The bristles of the scrub brush had become an extension of my hand, a harsh, scratching limb that I couldn't detach. My knees were raw, the skin worn thin against the unforgiving marble of the ballroom floor. It had been weeks since my release from the asylum, yet I felt more imprisoned now than I ever did behind iron bars.

"Missed a spot."

The voice drifted down from above, dripping with false sweetness. I didn't need to look up to know it was Jolene. The scent of synthetic roses and rot was suffocating.

I kept scrubbing, the rhythmic *shhh-shhh* of the brush the only thing grounding me. "I have cleaned this section three times, Jolene."

"Luna Jolene," she corrected, her voice sharpening. "And I say it's still filthy."

A shadow fell over my work. I watched, frozen, as she tipped a bucket she had been holding. Thick, muddy water—likely dredged from the garden beds—sloshed out, pooling instantly over the pristine white marble I had spent the last two hours polishing. The dark sludge spread toward my knees, soaking into the hem of my gray servant's dress.

I stopped scrubbing. My hands, red and chapped, trembled on the handle of the brush. I looked up. Jolene stood there, smirking, her manicured hand resting on her hip.

"Oops," she said, her eyes devoid of apology. She crouched down, ignoring the mud near her expensive heels, and reached out to touch my hand. Her nail, painted a perfect crimson, traced the jagged scar on my wrist where the silver cuffs used to be.

"Look at you," she whispered, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "Broken nails. Gray skin. You look like a corpse, Naomi. Do you really think Cole ever wanted this? Even before the accident, he hated weakness. He just didn't know how to tell you."

She stood up, wiping her hand on her skirt as if I were the dirt. "Clean it up. The ball starts in four hours. If I see a speck of dust, you sleep outside with the rogues."

***

The ballroom was a galaxy of crystal and light. The chandeliers I had once picked out myself cast a golden glow over the Pack’s elite. Music swelled, a waltz that vibrated through the floorboards, mocking the ache in my bones.

I moved through the crowd like a shadow, clutching a heavy silver tray of champagne flutes. I was invisible to them. Warriors I had grown up with, friends I had once shared secrets with—they all looked through me. To them, I was just a stain in the corner of the room, draped in a coarse, shapeless sack of gray linen.

Then, the double doors at the top of the grand staircase opened.

A hush fell over the room. Alpha Cole stepped out, looking regal in a tuxedo that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. But my eyes didn't linger on him. They were drawn, like a moth to a killing flame, to the woman on his arm.

Jolene.

She was wearing it.

The breath left my lungs in a painful wheeze. It was a gown of white silk chiffon, with delicate lace sleeves that looked like spun sugar and a bodice encrusted with tiny pearls. I knew every stitch of that dress. I had sketched the design myself three years ago for my own Luna Ceremony.

It was supposed to be mine. It was the symbol of my union, my future, my pack.

Now, it hung on the woman who had stolen my life.

Cole led her down the stairs, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. As they reached the floor, the crowd bowed. I shrank back against a pillar, trying to merge with the stone.

"Champagne!" a voice barked.

I flinched and hurried toward a group of visiting dignitaries near the orchestra. One of them was Alpha Sterling from the Northern territory. He didn't recognize me. Why would he? The vibrant, strong girl he had met years ago was dead.

As I approached, balancing the heavy tray, I felt a sudden, sharp pressure in my skull. It wasn't a headache. It was an intrusion.

*Look at me, Omega.*

Cole’s voice thundered in my mind, utilizing the Alpha command. My head snapped up against my will. Across the room, Cole was watching me over the rim of his glass. His eyes were cold, hard flint. He wasn't looking at me with pity; he was looking at me with disgust.

He wanted a show.

I reached Alpha Sterling, offering the tray. "Your drink, Alpha," I whispered, my voice raspy.

*Spill it,* Cole commanded.

My heart hammered against my ribs. *No,* I pleaded silently, fighting the compulsion. *Please, Cole. Don't.*

The pressure in my head intensified, a crushing weight that threatened to snap my sanity. The bond flared, burning hot with his dominance. He wasn't asking. He was forcing my limbs to move like a marionette.

*I said, spill it on yourself. Show them what a clumsy, useless thing you are.*

My resistance shattered. My hand jerked violently.

The tray tipped. three full flutes of champagne cascaded down the front of my dress. The cold liquid soaked instantly through the thin gray fabric, plastering it to my skin, sticky and humiliating. The glass flutes shattered on the floor with a sound that silenced the nearby conversation.

"What the hell!" Alpha Sterling jumped back, brushing droplets from his suit.

I stood there, dripping, shaking, surrounded by broken glass. The room turned to stare.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammered, dropping to my knees to pick up the shards with my bare hands. "I'm so clumsy. I'm sorry."

A shard sliced my palm, but I barely felt it. I could only feel Cole’s gaze from across the room. I risked a glance. He was smiling—a cruel, satisfied curl of his lip—while Jolene laughed behind her hand, the white gown pristine and glowing under the lights.

The humiliation of the champagne spill wasn't enough for them. The murmurs of the crowd had barely died down when Jolene’s voice cut through the tension, sickeningly sweet like rotting fruit.

