avoiding me?” “Because you’re loony?” “I’m loony?” “Yes. Did you suffer a fall or something this morning?” “Oh,” the word drawled slowly from his mouth as a thought occurred to him. “I heard you grew up in foster care. Did you not know fairies get mates?” “Fairies?” “Yes. We're fairies,” he waved his hand between them. He was unprepared for the way she threw her head back and laughed loudly. At first he was stunned by her radiant beauty, then as she continued to laugh, gripping the wall for support the laugh became more mocking and he realized she was laughing at him. A horrible realizing crashed over him almost sending him to his knees as he stared at her in disbelief. She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t have a clue she was a fairy. “Okay, I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he spoke softly and he reached for her hands and took them in his. The same exciting zing of connection flowed between them. When her eyes widened, he nodded, “hear my words, my mate. You are a fairy. It is not a joke. We typically live close to our own kind. We have abilities and skills humans do not. We also are blessed with one true mate, one love, which blooms and blossoms when we connect.” He lifted their hands together in between them, “the brighter the thread, the stronger the bond. You saw the golden threads, didn’t you?” When her breath grew raspy he smiled, “golden threads are the strongest of bonds. We were fated to be the example of what fae love is supposed to be. You must feel it.” He could see in her blue eyes how confused she was and then she was yanking her hands away from him. “This is not funny,” her voice cracked. “Do you think this kind of prank is funny? Let me guess, you practiced magic tricks as a kid and you’re using them to fk with me on what I felt might be the best day of my career? I’m a joke to you?” Her breath was coming in puffs as she spouted off at him. Then she fled out of the office and raced away. “What was that?” Jacqueline was mumbling under her breath as she flung her bag onto her chair again. Who tells an employee he is a fairy and she is too and they were mated? What did that even mean? She could picture in her mind’s eye the bunch of men upstairs now in the board room laughing at her and her reaction. She looked down at her hands as she yanked her laptop out and plugged it into the power supply on her desk. Blue. They were still blue. She was still furious. She dragged her compact from her backpack and looked into the mirror and grimaced. Even her face had a mild tint. She needed to get her s**t together. She looked up as Percy stepped off the elevator and walked towards her. “Mr. Vaughn wants you in his office now. He got a call, said it’s urgent then he cut our meeting short and told me to send you up. Go.” “Now?” “Now.” She beelined for the elevator grateful it was still there from when Percy exited moments ago. She nervously punched the button to the top floor and saw the entire group of her colleagues watching her as the doors slid closed. Concern etched all their faces. She rolled her eyes. Clearly they all thought Wilder Vaughn was going to fire her. As if. “It has to be about the project, and maybe he’ll apologize.” By the time she got to the door, she was feeling better. She schooled her features, took a deep breath and knocked. The voices on the other side of the door were muffled, rushed and then the sound of feet crossing the floor and the door was flung open wide. “You’re here.” “Percy told me I needed to come up now.” “Yes. Come in.” She stepped into the room and was stunned to see that it wasn’t his administrative assistant in the room but rather it was three people she did not know and who were most assuredly his family. One of them though was staring straight at her and she froze in her steps. Her eyes swung back to Wilder. The two men had identical faces. He was a twin? “Hi. If I’m intruding I can come back.” “No way gorgeous,” the twin grinned at her and then looked at his brother. “She’s so hot.” She blinked at the comment. “Um, this is my workplace?” She looked at Wilder, “is it a twin thing that you’re highly inappropriate to women at work?” She let her eyes flip between the two men. One in a button-up shirt, suit trousers and shiny black shoes and his hair slicked back without a hair out of place. The other man had shaggy hair which brushed the collar of his leather bomber style jacket, jeans which appeared to have been painted on thick muscular thighs and a pair of black boots she was sure he’d simply slipped his feet into. Twins but somehow she knew they weren’t the kind of twins who lived copycat lives. Why she knew, she did not know but she knew. The twin walked to her, his grey eyes focused, his hand extended, “my name is Rafferty Vaughn. I,” his words trailed off as he grabbed her hand and just as it had in the boardroom with Wilder, a golden rope of as energy encircled their hands and a current of electricity sizzled along her arm straight to her heart and time seemed to freeze. “Mate.” She blinked in horror and then yanked her arm away. “What?” She turned on her heel in an attempt to run to the door. Not again. “What the fk?” Wilder’s hiss of rage echoed through the room. “No! How? Why? She is mine!” the roar echoed around the room. The other man in the group leaned against the door barring her exit, “sorry Princess but we need you to stay.” She stared at the man against the door as he tilted his head as if intrigued by her reaction. “What is happening?” she was hyperventilating as she looked over her shoulder at her boss and his brother. The twins were glowering at each other, chest to chest, puffed up, fury etched on their features and nostrils flared. “Not you too? You believe this mate stuff?” she made wide eyes at the man. He nodded. “Right. