Alana POV:
I woke to the sound of a motor whirring. A high-pitched mechanical whine.
I was strapped to a metal chair in the basement. Damp concrete. Rust. My head felt heavy, throbbing from the silver fumes.
"Ninety-seven," a voice said.
Austen stood at a workbench. He was adjusting a tool.
"Please," I croaked. "Austen, stop. I signed the papers. I'm leaving."
He turned. In his hand was a handheld mechanical drill. The bit wasn't steel; it was coated in shimmering, pure silver.
"You don't get to leave," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Not until you learn. You tried to poison her with Wolfsbane. An eye for an eye. But since you heal..."
He walked toward me.
"No, Austen! Check the security logs! Look at the evidence!"
He grabbed my left hand—the one he had already crushed.
"This hand threw the vase," he said.
"I didn't!"
He didn't hesitate. He pressed the spinning drill bit into the center of my palm.
The scream tore from my throat, raw and animalistic.
It wasn't just pain; it was violation. The silver burned through skin, muscle, and bone, cauterizing as it went, preventing regeneration. It felt like he was pouring molten lava directly into my marrow.
My inner wolf howled, slamming against the mental walls, but the silver neutralized her.
Austen held the drill there. Five seconds. Ten. An eternity.
When he pulled it back, there was a neat, smoking hole through my hand.
I slumped, gasping, vision blurring.
The door opened. Dr. Evans, the Pack Healer, hurried in holding a vial of glowing green liquid. Regeneration Serum. Elder Tree extract. Priceless.
"Alpha," Dr. Evans said, looking at my hand with horror. "She needs this. The silver damage... it could be permanent nerve damage."
Austen took the vial. The green light reflected in his cold eyes.
"Joyce has a scar on her arm," Austen said. "She heals slowly. She needs this to ensure there is no mark."
"But Alpha... Joyce's wound is a scratch. Alana's hand is destroyed."
"Give it to Joyce," Austen commanded. The Alpha tone brooked no argument.
"Yes, Alpha."
Austen walked over to me. He took a silver knife and sliced his own palm.
"We share this," he whispered, holding his bleeding hand near my face. The scent of pine and rain was now nauseating. "I bleed when you bleed. This is our penance."
"You are insane," I whispered. "You aren't my mate. You're my executioner."
He flinched. A crack in the mask. But he sealed it quickly.
"I am saving your soul."
For two days, I was kept in the medical wing. Austen played the devoted husband. Feeding me soup. Stroking my hair. It was psychological torture. He refused to look at the hole he had drilled.
On the third morning, a text. He read it and stood up.
"Joyce is sad," he said. "She needs me."
He left.
I waited five minutes. I dragged my IV stand to the door.
Down the hall, Joyce stood by the window. Austen walked up to her. She threw her arms around him.
"I was so scared," she cried, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. "I thought you chose her."
"Never," Austen said. He kissed her.
Deep. Hungry. A public claim.
My stomach turned. I retched.
I looked down at my right hand. The Luna Candidate ring. A promise.
I pulled it off.
My knuckle was swollen, but I yanked until skin tore.
I walked to the biohazard bin. Bloody gauze. Needles.
I dropped the ring inside.
Clink.
The sound of a chain breaking.
I climbed back into bed. My inner wolf went silent. Hibernation. The first stage of a severed bond.
When Austen returned, he paused. Sniffed the air.
"Where is your ring?"
"I don't know," I lied, staring at the wall. "Must have fallen off when I was writhing in pain."
I heard his breath hitch. His wolf growled low, sensing the loss.
I didn't care. The Alana who loved him died in the basement.
