The pain in my wrist was sharp.

I looked up at Damian, his eyes blazing with the ferocity of a wolf backed into a bloodied den, and forced a bright, bitter smile.

"This is my reckoning? Kathleen's spirit has left the pack lands, and I'm still drawing breath, aren't I?"​

His face darkened, rage igniting in his eyes like a wildfire tearing through dry pines.

He lunged, his hand clamping around my throat-thumb pressing on the pulse point that marked me as a lycan, squeezing so hard the wolf in me whined.

My face paled. Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable.​

Just when I thought Damian would snuff out the last spark of my wolf spirit, he let go.

I collapsed like a gutted deer, coughing so hard my ribs screamed.

Through the blur of tears, I saw him crouch down, his voice cold as a blade sharpened on moonlit stone.

"I'll make you wish the elders had torn your wolf heart out the day you lied."

He reached for me again, but his hand froze midair, hesitating.

Then, in a flash, he grabbed my collar and yanked. The fabric tore with a sharp rip, and his voice exploded. "What the hell is this!?"

Beneath the fresh red marks from his grip, a deep, black-purple scar snaked across my throat, ugly and jarring.

I swallowed the metallic tang of blood, my trembling hand flying to cover the ragged scar that snaked across my throat-shaped like a wolf tra. They called it "the breaking," a ritual to crush the lycanthropy out of me.​

Day after day, they'd loop a wolfsbane-soaked rope around my neck, hoist me until my toes barely touched the floor, their voices dripping with malice as they snarled,

"Bark it, Emily. You're a mongrel, a curse on the Wolfe line, unworthy of his alpha blood!" Each word was punctuated by a yank, the rope burning through my skin, my wolf spirit howling in agony as they tried to strangle it silent.

At first, I refused to croak that final insult, even if it meant my wolf heart gave out.

By the third year, I was hollowed out, parroting it like a broken pack call:

"Emily. is a vile, worthless she-wolf."​

Damian's palm grazed the wolf-trap scar, and my body went rigid. Tears spilled, but my lips curled into a grin.​

"You know how rogue packs play," I said, voice steady despite the way my claws itched to tear through my skin. "They crave the raw thrill of breaking a purebred-way more satisfying than anything your soft pack life offered."​

His eyes flared, pupils slitting like a wolf about to strike.

He hauled me up, and hurled me onto a bed stuffed with moss.

His rage hung thick as musk, tearing at my clothes with the urgency of a male claiming his right.​

I shuddered, forcing out words through chattering teeth.

"You think this is fair to Brielle?"

He laughed, cold and cruel. "You think you're worth her worry? She's carrying my pup. You're just a tool to burn off steam."

The words carrying my pup and tool hit me like a sledgehammer, freezing my blood. I shut my eyes, my heart ripping apart, and stopped fighting. No kisses, no tenderness-just his brutal, vengeful force, using me like he said. And through it all, his voice, low and vicious, kept demanding, "Is this how they choked you?"

It wasn't until dawn that he pulled away, not sparing me a glance. "Clean this up," he said, voice like ice. "Tonight, you're serving food."

He slammed the door behind him.

I came to later, my body trembling as I knelt on the floor, picking up the mess of torn fabric and bloodstains.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, my clothes in shreds-except for the top I'd clung to with everything I had. That one was still intact. I'd fought so hard to keep it on that it only made Damian angrier, his punishment even harsher.

The pain in my wrist was sharp.

I looked up at Damian, his eyes blazing with the ferocity of a wolf backed into a bloodied den, and forced a bright, bitter smile.

"This is my reckoning? Kathleen's spirit has left the pack lands, and I'm still drawing breath, aren't I?"​

His face darkened, rage igniting in his eyes like a wildfire tearing through dry pines.

He lunged, his hand clamping around my throat-thumb pressing on the pulse point that marked me as a lycan, squeezing so hard the wolf in me whined.

My face paled. Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable.​

Just when I thought Damian would snuff out the last spark of my wolf spirit, he let go.

I collapsed like a gutted deer, coughing so hard my ribs screamed.

Through the blur of tears, I saw him crouch down, his voice cold as a blade sharpened on moonlit stone.

"I'll make you wish the elders had torn your wolf heart out the day you lied."

He reached for me again, but his hand froze midair, hesitating.

Then, in a flash, he grabbed my collar and yanked. The fabric tore with a sharp rip, and his voice exploded. "What the hell is this!?"

Beneath the fresh red marks from his grip, a deep, black-purple scar snaked across my throat, ugly and jarring.

I swallowed the metallic tang of blood, my trembling hand flying to cover the ragged scar that snaked across my throat-shaped like a wolf tra. They called it "the breaking," a ritual to crush the lycanthropy out of me.​

Day after day, they'd loop a wolfsbane-soaked rope around my neck, hoist me until my toes barely touched the floor, their voices dripping with malice as they snarled,

"Bark it, Emily. You're a mongrel, a curse on the Wolfe line, unworthy of his alpha blood!" Each word was punctuated by a yank, the rope burning through my skin, my wolf spirit howling in agony as they tried to strangle it silent.

At first, I refused to croak that final insult, even if it meant my wolf heart gave out.

