Chapter 4

LYRA POV:

I turned to leave, the words of the rejection hanging in the air like a death sentence. But before I could take two steps, Elara grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin.

"He was tired of you, you know," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss meant only for me. "He told me so."

I tried to pull away, but her grip was surprisingly strong.

"He said your scent, that high-and-mighty White Wolf smell, made him sick. It was too much pressure, trying to live up to you." Her eyes glinted with malicious triumph. "He said you were like a queen who demanded worship, and it was suffocating."

Her words were lies, cruel barbs designed to inflict maximum pain. And combined with the soul-tearing agony of the rejection, they worked. A blind, white-hot rage consumed me.

My hand shot out, grabbing a heavy, silver wine decanter from a nearby table. With a guttural scream, I swung it with all my might, connecting with the side of Elara's head.

There was a sickening crack. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled to the floor, a pool of dark blood spreading rapidly from the wound.

"ELARA!" Lucian roared. He rushed to her side, gathering her limp body in his arms.

He looked up at me, his face contorted with a fury so intense it was terrifying. His voice, when he spoke, was no longer his own. It was deeper, harsher, laced with a power he shouldn't yet possess. It was the precursor to an Alpha's Command.

"How dare you!"

The force of his voice slammed into me, a physical blow that made my knees buckle. He scrambled to his feet, cradling Elara, and shoved me brutally aside to clear a path.

I fell backward, my body crashing onto a table laden with silver platters and cutlery. A searing, white-hot agony erupted across my back as the silver made contact with my skin. For a werewolf, silver is poison. It burns, preventing our natural healing abilities and causing excruciating pain.

I cried out, arching my back, but Lucian didn't even glance at me. He was already moving away, his only concern the unconscious woman in his arms.

As he reached the doorway, he paused without turning around. His voice, cold and devoid of any emotion, drifted back to me, completing the ritual that severed our souls forever.

"I, Lucian Smith, accept your rejection."

The bond between us didn't just break; it was violently ripped apart. The pain was absolute, a void opening inside me so vast and empty it threatened to swallow me whole. I lay there, helpless and broken, the smell of my own burning skin filling my nostrils.

Just as darkness began to creep into the edges of my vision, a pair of expensive leather shoes stopped beside me. I looked up, and my gaze met the most intense pair of silver eyes I had ever seen.

A man knelt beside me. He was tall, powerfully built, and radiated an aura of absolute authority. And his scent... it hit me like a physical force. It was nothing like Lucian's earthy smell. This was a storm in a bottle, a heady mix of rich brandy and cold, clean moonlight. It was a scent my soul recognized instantly, a scent that made the very air in my lungs tremble.

My inner wolf, silent for so long in its grief, stirred. For the first time, it spoke a single, possessive word in my mind.

"Mine!"

The man said nothing. He simply shrugged off his expensive black suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders, shielding me from the prying eyes of the crowd. Then, with an ease that defied his size, he scooped me into his arms. As he lifted me, his hand brushed against mine.

A jolt, sharp and powerful as a lightning strike, shot up my arm. My heart, which I thought had stopped beating, hammered against my ribs.

He held me close to his chest and carried me out of the chaos, leaving behind the ruins of my old life.