“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.