Then one night, while I was serving mead at a pack feast, I caught his scent—Alaric Blackthorn, the Alpha heir who was supposed to be rotting in a binding cell—hosting a lavish moon-celebration for his precious omega liaison.
A packmate asked, "Alaric, you gifted Lily Ashgrove a moonstone collar worth a fortune, meanwhile your bonded mate is sleeping in cursed dens for a hundred coins. How does your wolf bear the shame?"
Alaric exhaled slowly, smoke curling from the pipe between his fingers. His laugh was cold as winter frost.
"Lyra forced Lily to serve as a maid. These three years? They're her pack penance."
"Once it's complete, I'll stage my return to power."
"She'll still bear the Blackthorn mark."
My body swayed in the cold night wind. I stood there like a puppet with severed strings.
So this was it. Three years of living death—all orchestrated by you.
Fine then. I'll repay you double.
——
I felt like I'd plunged into frozen waters, drowning in darkness. And still, voices drifted out from inside—Garrick Stonewalker was speaking.