Thorne didn’t even glance at me. He merely inspected his blade again, as if it mattered more than my existence. “We’re wealthy, Nyx. But I’m not wasting money on hired help when you’re already here. Two hands, two feet—what more do you need? Besides, I don’t like unnecessary omegas cluttering the packhouse.”
They called me the woman of the house.
Yet I owned nothing.
No car. No account. Not even the right to spend without permission. Every expense had to be justified, documented, approved—like I was a stranger stealing from them.
That night, when the noise finally died and the house fell silent, I pulled the old red suitcase from the back of the closet.
The same one Thorne had bought for me in Australia, years before our mating ceremony, back when he still meant his vows.
I stared at my hands.
They were rough. Scarred. Aged by work no one acknowledged.
Once, I had been someone.
Mira—daughter of a feared Alpha. A she-wolf born with dominance in her veins. A Luna by blood, not marriage.
I gave it all up for love. Turned my back on my lineage, believing that bonding with Thorne Darkhowl would be enough.
And now?
Now I was nothing more than a forgotten presence.