The pain in my wrist was sharp.
I looked up at Damian, his eyes blazing with the ferocity of a wolf backed into a bloodied den, and forced a bright, bitter smile.
"This is my reckoning? Kathleen's spirit has left the pack lands, and I'm still drawing breath, aren't I?"
His face darkened, rage igniting in his eyes like a wildfire tearing through dry pines.
He lunged, his hand clamping around my throat-thumb pressing on the pulse point that marked me as a lycan, squeezing so hard the wolf in me whined.
My face paled. Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable.
Just when I thought Damian would snuff out the last spark of my wolf spirit, he let go.
I collapsed like a gutted deer, coughing so hard my ribs screamed.
Through the blur of tears, I saw him crouch down, his voice cold as a blade sharpened on moonlit stone.
"I'll make you wish the elders had torn your wolf heart out the day you lied."
He reached for me again, but his hand froze midair, hesitating.
Then, in a flash, he grabbed my collar and yanked. The fabric tore with a sharp rip, and his voice exploded. "What the hell is this!?"
Beneath the fresh red marks from his grip, a deep, black-purple scar snaked across my throat, ugly and jarring.
I swallowed the metallic tang of blood, my trembling hand flying to cover the ragged scar that snaked across my throat-shaped like a wolf tra. They called it "the breaking," a ritual to crush the lycanthropy out of me.
Day after day, they'd loop a wolfsbane-soaked rope around my neck, hoist me until my toes barely touched the floor, their voices dripping with malice as they snarled,
"Bark it, Emily. You're a mongrel, a curse on the Wolfe line, unworthy of his alpha blood!" Each word was punctuated by a yank, the rope burning through my skin, my wolf spirit howling in agony as they tried to strangle it silent.
At first, I refused to croak that final insult, even if it meant my wolf heart gave out.
By the third year, I was hollowed out, parroting it like a broken pack call:
"Emily. is a vile, worthless she-wolf."
Damian's palm grazed the wolf-trap scar, and my body went rigid. Tears spilled, but my lips curled into a grin.
"You know how rogue packs play," I said, voice steady despite the way my claws itched to tear through my skin. "They crave the raw thrill of breaking a purebred-way more satisfying than anything your soft pack life offered."
His eyes flared, pupils slitting like a wolf about to strike.
He hauled me up, and hurled me onto a bed stuffed with moss.
His rage hung thick as musk, tearing at my clothes with the urgency of a male claiming his right.
I shuddered, forcing out words through chattering teeth.
"You think this is fair to Brielle?"
He laughed, cold and cruel. "You think you're worth her worry? She's carrying my pup. You're just a tool to burn off steam."
The words carrying my pup and tool hit me like a sledgehammer, freezing my blood. I shut my eyes, my heart ripping apart, and stopped fighting. No kisses, no tenderness-just his brutal, vengeful force, using me like he said. And through it all, his voice, low and vicious, kept demanding, "Is this how they choked you?"
It wasn't until dawn that he pulled away, not sparing me a glance. "Clean this up," he said, voice like ice. "Tonight, you're serving food."
He slammed the door behind him.
I came to later, my body trembling as I knelt on the floor, picking up the mess of torn fabric and bloodstains.
I dragged myself to the bathroom, my clothes in shreds-except for the top I'd clung to with everything I had. That one was still intact. I'd fought so hard to keep it on that it only made Damian angrier, his punishment even harsher.
