Alana POV:

The reply came within three minutes.

Consider it done. I'll be there.

I deleted the message, wiped the RAM, and scrubbed the router logs. One hour. One hour to erase three years.

I went to the bedroom and pulled out the Divorce Agreement. In our world, legal divorce was messy, but a Mate Rejection was spiritual law. I needed to sign the legal papers first to untangle our assets, to show him I wanted nothing from his blood money.

I placed the papers on his desk, hidden under a stack of reports.

Just as I turned to leave, the front door slammed.

My scent spiked with fear. He wasn't supposed to be back.

"Alana!"

The Alpha Command in his voice hit my knees like a sledgehammer. I bit my tongue until I tasted copper to stay standing.

Austen walked in. Agitated. Dark hair messy. Eyes flashing gold. His wolf was fighting for control.

He stopped, nostrils flaring. He was inhaling my scent. Rain and jasmine. To him, it was heroin. I saw his pupils dilate. He took a step toward me, reaching out.

Mate, his wolf seemed to whisper.

For a second, the air crackled with the bond. The undeniable pull.

Then, a high-pitched scream shattered the moment.

"Austen! Help me! She put glass in it!"

Joyce.

Austen's face hardened. The gold vanished, replaced by steel gray. He pushed past me, slamming my shoulder into the doorframe.

We ran to the guest room. Joyce was on the floor, clutching her arm. Blood oozed between her fingers. Beside her, a shattered vase.

"I just wanted to talk to her," Joyce sobbed, playing the victim with Oscar-worthy precision. "I asked if her hand was okay, and she... she threw the vase at me. She called me a leech."

"I didn't," I said, voice shaking. "I haven't seen her all night."

"Liar!" Joyce shrieked. She revealed a shallow cut on her forearm. "Look what she did!"

I smelled it then. The faint, acrid scent of Wolfsbane on the glass. Stale. Pre-applied. She had laced the glass before cutting herself.

Austen turned to me. The temperature dropped.

"You used Wolfsbane?" he growled.

"Austen, use your nose! The scent is stale! She put it there herself!" I pleaded.

Austen grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. His grip was bruising. "My wolf wants to rip the throat out of anyone who accuses you."

A flicker of hope.

"But my wolf is an animal guided by biology. I am guided by honor. You attacked the woman who saved my life."

"I saved your life!" I screamed. The truth ripped out of me.

Austen froze. Then, he laughed. Dark. Hollow. "You? You were a child. You passed out from fear in the backseat. Joyce carried both of us."

He shoved me away. "Stay here. I need to get the antidote."

He turned to Joyce, voice softening. "I'll be right back."

He left.

I stood there, panting. Joyce stopped crying instantly. The tears evaporated. She looked at me, a smirk curling her lips.

"You're pathetic," she whispered. "I own his guilt, Alana. Which means I own him."

"I'm leaving," I said quietly. "You can have him. You deserve each other."

I turned to the door. I had to get to the access road.

Blocked.

A massive Beta warrior stood there, holding a cloth dripping with liquid. Metallic. Sharp.

High-concentration liquid Silver.

"Alpha's orders," the Beta grunted. "Containment."

"No," I gasped.

He lunged. I tried to dodge, but my broken hand slowed me down. He clamped the cloth over my face.

The silver burned like acid. My lungs seized. The last thing I saw was Joyce, checking her nails.

"Make sure you tie her tight," she said. "We have a long night ahead."

Alana POV:

I woke to the sound of a motor whirring. A high-pitched mechanical whine.

I was strapped to a metal chair in the basement. Damp concrete. Rust. My head felt heavy, throbbing from the silver fumes.

"Ninety-seven," a voice said.

Austen stood at a workbench. He was adjusting a tool.

"Please," I croaked. "Austen, stop. I signed the papers. I'm leaving."

He turned. In his hand was a handheld mechanical drill. The bit wasn't steel; it was coated in shimmering, pure silver.

"You don't get to leave," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Not until you learn. You tried to poison her with Wolfsbane. An eye for an eye. But since you heal..."

He walked toward me.

"No, Austen! Check the security logs! Look at the evidence!"

He grabbed my left hand—the one he had already crushed.

"This hand threw the vase," he said.

"I didn't!"

He didn't hesitate. He pressed the spinning drill bit into the center of my palm.

The scream tore from my throat, raw and animalistic.

It wasn't just pain; it was violation. The silver burned through skin, muscle, and bone, cauterizing as it went, preventing regeneration. It felt like he was pouring molten lava directly into my marrow.

My inner wolf howled, slamming against the mental walls, but the silver neutralized her.

Austen held the drill there. Five seconds. Ten. An eternity.

When he pulled it back, there was a neat, smoking hole through my hand.

I slumped, gasping, vision blurring.

The door opened. Dr. Evans, the Pack Healer, hurried in holding a vial of glowing green liquid. Regeneration Serum. Elder Tree extract. Priceless.

"Alpha," Dr. Evans said, looking at my hand with horror. "She needs this. The silver damage... it could be permanent nerve damage."

Austen took the vial. The green light reflected in his cold eyes.

"Joyce has a scar on her arm," Austen said. "She heals slowly. She needs this to ensure there is no mark."

"But Alpha... Joyce's wound is a scratch. Alana's hand is destroyed."

