The silver-laced restraints bit deeper into my wrists as I thrashed against them, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through my raw skin. The cold metal table beneath me seemed to leach away what little strength I had left.

"Please, Camille," I whispered, my voice hoarse from screaming during the last session. "My wolf... she's barely there anymore."

Camille's perfectly manicured hands hovered over me, selecting a gleaming instrument from her tray. Her smile never reached her eyes as she leaned closer, the antiseptic scent of her lab coat mingling with something metallic—blood. My blood.

"Don't be dramatic, Helena," she said, her voice sweet as poison. "This is all for science. For the advancement of our pack's healing knowledge."

I watched in horror as she picked up what looked like a small drill. "What is that?"

"Just a little device to measure nerve response," she replied casually, as if she were discussing the weather. "It should only hurt... moderately."

The lie was evident in her eyes. This was no medical experiment—this was torture, plain and simple.

As the drill whirred to life, I caught sight of a leather-bound journal on the counter beside her. It was open to a page covered in meticulous notes and diagrams—diagrams of me. Of my wolf.

"You're... documenting this?" I gasped, fighting against the Alpha command that kept me immobilized.

"Of course," Camille said, sliding the drill closer to my arm. "Detailed records are essential for proper research. Your suffering is providing invaluable data, Helena. You should be proud."

The drill bit into my flesh, and I screamed until my throat was raw. Through tear-blurred eyes, I watched Camille make another notation in her journal, her pen strokes precise and clinical.

"Interesting," she murmured. "The subject's pain threshold seems to be decreasing with each session."

---

Days blurred together as Camille's treatments grew increasingly brutal. Each time I was strapped to her table, my wolf retreated further inside me, her presence fading like a candle in a storm.

"She's making progress," I overheard Christopher telling his Beta in the hallway outside Camille's lab. "The other healers are impressed with her findings."

"What about Helena?" the Beta asked, his voice low. "She looks... unwell."

There was a pause, and I strained to hear Christopher's response.

"Helena is fulfilling her duty to the pack," he said finally. "Her discomfort is temporary. Camille's research could benefit generations of werewolves."

I closed my eyes, fighting back tears. The man who had once saved me from rogue attacks, who had promised to protect me forever, now viewed my suffering as merely "temporary discomfort."

Later that evening, Christopher entered our quarters as I sat on the edge of our bed, trying to summon enough strength to shift into my wolf form. My limbs trembled with the effort.

"The pack meeting is tomorrow night," he announced, not meeting my eyes. "You'll be there."

"I can barely stand," I whispered.

"You'll find the strength," he replied coldly. "Or have you forgotten your mother's condition?"

The threat hung in the air between us, unspoken but unmistakable.

---

The pack meeting hall buzzed with conversation as I leaned against the wall, trying to appear stronger than I felt. My legs threatened to give way beneath me, and my wolf—once strong and vibrant—felt like a flickering ember inside me.

Across the room, Christopher stood tall and proud, publicly praising Camille's dedication to advancing pack medicine.

"My stepsister has made remarkable breakthroughs," he announced to the gathered pack members. "Her research will ensure Silver Ridge remains the strongest pack in the region."

Applause erupted around us. I watched as Camille basked in the attention, her smile triumphant as she glanced in my direction.

"She doesn't even look like an Alpha's mate anymore," a female voice whispered nearby.

I turned slightly, pretending not to listen as two she-wolves huddled together, their eyes darting toward me.

"Have you seen how weak she's become?" one murmured. "She can barely hold her head up."

"Camille says her wolf is fading," the other replied. "Maybe it's for the best. An Alpha needs a strong Luna."

"But Christopher chose her," the first one said, disbelief evident in her tone.

"Choices can be... reconsidered," came the reply.

Their words cut deeper than any of Camille's scalpels. I felt the weight of dozens of eyes on me, judging, evaluating, finding me wanting.

As Christopher continued his praise of Camille's work, I realized with growing horror that her plan was succeeding. She hadn't just been torturing me physically—she'd been systematically destroying my position in the pack.

And Christopher, my mate and my Alpha, was helping her do it.