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a fairy?” she looked at the large, broad-chested man and he quirked one eyebrow up. “No! This is insane. You’re all insane. I want to go home.” “Not your home, Princess. Ours.” The man against the door commented dryly. They were going to take her to their home. Holy s**t she was going too be kidnapped by crazy people who thought they were fairies.
When ex-soldier Troy Poe inherits a corrupt private prison, he decides to go in undercover as an inmate to expose those responsible. But when the head guard, a man who he trusted, turns out to be the leader of the crime ring , Troy must find a way to convince the officials that he is not a prisoner, but in fact, the owner of the prison... or break out. All the while, he must protect those in danger, including a weak old prisoner whose sentence has been falsely extended, and a beautiful doctor who's caught in the crossfire. Will Troy find a way to escape? Or will he become just another casualty of his own prison?
When I was slapped by the president of the club, my biker turned a blind eye and chose his club. "Who are you loyal to, Rebecca?" Every brother in the room turns to look at me. I stand frozen. "My husband." Razor steps forward from the shadows. "She helped Mara leave. She's been feeding information to Preacher's crew." "That's not true—" His hand connects with my cheek before I finish the sentence. The crack echoes off the walls. I stumble. My lip splits against my teeth. Blood fills my mouth. I look for Declan. He's standing ten feet away. Watching. Not moving. Not protecting me. "I trust my wife," he said in church. But here, now, in front of his brothers—he says nothing Does nothing. "Where is she?" I touch my bleeding lip and look past him. Past all of them. To my husband. The man who promised me a house. A family. A life. The man who just let another man put his hands on me. And I see it clearly for the first time. He will always choose the club. I will never be first. "Bex," Declan says finally—finally—reaching for me. I step back. "Don't." The room goes quiet. I wipe the blood from my mouth, turn around, and walk out the gates. I'm not coming back. —— Bex The girl wouldn't look at me. She stared at the fluorescent light above the trauma bay like it held answers. Like if she kept her eyes fixed there long enough, she wouldn't have to feel anything happening below it. "I'm fine," she said again, even though she was bleeding through the towel pressed to her ribs. "Just stitch me up. It was a club party. I don't belong to anyone yet." Yet. Her lip was split clean through. There were crescent bruises along her throat where someone had grabbed too hard. The kind of bruising that doesn't happen during dancing. The kind that comes from being held in place. I cleaned the wound in silence, noticing a heart tattoo that now looked broken by a faint old scar and this new cut. The ER smelled like antiseptic and warm air from overworked vents. The monitors hummed. A nurse wheeled a crash cart past the bay without looking up. Somewhere down the hall, a trauma team called out vitals in quick clipped bursts. This part of the hospital always feels like controlled chaos, movement with purpose. Pain with protocol. I prefer it to chaos without accountability. "You don't have to minimize it," I said, not looking at her face while I sutured. "You can just say you were hurt." Her fingers tightened in the sheet. "It's just how it goes," she replied. Just how it goes. I tied the final stitch and cut the thread clean. Her breathing steadied once the sharpness was over. I handed her discharge instructions, told her what signs of internal damage to watch for, and gave her my card without making it dramatic. "If you want to talk," I said. "Not about tonight. About anything." She tucked it into her bra like she didn't want anyone to see it. Smart girl. The sun was lifting by the time I stripped off my gloves and signed out of the shift. My body felt hollowed out, not sore, not injured, just emptied. The kind of exhaustion that sinks into bone and refuses to be reasoned with. I walked out into early morning light and let the air hit my face. Twelve hours of broken bones, split skin, concussions, overdoses. Twelve hours of men who got to go home and women who had to pretend nothing happened. And now I was driving back through iron gates. The Dawnbreakers compound sits behind a long stretch of cracked asphalt and tall chain fencing topped with razor wire. Two iron gates guard