The separation papers felt like they weighed a thousand pounds in my trembling hands as I pushed open the heavy oak door to Nathaniel's study. He sat behind his massive desk, not bothering to look up from the documents before him.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice cold and distracted. "I'm busy."

I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached his desk, my wolf cowering within me.

"I want to sever the bond," I said, my voice steadier than I expected as I placed the papers before him. "I've drawn up the sacred rejection vow."

That got his attention. His head snapped up, eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You dare?"

"The Moon Goddess may have chosen me as your mate," I continued, gathering courage from somewhere deep inside, "but you've made it clear you don't want me. I won't be used as a blood bag for the rest of my life."

Something dark flickered across his face. He rose slowly from his chair, his massive frame casting a shadow over me.

"I, Diana Spencer," I began reciting from memory, "reject you, Nathaniel Reed, as my—"

The words died in my throat as his Alpha Aura slammed into me like a physical wall. The air vanished from my lungs as I collapsed to my knees, my body betraying me once again.

"You think you can reject me?" he snarled, circling his desk to tower over me. "You think you have that right?"

I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe under the crushing weight of his power. My wolf whimpered, curling into herself.

"Nathaniel," I gasped, fighting against the invisible force pressing down on me. "Please..."

His hand shot out, grabbing the papers from his desk. With deliberate slowness, he pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and flicked it open.

"Watch carefully," he said, his voice deadly quiet as he touched the flame to the corner of the pages.

The papers caught fire, curling into black ash that fluttered to the floor between us. The sacred words—my one hope for freedom—turned to smoke and nothing.

"Let me make something perfectly clear," he said, crouching down to grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You will never sever this bond. You will never leave this pack. And if you ever attempt something this stupid again, I will personally exile your mother to the Rogue lands."

The threat hung between us, cold and terrible. Shay might have treated me like a servant, but she was still my mother. The thought of her alone among the rogues—the outcasts who survived by violence and desperation—made bile rise in my throat.

"Do you understand?" he demanded.

"Yes, Alpha," I whispered, defeat washing over me.

---

Three days later, Martha burst into my tiny room in the servants' quarters.

"Get up," she snapped. "The Alpha's chosen mate is moving into the Alpha suite today. You'll be serving their private dinner tonight."

My stomach twisted. Presley was officially taking her place as Nathaniel's chosen mate—even though our bond remained intact.

"Is that necessary?" I asked quietly.

Martha's smile was cruel. "The Alpha insists. You'll wear your Omega uniform."

The Omega uniform—ragged, faded, marked with the symbol of the lowest rank. Designed to humiliate.

That evening, I stood in the corner of the Alpha's dining room, watching as Presley arranged herself at Nathaniel's right hand. She'd decorated the table with candles and fresh flowers, transforming the space into something intimate and romantic.

"Serve the wine," Presley commanded, not even looking at me.

I moved forward, the bottle heavy in my hands. As I leaned between them to pour, Presley shifted suddenly, her arm brushing against mine.

"Careful," she hissed for my ears alone. "Remember your place."

I stepped back, but not before Nathaniel's nostrils flared. His eyes widened slightly, a strange expression crossing his face as he inhaled deeply.

For a moment, he stared at me with something like recognition—or longing—his wolf responding to my scent without his permission.

"What is it?" Presley asked sharply, noticing his distraction.

Nathaniel blinked, seemingly confused by his own reaction. "Nothing," he muttered, but his eyes kept drifting back to me.

Presley's face darkened with fury. She reached for her wine glass, then deliberately knocked it over, spilling red liquid across the white tablecloth.

"Oh!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "I don't feel well!"

She slid from her chair, collapsing dramatically onto the floor. Nathaniel was at her side instantly, panic replacing his earlier confusion.

"Presley!" he cried, gathering her into his arms. "What's wrong?"

"The pain," she whispered weakly. "It's back."

Nathaniel's head snapped up, his eyes finding mine with sudden rage. "Guards!" he roared.

Two Delta wolves appeared instantly at the door.

"Take her to the clinic," he ordered, pointing at me. "Now!"

"But I didn't—" I began.

"Now!" he thundered, his Alpha Command silencing me.

Strong hands gripped my arms, dragging me from the room as Presley nestled against Nathaniel's chest, her eyes meeting mine over his shoulder—alert, triumphant, and utterly healthy.

The guards pulled me down the corridor toward the clinic, where I knew Dr. Webb would be waiting with his needles and vials.

"Please," I begged as they shoved me through the doors. "This isn't right."

But no one was listening. In the Blood Moon Pack, the Alpha's word was law—and I was nothing but property to be used for another's survival.

