Chapter 2 No.2

Elara POV:

Leaving Alaric's study, I felt nothing. It was a terrifying, empty sort of peace. My work, my efforts, my very presence-it was all just static in the background of his life.

I walked back to my room, a small, sparse space in the Omega quarters. The only thing of value was the little moonstone wolf, sitting on my nightstand, casting its soft, ethereal glow. It had been my only light in so many dark nights.

My hand closed around it, its surface cool against my skin. With a click, I switched it off. The darkness that flooded the room felt right.

From under my bed, I pulled a worn leather satchel. One by one, I began to fill it with the ghosts of Alaric. The wolf-tooth necklace he'd given me after my first successful hunt. A bundle of dried moonpetal flowers he'd picked for me from the sacred meadows. Every little trinket, every memory, went into the bag. My soul felt like it was being hollowed out, scoop by painful scoop.

My hand hesitated over a small wooden box. Inside were my sketches. I opened it. Page after page of Alaric. Alaric training, Alaric reading, Alaric laughing-a rare, beautiful sight I had captured once when he thought no one was watching.

He had found me drawing him once. He hadn't been angry. He had sat beside me, his large frame making my world feel small and safe. "You are not a burden to this pack, Elara," he had said, his voice a low rumble. "You're my starlight."

He had protected me then, subtly, ensuring the other wolves treated me with a measure of respect that an Omega rarely received.

On one of the pages, his own handwriting was scrawled at the bottom: "Stay with Blackwood. I'll make you the most honored Omega."

A single, hot tear fell onto the paper, smudging the ink. I didn't wipe it away.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I took the first drawing and ripped it in half. Then the next, and the next. The sound of tearing paper was the only sound in the room, a final, brutal severing.

Suddenly, a wave of energy washed through the house-the arrival of a powerful wolf. I stepped out of my room and peered over the railing of the grand staircase.

Down in the foyer, Seraphina stood with her luggage. And Alaric was there, pulling her into a warm embrace. It was a casual, possessive gesture that staked his claim, declaring her the new mistress of the house.

Seraphina's eyes, bright and sharp, found me standing in the shadows above. A triumphant smile played on her lips. She whispered something to Alaric, then glided up the stairs toward me.

"Elara, darling," she cooed, her voice like honey laced with poison. "Alaric and I are so happy you'll be here to celebrate with us. I brought you a little welcome gift."

She held out a small, velvet box. Inside, nestled on a bed of satin, was a delicate bracelet. It was fashioned from intricately woven strands of pure silver.

My breath hitched. Silver. To werewolves, it was agony. It burned our skin, seeped into our blood, and prevented our healing abilities from working. Even the smallest amount was painful, a constant, searing reminder of our greatest vulnerability.

I flinched back instinctively. "I... I can't."

Alaric had now come to the base of the stairs. His gaze was hard, his voice laced with the undeniable force of his Alpha's Command. "Take it, Elara."

The command wrapped around my will, forcing my hand forward against my own desperate protests.

"Don't disrespect your future Luna," he added, his voice cold.

My fingers trembled as I took the bracelet. The moment the cold metal touched my skin, a sharp, white-hot pain shot up my arm. It felt like being branded. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, my vision swimming.

Seraphina's smile widened. "It looks beautiful on you."

I looked from the searing metal on my wrist to Alaric's impassive face. The last, fragile ember of hope inside me died. He hadn't just taken back his affection; he had forgotten me completely. He had forgotten the one thing that could truly hurt me.

My voice was hollow as I forced the words out. "Thank you."

With my head held high, I turned and walked back to my room, the silver thorn on my wrist a constant, agonizing promise of the freedom that was to come.