the entrance, black, heavy, impossible to ignore. One of the prospects was on watch when I pulled up. He recognized my car and hit the release without a word. The gates rolled open slow and deliberate, metal grinding against metal. Inside, bikes lined the gravel in neat rows. The clubhouse itself rose from the center of the property, old warehouse bones converted into something halfway between home and war bunker. Declan loves it here. He says the walls feel solid. Says this place has history. Brotherhood. Blood in the foundation. I feel watched the second I drive in. Not threatened. Just... observed. The way you always are when you live among men who built their identity on territory. I park near the side entrance and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there. I love my husband. I hate this building. It's a quiet confession. One I don't say out loud. He wants kids. He says families belong inside the compound. That sons should grow up around brothers who'd die for them. That daughters should know what protection looks like. He wants to build a house here, on the far side of the property near the tree line. He's pointed out the spot more than once. Told me where the porch would face. Where the garage would sit. I told him I want the house first. I told him I won't have a baby in a room above a bar. He took that personally. Said I don't understand what it means to belong to something bigger than myself. I said I don't think he understands what it means to build a family without an audience. He hasn't mentioned the house again, and we still live in the clubhouse. I grab my bag and step inside. The smell hits first. Stale beer soaked into wood. Burned-out smoking. Sweat. Something sweet and synthetic clinging to the air from cheap perfume. The main room is a sprawl of leather couches and long tables scarred with knife marks and burn rings. Empty bottles crowd every surface. One of the older members is asleep in a chair near the bar, head tipped back, mouth open, chest rising slow and heavy. Music thumps faintly through the walls, bass without melody. Down the hallway, a door bangs against plaster. A woman's laugh carries out sharp and brittle, followed by the rhythmic knock of something hitting drywall. Two brothers stand near the kitchen arguing over a half-empty bottle. "The spare rooms are for extracurricular activities," one of them says, dragging on a smoking. "You don't bring club girls to your room. That's for old ladies." The other grunts approval. Extracurricular activities. I swallow. A pair of high heels sits abandoned near the stairs. Glitter clings to the floor like fallout. This is the part he doesn't see when he talks about legacy, when he talks about respect, protection and family I make my way down the narrow hall that leads to our room. The noise dulls but doesn't disappear. It seeps through walls. Through doors. Through skin. I keep my eyes forward, but still manage to see a brother screwing Kori, one of the club girls, up against the wall down the hall. This is where he wants to raise a family. Our room is halfway down on the right. I unlock it and step inside. It's barely bigger than a college dorm. One bed pushed against the wall. One dresser with a cracked mirror. A small television mounted crooked near the ceiling. His locked drawer bolted under the nightstand for weapons and cash. No kitchen. No couch. No space to exist separately. Just a mattress and territory. Declan is sitting on the edge of the bed when I enter. Shirtless. Ink winding down his shoulders and arms. Scars layered into muscle like footnotes. His cut hangs on the back of the chair. Boots kicked off near the wall. His hair is mussed, jaw dark with stubble, eyes still heavy from the night. He looks up, and something in him softens. "There you are." His voice does that thing it only does with me, lower, stripped of performance. He stands and closes the distance fast. His hands settle on my waist before I can put my bag down. He pulls me into him like he's anchoring himself. His mouth finds my neck. "Missed you," he murmurs. I close my eyes, not because I'm melting, but because I'm tired. He smells like whiskey and smoke and the inside of this building. His hands move under my shirt, fingers warm and sure. "Declan." He hums against my skin. "I just worked twelve hours in trauma." "Then let me take care of you." His tone is easy. Confident. Like this is simple. I step back. His hands pause mid-motion. "I treated a sexual assault survivor from a club party tonight," I say. "And then I walked through your brother's screwing girls, who aren't their old ladies, in the spare rooms. I'm not in the mood." The softness drains from his face. It's not anger yet. It's pride adjusting. "You married an enforcer," he says. "You know what this life is." "I know exactly what this life is." I repeat to him. He studies me. He hates that I work at the hospital, hates that I see the ugly side to this life day in and day out. He has asked me to quit more times than I can count, but my job... what I do is the only thing that I have that is just mine. "I've got options," he adds, not threatening, just stating. "If