The winter wind howled outside the pack hospital, its icy fingers finding every crack in the old building's walls. I pulled my thin jacket tighter around me as I hurried down the corridor toward my mother's room. Each step felt heavier than the last, my wolf's presence so faint I could barely feel her anymore.

When I pushed open the door, the sight of my mother made my heart clench. She lay still against the white sheets, her once vibrant face now pale and drawn. The chronic illness that had plagued her for years had worsened with the cold, her breathing labored and shallow.

"Mom," I whispered, taking her frail hand in mine.

Her eyes fluttered open, recognition slowly dawning in them. "Helena... you shouldn't be here. Not when Camille—"

"Shh," I said, squeezing her hand gently. "I had to see you."

The door swung open behind me, and Camille's scent—antiseptic and cold—filled the room before she did.

"Visiting hours are over," she announced, her voice dripping with false concern. "Your mother needs rest, Helena."

I turned to face her, summoning what little strength I had left. "Her condition is getting worse. She needs more frequent treatments."

Camille's lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. "That can be arranged... under certain conditions."

She glanced at my mother, then back at me, her meaning clear.

"Let's discuss this outside," I said quietly, not wanting to upset my mother further.

In the hallway, Camille's facade dropped away completely.

"If you don't cooperate with the next phase of treatments," she said, her voice low and venomous, "I'll convince Christopher to deny your mother further care."

My blood ran cold. "You can't—"

"Oh, but I can," she interrupted. "And more. I can have her declared a burden to the pack. Christopher would have no choice but to banish her from our territory."

"You wouldn't," I whispered, though I knew she absolutely would.

"Try me," Camille replied, her eyes glittering with malice. "Your choice, Helena. More treatments... or your mother dies alone, cast out in the wilderness."

---

I couldn't stay in the hospital any longer. The walls seemed to close in around me as I stumbled into the pack grounds, desperate for fresh air and someone—anyone—who might help.

Marcus, one of the senior Delta wolves, was walking across the training field. I hurried toward him, hope fluttering weakly in my chest.

"Marcus," I called, my voice cracking. "Can I speak with you?"

He turned, surprise flickering across his face before it settled into something more guarded.

"Helena," he said cautiously. "What's wrong?"

"I need help," I said, the words tumbling out. "Camille is—she's using experimental treatments on me without proper care. My wolf is dying, and she's threatening my mother's care if I don't continue."

Marcus shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around as if checking who might be listening.

"I've heard... things," he said finally. "About you."

My heart sank. "What things?"

"That you're not well. Mentally." He wouldn't meet my eyes. "That you're paranoid. Making accusations."

"That's not true," I insisted, grabbing his arm. "Please, Marcus. You've known me for years."

He pulled away, stepping back. "I'm sorry, Helena. I can't get involved in this. Camille says you need help—professional help."

As he walked away, I spotted two other pack members watching from a distance, their expressions a mixture of pity and wariness.

Camille had been busy indeed.

---

The silver restraints bit into my wrists as Camille prepared for what she called "the final phase."

"This will determine if your wolf can survive the separation process," she explained, selecting a syringe filled with clear liquid from her tray.

"What do you mean, separation?" I asked, fear crawling up my spine.

"Just a little experiment," she replied, her voice clinical. "To see if we can isolate the wolf consciousness from the human host."

The needle plunged into my arm, and fire spread through my veins. I screamed as my body convulsed, my wolf howling in agony inside me.

"Interesting," Camille murmured, making notes in her journal. "The wolf is retreating further than anticipated."

I felt it—the precious connection to my wolf stretching thin, becoming gossamer. She was fading, slipping away from me like water through cupped hands.

"Stop," I begged through gritted teeth. "Please, stop."

Camille leaned close, her breath warm against my ear. "Soon you'll be nothing but a broken human, Helena. No wolf, no strength. Unfit to be an Alpha's mate."

She straightened up, her smile triumphant as she made another notation in her journal.

"No one will want you then," she said softly. "Not even Christopher."

As the pain subsided to a dull throb, I felt something inside me change—a fundamental part of myself growing distant, cold. My wolf, once vibrant and strong, now felt like a whisper in a hurricane.

I was becoming exactly what Camille had planned: broken, powerless, alone.