"Oh, Cole, don't be too harsh on her," she cooed, dabbing at her dry eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Perhaps she’s just nervous. You know, Naomi used to play the piano so beautifully for your sister. Maybe... maybe if she played for us now, it would calm everyone’s spirits?"

My blood ran cold. I hadn't touched a piano since the day I was dragged to the asylum. My fingers were stiff, my spirit shattered.

"An excellent idea," Cole said, his voice flat. He looked at me, his eyes daring me to refuse. "Play, Naomi. Show the pack you’re good for something other than making a mess."

I had no choice. The Alpha command pushed at the base of my skull, a dull, throbbing ache. I walked toward the grand Steinway in the corner of the room, my wet dress clinging to my legs. The guests parted like the Red Sea, their gazes heavy with judgment.

I sat on the bench. The keys gleamed under the chandelier light, looking wet, as if they had just been polished. I took a shaky breath, trying to summon a memory of music, of a time before pain.

I lifted my hands and brought them down on a C-major chord.

*Sizzle.*

The sound wasn't music. It was the sound of meat hitting a hot pan.

Agony, white-hot and instant, shot up my arms. I screamed—a raw, animalistic sound that tore from my throat before I could stop it. I yanked my hands back, falling off the bench and scrambling away from the instrument. Smoke curled from my fingertips. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

Liquid silver. She had coated the keys in liquid silver.

I cradled my hands to my chest, rocking back and forth on the floor, tears blurring my vision. "It burns!" I sobbed. "It burns!"

"Cole!" Jolene shrieked from across the room. She threw herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. "That noise! She’s feral! She’s trying to scare me! My wolf is terrified!"

Cole didn't even look at my smoking hands. He wrapped his arms around Jolene, stroking her hair, his face twisted in concern for *her*.

"Shh, it’s okay, baby," he murmured, glaring at me over her shoulder with pure hatred. "Get out of my sight, Naomi! You’ve ruined enough for tonight."

***

Two hours later, I sat on the edge of a cot in the infirmary, struggling to wrap gauze around my own fingers. The pack healer, Dr. Cross, had been ordered to stay away. I had to use my teeth to tighten the bandages, whimpering as the coarse fabric rubbed against the blisters.

The door banged open. Cole filled the frame, still in his tuxedo, looking like a dark god of vengeance.

I scrambled to my feet, clutching my bandaged hands.

"Why?" I whispered, my voice hoarse from screaming. "Why do you let her do this to me?"

Cole stepped closer, backing me against the cold tile wall. "Jolene does nothing but try to help you. You are the one who is broken."

"Then let me go!" I cried out, a sudden surge of desperation giving me courage. "If I am so broken, if I am nothing to you, then reject me! Sever the bond, Cole! I can't take this anymore. Let me leave!"

For a second, the air in the room went still. Cole’s eyes darkened, his pupils dilating as his wolf surfaced. He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear.

"Reject you?" he laughed, a low, dark sound devoid of humor. "And let you run off to be a rogue? To die easy? No."

He slammed his hand against the wall next to my head, making me flinch.

"You aren't going anywhere, Naomi. Because Jolene is pregnant."

The world stopped. My breath hitched in my throat. Pregnant. He had knotted with her. He was giving her a child—a child that should have been mine.

"She is carrying the future Alpha," Cole hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "And since you are responsible for my sister’s death, you will spend the rest of your miserable life serving that child. You will be its nanny. You will wash its clothes. You will watch it grow up and know that you are nothing."

He pulled back, straightening his jacket with a cruel smirk. "That is your atonement. Get used to it."

He left me there, sliding down the wall, drowning in a grief so deep I thought it would finally kill me.

***

The next morning, the sun rose, indifferent to my suffering. My hands were throbbing pulses of pain, but the work didn't stop. I was on my knees on the front porch, a scrub brush awkwardly clamped between my bandaged palms, trying to scour away a mud stain.

The sound of heavy engines made the gravel vibrate beneath my knees. I didn't look up. I wasn't allowed to look at visitors.

A convoy of four black SUVs, sleek and armored, rolled up the long driveway. They moved with a predatory silence. As they came to a halt, the air pressure shifted. It wasn't just authority; it was power. Ancient, crushing power.

Sentries near the gate dropped to one knee, their heads bowing low. Even the birds in the trees seemed to go silent.

The door of the lead vehicle opened. A pair of polished black dress shoes stepped onto the gravel.

I kept my head down, scrubbing harder, praying to be invisible. But the presence was overwhelming. It felt like standing next to a lightning storm. It was terrifying, yet... strange. My dormant wolf, silent for so long, stirred in the back of my mind.

*Look up,* she whispered weakly.

I couldn't help it. I lifted my gaze.

Standing there was a man who looked like he had been carved from marble and shadow. He was tall, broader than Cole, radiating an aura that made the air shimmer. But it was his eyes that froze me. They were gold—bright, molten gold.

He wasn't looking at the Pack House. He wasn't looking at the Alpha who was rushing out the front door to greet him.

Lycan Prince Nikolai Griffin was looking straight at me.

His gaze dropped to my bandaged hands, then back to my face. His golden eyes narrowed, and for the first time in three years, I didn't feel like dirt. I felt seen.

And I felt safe.