"This is what happens when Caspian Thornecrest doesn't keep his blood-oath promises. If he won't stop, you'll pay," the man growled, his canines elongated, eyes flashing amber with his wolf just beneath the surface.
It was then I spotted a familiar dark vehicle pulling onto the forest road. Caspian was inside. Scarlett Ashwood sat in the passenger seat beside him, her blonde head tilted toward his shoulder. I screamed, my voice hoarse and desperate.
"Help me!"
Caspian glanced at me through the window. His expression did not change. Not a flicker. Not a flinch.
Instead, he turned to his Omega Attendant and cupped his hands over her ears, as if shielding her from danger. As if she were the one who needed protecting.
"Don't listen, don't look, or you'll have nightmares tonight," he murmured coolly.
Then the window rolled up, and the vehicle sped away, leaving nothing behind but the fading scent of cedarwood and betrayal.
I was left there alone. Tears carved hot trails down my cheeks. The enforcers did not hesitate.
One slammed me hard against the trunk of a fallen oak, and the jagged edge of a broken branch tore deep into my arm. Blood poured freely from the wound, its metallic scent flooding the air around me.
When they finally left, they left a message. "Tell Caspian this is just the beginning."
I dragged myself to the pack healer's den, my body battered and my spirit shattered. But the healer's words struck harder than any of the blows.
"You were about a moon's cycle along," she said softly, her eyes lowered, unable to meet mine. "We couldn't save the pup. The trauma to your body was too severe."
My eyes fixed on the ceiling of the healing den, hollow and numb. My inner wolf lay curled in the darkest corner of my mind, silent for the first time in years. Not pacing. Not snarling. Just still. A grief too vast for sound.
Later that night, when I returned to the den we shared, Caspian walked in carrying a bottle of aged whiskey in one hand and a reinforced case in the other. Most likely it contained pack resources or silver-tipped weapons from one of his territorial deals.
Without pause, he tossed the case onto the table and loosened the collar of his dark shirt. He barely glanced in my direction. The scent of smoke and dried blood clung to his skin and his clothes. It was a constant reminder of the brutal life he led, the violent world he chose over me every single day.