you aren't going to satisfy my needs maybe I will go spend some time in one of the spare rooms." Like that should reassure me. Body is currency here. Loyalty is measured by who you do and don't touch. "And you know," I reply evenly, "that I'm not the kind of woman who'd stay if you ever decided to use them." His jaw flexes. I've never pretended to be easy. The first time he proposed, I said no. We were in this same room. Same mattress. Same walls vibrating with noise from down the hall. He thought a ring would fix everything. I told him I'd marry him when he was ready to build something outside of here. Six months later, he tried again, on his knees in front of half the club like a spectacle. Like if he made it public, I couldn't refuse. I said yes because he promised we'd make our own space, we would have a life that didn't just revolve around the club. Something of our own.. We never left this room. "You're tired," he says now. There's a difference between tired and dismissed. I grab a towel and head into the bathroom before the conversation tips into something uglier. The bathroom is narrow enough that my elbow brushes tile when I turn. I twist the shower knob and let hot water beat against my shoulders. The girl's face flashes in my head. I don't belong to anyone yet. I brace my hands against the wall and breathe. I want a house with a door that locks because it's ours, not because it's guarded. I want quiet mornings. I want to decide when we have children, not be cornered into it because this is what men here do when they feel their wives pulling away. He thinks I don't trust him. I think he doesn't see what this place does to women. When I turn the water off and step back into the room, it's empty. His boots are gone. His cut is gone. The faint vibration of music travels through the floorboards. A bottle rolls somewhere down the hall. Glass clinks. A woman gasps, not in pain, not in pleasure, something in between. I stand there for a moment. He wouldn't. But the fact that I even weigh it? That's the fracture. I climb into bed alone. The sheets are warm where he sat. They smell like smoke, and the cologne he uses too sparingly. From the hallway, a door slams. A man's voice rises in laughter thick with alcohol. Springs squeal against a wall somewhere down the corridor, steady and unembarrassed. I stare at the ceiling as light cuts through the blinds in thin blades. Love is supposed to feel bigger than the room it lives in. Right now, this room feels too small for both of us. Clutch The party wasn't planned. It was supposed to be a closed-door meeting. Church was called by Angel. Tight circle. No noise. Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory. Asking questions they shouldn't have been asking. Preacher doesn't drift. He hunts. We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money. Costs patience. Men don't like standing down when they're wired to move. So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music. Music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it's vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters. Smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor. I lean against the bar, nursing something I'm not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. Not pretty. Not clean. Not soft. Alive. Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. Calm posture. Controlled presence. He doesn't posture to command respect. He carries it. Razor's across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn't. But he likes people to think he does. Mara is our club president's sister; some would call her the club princess. She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn't reach her eyes. I've noticed that lately. The tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms is like she's mapping exits. Razor's fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it, then scan the room again. Four's posted near the back wall, arms folded, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His old lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh. That's loyalty. Quiet. Solid. No performance. Four doesn't touch any other women. Doesn't look twice at anyone who isn't Dani. That's the difference between a man and a boy in this life. Razor's eyes drift. Not to the girls grinding near the speakers. To the hallway. To the stairs. To where he knows she isn't. Bex isn't here. She's on shift. I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing. She hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids. I don't see it that way. This place is ours. We built it. Protected it. Bled for it. This is our home. She sees the noise. The girls. The aftermath. I see perimeter checks. I see rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension's high. Blood Reapers don't respect lines. Preacher especially. He preaches purity and practices cruelty. We've crossed paths once before. Didn't like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock. Angel doesn't tolerate predators inside these gates. Outside? That's a different story, and that's what's got everyone wound tight. Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar. A bottle smashes against concrete, and laughter follows. Mara shifts under Razor's arm. He tightens his grip. Whispers something against her ear. She stiffens. He's always been rough around the edges, but lately it's different. Quicker temper. Short fuse. Talks about respect like he's daring someone to question him. Angel hasn't corrected him. Yet. Four steps up beside me. "You're quiet," he says. "Watching." He nods once. He doesn't needle. Doesn't tease. Four's loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn't waste breath on surface talk. "You taking north patrol tomorrow?" he asks. "Yeah." He grunts approval. Kori makes her way over to us, bottle blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder. "You hiding over here, Clutch?" she asks, voice sweet and practiced. I gently remove her hand without looking at her. "Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married." She laughs like that's a joke. I don't. She drifts away. Four watches the exchange. Says nothing. He knows. Everyone knows. There was a time I didn't go home alone. Didn't sleep in the same bed twice. Didn't care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her. Chestnut hair pulled back tight. No makeup. The clearest blue eyes I have ever seen, sharp and focused. She didn't flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn't blink at the ink on my arms or my cut. Didn't ask stupid questions. When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You can wait outside, or you can behave. Those are your options." No fear or flirting. Just boundaries. I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn't have. Took her three months to agree to coffee. I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked. Because it didn't make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit. She's younger than me by almost 15 years. But she holds a maturity to her that you don't normally see in women her age. She can come off cold. People say that. Say she's standoffish. Too sharp. Too controlled. Thinks she is better than us. They don't see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she's embarrassed. They don't see the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don't see the softness she guards like a treasure. She had to be strong long before me. That's why she doesn't trust easy. I know that. I just don't think she trusts this place. Angel approaches around three in the morning. "Blood Reapers were seen south line again," he says quietly. "Not just passing." My shoulders square. "Preacher?" "His men." Preacher doesn't send men unless he's measuring something. "We tighten patrol," I say. "Already in motion." He studies the room, then adds, "Keep your house tight." I know what he means. Not just security. Optics. Keep your ol ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when trouble hits the fan. Bex doesn't blend here. She doesn't smile for show. Doesn't flirt for sport. Some of the girls resent that. Some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. Across the room, Razor's gaze drifts again. Not toward the dance floor. Toward the hallway that leads to the upstairs rooms. Toward the space that belongs to me and her. His mouth curves slightly. Possessive men don't like women they can't possess. Mara shifts again under his arm. Her eyes flick toward the exit. Something tightens in my chest. I'll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon. The party thins after four. Girls disappear into spare rooms. Brothers pass out where they sit. I head upstairs alone. Our door is closed. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the music through the walls. I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired. Guard up. Already braced for this place. I don't want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it. That's the difference. I can't wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can't wait to start a family with her. She says she wants the house first. I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. Quietly. I've been pricing lumber. Measuring the far edge of the property near the trees. I want to build it before she asks again. Show her I'm serious. But I also won't build it outside the compound. Family belongs inside these gates. Where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch. She thinks that's toxic. I think that's loyalty. When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs. Not the tension with Blood Reapers. Just her. I don't smell the whiskey on myself. Don't hear the music the way she does. Don't see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor. I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying. So I reach for her. And when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there's only exhaustion. When she says she's not in the mood, I hear rejection. And instead of asking what she needs... I say something about options. The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. But pride is faster than regret. So I grab my boots. My cut. Walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes. Not anger. Disappointment. That one cuts deeper.