“No! Please!” I screamed. “It was my fault! I was wrong! Don't hurt the dog, please, I'm begging you!”
I threw myself to the floor, clinging to his boot. My head struck the marble with a sickening crack.
The servants turned away in silence.
I had learned to beg three years ago—the day I miscarried and almost died.
The doctors said I might never carry again. And my first instinct was to say:
“I’m sorry. I failed you, Alpha.”
He held me back then. Told me it didn’t matter. That we had each other.
And later, he was still good to me—so good that I cried myself to sleep, fearing the doctor’s words.
So when he came home late, I stayed silent.
When I saw lipstick on his shirt, I didn’t ask.
When he brought Freya to me and said she’d give birth for me, I still didn’t speak.
But after my parents were killed in that brutal rogue attack, Draven changed.
Everything tender in him went to Freya. I became a discarded, infertile she-wolf—unworthy of the pack's respect.
At first, I endured. I begged. I submitted.
Because I loved him.
But now? I was done.
Blood filled my mouth as I bit down hard, and I refused to cry.
Draven's eyes narrowed as he saw the blood. His hand twitched, as if to touch my lip—then he turned away.
He loosened his collar and muttered coldly,
“Ella, you’re no longer the precious daughter of a noble bloodline of powerful wolves. Who are you putting on this pathetic act for? Stop acting like a tragic Luna. No one’s watching.”
The moment the private pack doctor arrived, Alpha Draven stalked toward him. His shoulder slammed into mine without a glance, the force sending me stumbling back.
I caught my breath, straightened my spine, and turned to leave.
Outside the packhouse, Alpha Draven's Beta waited, his posture stiff, eyes downcast. He’d been standing guard for a long time.
I quickened my pace, needing space—air.
But before I reached him, two hands, strong as iron, grabbed my arms and yanked me back.
“Alpha Draven requests your presence,” Draven's loyal warrior growled, his voice as emotionless as stone.
I didn’t resist. There was no point.
In the study, Alpha Draven stood by the hearth, casually buttoning his dark shirt, the moonlight catching on the Alpha insignia sewn into the collar. His movements were controlled, cold.