"Give it to Joyce," Austen commanded. The Alpha tone brooked no argument.

"Yes, Alpha."

Austen walked over to me. He took a silver knife and sliced his own palm.

"We share this," he whispered, holding his bleeding hand near my face. The scent of pine and rain was now nauseating. "I bleed when you bleed. This is our penance."

"You are insane," I whispered. "You aren't my mate. You're my executioner."

He flinched. A crack in the mask. But he sealed it quickly.

"I am saving your soul."

For two days, I was kept in the medical wing. Austen played the devoted husband. Feeding me soup. Stroking my hair. It was psychological torture. He refused to look at the hole he had drilled.

On the third morning, a text. He read it and stood up.

"Joyce is sad," he said. "She needs me."

He left.

I waited five minutes. I dragged my IV stand to the door.

Down the hall, Joyce stood by the window. Austen walked up to her. She threw her arms around him.

"I was so scared," she cried, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. "I thought you chose her."

"Never," Austen said. He kissed her.

Deep. Hungry. A public claim.

My stomach turned. I retched.

I looked down at my right hand. The Luna Candidate ring. A promise.

I pulled it off.

My knuckle was swollen, but I yanked until skin tore.

I walked to the biohazard bin. Bloody gauze. Needles.

I dropped the ring inside.

Clink.

The sound of a chain breaking.

I climbed back into bed. My inner wolf went silent. Hibernation. The first stage of a severed bond.

When Austen returned, he paused. Sniffed the air.

"Where is your ring?"

"I don't know," I lied, staring at the wall. "Must have fallen off when I was writhing in pain."

I heard his breath hitch. His wolf growled low, sensing the loss.

I didn't care. The Alana who loved him died in the basement.

Alana POV:

"We'll find it," Austen said, voice laced with a frantic edge. He was on his knees, searching under the bed. "Rings don't just vanish."

"Leave it," I said. "It's just metal."

He stood up, dusting off his suit. "It is the symbol of our union."

"Our union is a hole in my hand, Austen."

He flinched. He hated reality. He preferred his delusion of 'atonement.'

"Get dressed," he commanded. "We are going out. I bought you something."

He drove us to the city. High-end district. Jewelry stores. Boutiques. He bought bags of designer clothes, trying to bury the guilt under silk and leather.

"Look," he said, holding up a blue dress. "Matches your eyes."

"My eyes are gray," I said. "That dress is turquoise."

He ignored me. "We're going to the Grand Auction House. There's a piece... I want you to see."

He almost slipped. He was taking me to buy a gift for Joyce.

The auction house was crowded. We sat in a private box. Joyce was there, hooded, in the corner. She waved.

Item 45.

My heart stopped.

A silver locket, etched with moon phases. Tarnished. Old.

Mother's locket.

Lost when our assets were seized. Inside was a microscopic engraving of the White Wolf genealogy map. My death warrant if found.

"Bidding starts at five thousand," the auctioneer announced.

"Ten thousand," I said, voice shaking.

Austen looked surprised. "You want that junk?"

"It was my mother's."

"Fifteen thousand," a voice called.

Joyce's proxy. She knew.

"Twenty thousand," I cried.

"Thirty."

"Fifty thousand!" I was desperate.

Austen grabbed my arm. "Alana, stop. It's garbage. Joyce wants it for her collection. Let her have it. I'll buy you diamonds."

"No!" I tried to stand. "Eighty thousand!"

"Sit down," Austen said.

"One hundred thousand!" I screamed.

Austen's eyes flashed Alpha red.

"I command you to stop bidding."

The Command hit me like a physical gag. My vocal cords paralyzed. My tongue turned to lead. I fought it, pushing against the invisible wall of his will.

Internal organs squeezed. Capillaries burst. I coughed, and blood splattered onto the velvet railing.

"Sold to the lady in the back for thirty thousand."

The command lifted. I slumped, gasping, blood dripping from my chin.

Austen looked at the blood, horrified. "Why did you fight the command? You know it hurts you."

"You... gave it to her," I wheezed. "You gave her my mother."

Joyce looked up at our box and winked. Then ran out, feigning tears.

"She's upset because you drove the price up," Austen sighed. "I need to check on her. Stay here. This behavior requires a lesson."

He left me bleeding.

I wiped my mouth and stumbled toward the exit. I had to get that locket.

I reached the parking garage. Dim. Smelling of exhaust.

"Well, well," a voice sneered.

Two warriors from the Blood Moon Pack. Low-level thugs Austen used for dirty work.

"Alpha says you need to learn respect," one said, cracking knuckles.

"He didn't send you," I said, backing away.

"He said 'teach her a lesson,'" the warrior grinned. "Interpretation is open."

He swung a metal bat.

I tried to dodge. The other grabbed my hair. The bat connected with my ribs.

Crack.

Pain exploded. I fell to the concrete. They kicked me. Once. Twice.

"Useless Omega," they spat. "Can't even heal right."

They left me in a puddle of oil and blood.

My phone beeped.

A photo from Joyce.

Her high heel, crushing the silver locket.

Oops, the caption read. It was so brittle. Just like you. Come to your father's house for dinner. Bring the pieces. Maybe you can glue them back together.

I stared at the photo.

I wasn't going to glue it back together. I was going to retrieve the shards.

And then, I was going to burn their world down.