The morning sun offered no warmth as Martha strode into the servants' quarters, her face twisted in its usual contempt.

"Spencer," she snapped, tossing a worn basket at my feet. "The Moonflowers need tending. Every vine, every thorn."

I looked up from the floor where I'd been sorting laundry. "The Moonflowers? But they're—"

"Exactly," Martha cut me off with a cruel smile. "They're Presley's favorite. She wants them perfect for her birthday celebration tomorrow."

The Moonflowers were the pack's prized possession—rare, beautiful, and deadly. Their silver-blue blooms only opened under moonlight, but their vines were covered in thick, razor-sharp thorns that could pierce through leather gloves.

"Where are the gardening gloves?" I asked, rising to my feet.

Martha's laugh was like broken glass. "Gloves? For an Omega? Don't be ridiculous."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out my work gloves, dangling them before me before stuffing them back in. "These are mine now. You'll use your hands."

My stomach twisted. "The thorns—"

"The thorns will teach you respect," she hissed. "Or have you forgotten your place again?"

I hadn't forgotten. How could I? Every moment since the rejection papers burned had been a reminder.

The garden was silent except for the distant calls of birds. The Moonflower patch stretched before me, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Each vine gleamed with wicked thorns that caught the sunlight like tiny knives.

I knelt in the dirt, my knees pressing into the cold earth. The first vine reached for me eagerly, its thorns finding my palm before I could react. Pain shot through my hand as the barbs sank deep.

"Diana," my wolf whimpered inside me. "This is wrong."

"It's necessary," I whispered back, gritting my teeth as I carefully pruned the vine.

Blood welled from the puncture wounds, dripping onto the dark soil. I moved to the next vine, and the next. Each one left its mark, each cut deeper than the last.

Time blurred as I worked. My hands became numb, then tingled, then burned with fire. The thorns tore through skin and muscle, leaving ragged wounds that refused to heal. Golden Healer Blood—the very thing they valued in me—now flowed uselessly into the dirt.

"Almost done," I murmured to myself, though my vision swam with exhaustion.

A shadow fell across me. I looked up, blinking away tears of pain.

"By the Moon Goddess," a deep voice breathed.

A man stood before me—tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes that widened in horror at the sight of my hands. Alpha Patrick Hamilton of the Silver Lake Pack. I'd seen him once or twice at inter-pack gatherings, always from a distance.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"Pruning the Moonflowers," I replied stupidly, as if it weren't obvious.

His wolf rumbled audibly, a sound of distress that echoed through the garden. Without hesitation, he knelt beside me, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket.

"These need bandaging," he said, gently taking my bleeding hands in his.

His touch was warm, careful—so different from Nathaniel's bruising grip. Patrick wrapped the silk around my wounds with practiced precision.

"Why are you helping me?" I whispered.

His eyes met mine, golden flecks dancing in their depths. "Because no one deserves this."

Something shifted in the air between us—a recognition, perhaps, or a memory I couldn't quite grasp.

"Patrick Hamilton," he said softly. "We were at the academy together, before..."

Before I became Nathaniel's prisoner. Before my life became this nightmare.

"Diana," I managed, my voice barely audible.

"I know who you are," he said, his fingers lingering on mine. "And this isn't right."

A growl tore through the garden—primal, furious, and unmistakably Alpha. We both turned to see Nathaniel standing on the terrace, his eyes blazing with rage.

In three long strides, he was upon us. His hand closed around my upper arm, yanking me away from Patrick with such force that I cried out.

"What do you think you're doing?" Nathaniel snarled, his voice deadly quiet.

Patrick rose slowly to his feet, his posture careful but unafraid. "The girl was injured. I was helping."

"She is not yours to touch," Nathaniel spat. "She belongs to this pack."

"To you," Patrick corrected, his tone level but challenging. "Not to the pack."

Something dangerous flashed in Nathaniel's eyes. He pulled me tighter against his side, my bleeding hands crushed between us.

"Stay away from my property," he warned, the words dripping with venom.

"Property?" Patrick's eyebrows rose. "Is that what you call your mate?"

The air between them crackled with tension, two Alphas on the edge of violence. My heart hammered against my ribs as Nathaniel's fingers dug deeper into my flesh.

"Stay. Away. From. Her," Nathaniel repeated, each word a lethal promise.

Patrick's gaze dropped to my hands, still wrapped in his silk handkerchief. Something like determination hardened his features.

"This isn't over," he said quietly.

As he turned to leave, Nathaniel's grip tightened until I gasped in pain. But Patrick had already seen enough—and I knew with sudden certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.