The sharp edge sliced across Lyra's cheek without warning. White-hot pain exploded through her, shooting down every nerve ending, spreading through her entire body. Lyra's whole frame shuddered. She twisted desperately, fighting against the hands that held her, her voice ragged and barely recognizable: "Selene, you wouldn't dare! You do this, and you're not afraid Fenris will summon the Pack Enforcers? I've been his Intended Mate for years—what makes you think you can take my place?"
"Take your place?" Selene laughed—wild, unhinged, triumphant. Her wrist flicked, and the dagger carved a second gash into Lyra's other cheek, this one deep enough to scrape bone. Blood welled up instantly, streaming down her face. Selene leaned in close, her lips brushing Lyra's ear, her whisper meant for no one else: "Lyra, I told you a long time ago. Even if I killed you, Fenris wouldn't blame me one bit."
"You and your dead mother—from the very beginning, you were nothing but stepping stones for me to climb higher in the pack."
The words hung in the air. Then Selene's hand moved again, the dagger dancing across Lyra's face, her neck, slashing wildly. One wound after another appeared, blood beading and spilling like a broken string of pearls, soaking into Lyra's clothes, spattering the cushions crimson.
Lyra fought with everything she had, but her strength was nothing against two Gamma enforcers. She could only watch, helpless, as the blade fell again and again. Eventually, Selene grew tired of the dagger. Not satisfying enough. She threw it aside and raised her hand, bringing her palm crashing across Lyra's face.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The sharp, ringing slaps echoed through the main hall. Each one landed like a hammer blow to Lyra's heart. Her consciousness began to blur. The searing agony across her cheeks nearly stole all sensation, her vision drowning in red. Warm blood kept flooding into her eyes, her mouth. The metallic tang of it filled her nose, coated her throat.
"Well? Do you know you were wrong now?" Selene grabbed a fistful of Lyra's hair and wrenched her head up, forcing her to meet her gaze. Her eyes blazed with vindictive pleasure as she spoke, savoring every word: "When I was nine years old, your mother slapped me in front of the entire pack. Called me the mistress's daughter. Said I was trash who couldn't be shown at gatherings, a disgrace to House Ashenvale."