By the third year, I was hollowed out, parroting it like a broken pack call:

"Emily. is a vile, worthless she-wolf."​

Damian's palm grazed the wolf-trap scar, and my body went rigid. Tears spilled, but my lips curled into a grin.​

"You know how rogue packs play," I said, voice steady despite the way my claws itched to tear through my skin. "They crave the raw thrill of breaking a purebred-way more satisfying than anything your soft pack life offered."​

His eyes flared, pupils slitting like a wolf about to strike.

He hauled me up, and hurled me onto a bed stuffed with moss.

His rage hung thick as musk, tearing at my clothes with the urgency of a male claiming his right.​

I shuddered, forcing out words through chattering teeth.

"You think this is fair to Brielle?"

He laughed, cold and cruel. "You think you're worth her worry? She's carrying my pup. You're just a tool to burn off steam."

The words carrying my pup and tool hit me like a sledgehammer, freezing my blood. I shut my eyes, my heart ripping apart, and stopped fighting. No kisses, no tenderness-just his brutal, vengeful force, using me like he said. And through it all, his voice, low and vicious, kept demanding, "Is this how they choked you?"

It wasn't until dawn that he pulled away, not sparing me a glance. "Clean this up," he said, voice like ice. "Tonight, you're serving food."

He slammed the door behind him.

I came to later, my body trembling as I knelt on the floor, picking up the mess of torn fabric and bloodstains.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, my clothes in shreds-except for the top I'd clung to with everything I had. That one was still intact. I'd fought so hard to keep it on that it only made Damian angrier, his punishment even harsher.

My arms, shoulders, and back were a canvas of scars, words carved into my skin like a twisted tattoo.

When I first got thrown into that cell, I prayed Damian would come for me. Every time they tortured me, I clung to the pain, scratching his name-and mine-into my flesh with my nails to keep going. One year, three years, Six. my name faded away, scratched out, until it was just Damian, Damian, Damian.

I stopped hoping we'd ever meet again. His name became my lifeline, the only thing keeping me alive. But now, that lifeline had crumbled, and I was too broken to piece it back together.

Under the shower's spray, I broke down, sobbing until my voice gave out.

That night, my body still aching, they dragged me out to serve drinks. Laughter and mockery buzzed around me like flies. I just kept pouring liquor down my throat, glass after glass. Meanwhile, Brielle was tucked safely in Damian's arms, his voice soft and careful as he tended to her.

He barked orders at me-fetch this, deliver that. My steps faltered, but I gritted my teeth and pushed through. By the end of the night, after seeing everyone off, I collapsed by a flowerbed, vomiting until the world spun. Damian stood nearby, his face twisted with disgust, and tossed a wad of cash at me.

"Pick it up. Clean yourself off," he said.

I pressed down my trembling hand, gathering the bills-my payment-without a word. I couldn't go back to that place. It was too filthy. I had to vanish clean, not a single bone left behind.

Damian and Brielle's binding ceremony was coming up fast, and he dumped all the prep work on me.

"Brielle covets the moonstone pendant from the pack auction-mined from the heart of our sacred mountain, infused with a century of alpha essence. Secure it, even if you have to bleed for it."​

"The grove setup reeks of rogue stench. Tear it down. She wants the bonding ritual on the silverlake yacht, its hull carved with our bloodline runes."​

"Brielle's taken with Juliet roses, grown only in the valley where the moon kisses the soil. Fly in crates fresh from dawn's harvest, drown every corner in their scent-strong enough to mask any trace of lesser wolves. The venison tartare and elderflower mead must be aged to her liking, no substitutions. She's carrying the next Wolfe heir; nothing less than perfection will do."

I ran myself ragged every day, jumping to meet their endless demands. At night, I was Damian's tool to vent his rage. Mornings, I could barely drag myself out of bed.

I put together their entire binding ceremony, but when the day came, it wasn't me standing on that stage. Brielle, arm in arm with Damian, soaked up every gaze in the room. The crowd's praise filled my ears, but I was tucked away in a corner, untouched by the light. Exhausted from the grind, my eyes drifted shut.

I dreamed of my own binding ceremony with Damian. His eyes, deep and full of love, pulled me in like a tide. He slid a ring onto my finger, slow and deliberate.

"You're mine now," he'd said, voice warm. "Unless I'm dead, we're bound forever."

The crowd's howls of blessing rippled through the clearing-prayers to the moon for a lifetime of shared hunts, an eternity of intertwined scents.

In the dream, my lips should've curled into a wolfish smile, but my cheeks were soaked with tears that steamed against my skin.​

How could a dying she-wolf measure up to the heavens?

My lycanthropic heart was slowing, each beat a faint thump against my ribs.

Moments like this-standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the moon, our shadows merging as one-had scattered like smoke on the wind, gone for good.

When I woke, Brielle was sitting across from me.

"Emily, it's been a while," she said, swirling a wine glass, her eyes looking down on me like I was dirt. "I don't get it. You're sitting here, crying like a pup, but back then, why'd you do it?"

I scrambled to wipe away the tears from my dream, my hands shaking. Her gaze brought it all back-the bullying, the nightmares that never left.

"You didn't see this coming, did you?" she went on, her voice icy.

"Damian stood up for you back then, but now? He's in love with me. How could he ever want someone as weak and boring as you? Good thing you dug your own grave."

I kept my head down, my left hand clamping my trembling right. "I won't. get in your way," I rasped.

She scoffed.

"Not here to crawl back to him? Then why show up?"

Before I could answer, she tipped her glass, splashing red wine all over her gown.

Her face shifted to panic, and she shrieked, "Emily!"