"Lyra Nightveil is spoiled. Arrogant. Insufferable. Lily accidentally damaged one painting, and Lyra made her grovel as a den-maid for three days in front of the entire pack."
"An omega that entitled needed to be taught her place. And look—three years of penance, and it worked, didn't it?"
His voice dripped with pride. Satisfaction.
As if his cruel experiment had broken me. Reformed me into something more obedient.
Garrick sighed and swallowed whatever protest had risen in his throat.
There were things he hadn't told Alaric.
That day, I had knelt before him.
I had bared my throat in full submission, tilting my head to expose the vulnerable curve where my pulse beat.
"Just five hundred coins. Please. I'm begging you."
"Alaric is sick in the binding den. He needs a pack healer. I'm five hundred short."
The wolves present had exchanged glances—then burst out laughing, their mocking howls echoing off the stone walls.
"Is this really the Lyra Nightveil we used to know?"
"You were so proud back then. Wouldn't wear pelts that cost less than a thousand. Now you're offering your throat for five hundred?"
I could only kneel there and endure it. My face showed nothing.