She hadn’t even begun her blood cycle—so why did her belly flare with such sudden, searing pain?
Sylvara pushed herself to rise, every step a sharp ache, and made for the door. But it wouldn’t budge. Locked. From the outside.
Then came the grating, triumphant voice of Tahlia echoing through the enchanted seal.
“You pathetic shadow,” Tahlia sneered. “How’s it feel, wearing the scraps of a love that was never yours?
“Lucien has always belonged to me, from the very start. And now that I’ve returned, you’d best step aside.
“And here you are tonight, daring to show up and steal my spotlight?”
Sylvara doubled over, clutching her abdomen, cold sweat running in rivulets down her temples. Her voice was faint, strained, yet edged with defiance. “Tahlia… if you want him, take him. I… I don’t care anymore.”
Tahlia’s laughter was sharp, icy. “Ha! You expect me to believe that?
“You stole my mother’s favor back then… and now you try to take my mate too? Who do you think you are?
“You’re staying in here tonight. No one is coming to rescue you.”
With deliberate flourish, Tahlia dragged a carved wooden sign—“Restricted Area. No Wolves Beyond This Point”—and set it against the enchanted barrier door.
Because certain relics on display tonight were protected by lunar sigils, all attendees had been required to surrender their comm-amulets before entering. No outsider would dare approach. No one but Tahlia would think to check.
Shivering and weak, Avy sank to the stone floor, pressing herself against the wall as pain radiated through her body. Gathering the last of her strength, she slammed her fists on the heavy door and shouted, voice hoarse with desperation.
“Help… anyone… please… help me…”
But the warning runes on the sign kept passersby away; no one dared break the rules. No one came.
She had no sense of how long she wailed, how many heartbeats passed before the agony overcame her, and darkness finally claimed her.
When the auction ended and Sylvara had still not returned, Lucien’s frown was one of casual curiosity rather than concern.
Tahlia batted her lashes innocently. “Mondy, maybe she’s upset because I took her seat?
“If I’d known she’d sulk over it, I wouldn’t have done it.”
Hearing her pretend remorse, Lucien’s brows knitted. “You’re the Winslet heiress. Do you think a secretary belongs in your place?
“Forget it. Let her stew. She’s been puffed up with pride lately. Maybe a night of cool reflection will do her good. Let’s return to the den.”
Out of his sight, Tahlia’s lips curved in triumph. Sylvara, I told you—you can’t beat me. Not my mother, not my mate.
That night, Sylvara did not return to the pack stronghold, yet not once did Lucien inquire after his mate.
The next morning, during her routine rounds, a cleaning apprentice unlocked the restroom door where Sylvara had been trapped.
There she crouched, shivering in a corner. Her robe was soaked through, her body trembling from hours spent against the cold stone.
The apprentice rushed to her side, alarmed. “Mistress… how did you get locked in here? You look faint… should I summon the healers?”
Sylvara’s damp lashes lifted, eyes barely focusing. She forced herself upright, pressing arms against the floor.
“Thank you… but… it’s not necessary,” she murmured.
The sharp pain in her belly had softened, but the room remained bone-chilling from the night’s lingering cold.
She had expected at least one sign of concern from Lucien—he would have smelled her scent missing from the den, or come searching. But clearly, she had overestimated him again.
She remembered vividly how, the last time Tahlia had vanished for a mere ten minutes, Lucien had nearly raised an alarm across the pack.
Yet now, after a full night of silence, he had not lifted a claw to check on his mate.
So this is what love looks like, Sylvara thought bitterly, and this… this is what indifference feels like.
She steadied herself against the wall and moved, slow step by slow step, toward the exit, finally catching a carriage to the outskirts of the city.
In the warmth of the vehicle, she retrieved her comm-amulet and checked the messages. Not a single one from Lucien.
Instead, Red’s words burned across the screen:
[Sylvara, I can’t wait the full moon. One week. I’m coming to claim you in a week.]
