Alana POV:
The lock clicked. A servant brought food.
I pushed past her. The air outside was stale, but better than the pollen-choked basement. Hives covered my skin.
I stumbled into the rain. The storm was torrential, washing away the blood and the scent of my father's house.
I walked toward the boundary.
Headlights cut the dark. Austen's SUV screeched to a halt. He jumped out, ruining his Italian shoes in the mud.
"Get in the car, Alana!"
I kept walking.
He grabbed my arm. Static shock. Painful. Wrong.
"Don't touch me," I whispered.
"You're going to die out here," he growled. He scooped me up. I was too exhausted to fight.
Back at the Pack House, the medical wing. Nurses tended to my hives and cuts.
I became a ghost. I blocked him from the Mind-Link, erecting a mental fortress.
One afternoon, I made it to the garden. My legs were shaky. I tripped.
"Careful, Luna!"
Toby, the young gardener, caught me.
A low, threatening growl vibrated through the air.
Austen. Standing on the patio. Eyes pitch black. Possessive rage.
"Get your hands off her," he roared. The Alpha Command dropped Toby to his knees.
Austen stormed over, lifting the boy by his collar.
"She is mine," Austen snarled. "Touching the Alpha's property is a death sentence."
"Stop it!" I screamed.
I slapped Austen. The sound cracked like a whip.
He dropped Toby. Touched his cheek. Shocked.
"He was helping me," I hissed. "I am not property, Austen. And you are nothing but a bully."
Austen straightened his jacket. His eyes went cold.
"You want to act like a jealous Luna?" he whispered. "Fine."
He walked away. Ten minutes later, he returned with Joyce hanging off his arm. She wore a dress I designed.
"Austen said we should take a stroll," she chirped.
Austen looked at me, challenging me. He wanted tears. He wanted a reaction.
I gave him nothing.
Joyce leaned in. "I told him I might have exaggerated about the vase," she whispered, venom dripping from every word. "He kissed me anyway. He said he chooses me, truth or lie."
She smiled. A shark baring teeth.
Suddenly, Joyce gasped. She clawed at her own neck.
"Ah! She's doing it!" Joyce shrieked, falling into Austen's arms. "She's using her Alpha pressure on me! She's crushing my throat!"
It was absurd. I was an Omega. I had no Alpha pressure.
But Austen didn't care about logic. He felt the spike in my emotional energy—my anger—and mistook it for aggression.
He turned to me, lips pulled back in a snarl.
"Enough," he roared.
