Evander’s expression changed the moment he stepped into the fitting chamber.
The air itself seemed to tighten around him.
Without a word of inquiry, he bent and helped Vespera up from the floor, his attention already sharpening into something colder as it shifted toward Aveline.
“Aveline.”
Her name came low.
Controlled.
But edged with something dangerous.
“If you did not wish her to wear the gown, you could have refused. Why allow it, then harm her?”
Aveline let out a short, disbelieving sound—almost a laugh, but without warmth. Her hands moved quickly, sharper than usual.
I did not touch her. She struck herself.
Evander did not even blink.
“You still insist on lying?”
His voice dropped further. Colder now. Absolute.
“Vespera is not like that. She would not accuse you without reason.”
He stepped closer.
The scent of his anger filled the room before his presence did.
“Apologize.”
One word.
Not request.
Not suggestion.
Judgment.
Aveline went still.
For a fleeting moment—so brief it almost mocked her—she waited.
Waited for the man who once pulled her from ruin to see what stood in front of him.
But he did not look at truth.
He looked at Vespera.
Her chest tightened until breathing hurt.
She turned.
To leave.
But his hand closed around her wrist.
Hard.
In one motion, he pulled her back into the center of the room, placing her there like something to be examined.
“You are too kind,” he said to Vespera, voice steady now. “If she injured you, then you decide her punishment. Tenfold return.”
Aveline’s head snapped up.
For a second, she thought she had misheard.
Tenfold return.
As though she were property governed by repayment law.
Vespera hesitated, lowering her gaze as if performing reluctance.
“Evander… that is too severe. I only wished to help her try the gown…”
Evander did not even look at Aveline when he replied.
“You are too soft.”
A pause.
Then—
“If you cannot decide, I will have the pack guards enforce it.”
Calm.
Measured.
Like ordering meat prepared for feast.
Vespera suddenly brightened, as though struck by inspiration.
“There is a correction house,” she said lightly. “One of my acquaintance’s families keeps it. It is… useful for women who forget their place.”
Aveline felt the air drain from her lungs.
Correction house.
A place without moon rites. Without mercy. Where noble wolves sent those they no longer wished to acknowledge.
She looked at Evander.
Searching.
Begging, in the only way she no longer had a voice for.
He did not hesitate.
“Do it,” he said.
Just like that.
**
The place was not called a prison.
It was called a training house.
But the Moon did not bless anything within its walls.
On the first night, they took her name away.
On the second, they took her dignity.
On the third, they began taking what remained of her will.
They did not question. They did not explain.
They only corrected.
When she was too slow, they struck her.
When she did not respond, they struck her again.
When she stopped resisting, they grew bored—and then creative.
By the third night, she no longer counted how many times she fell.
Only how long she stayed conscious afterward.
On the fourth day, they dragged her out before dawn.
A guard crouched beside her, sneering.
“Lord Hart said you would learn,” he said. “Have you learned your place yet?”
She did not answer.
She could not.
Pain had become something constant now—like breathing, like gravity.
Then she felt it.
Warmth.
Wrong.
Her body curled instinctively around the sensation, confusion breaking through exhaustion.
The guard frowned in disgust.
“Tch. Useless.”
He stood.
“Throw her out.”
And she was.
Discarded like something that had served its purpose and failed to remain valuable.
Her head struck stone outside the gates.
The sky above was pale with morning mist.
A carriage waited.
Hart sigil carved into its wood.
Evander’s driver did not speak.
He only opened the door.
And brought her back.
**
The estate was silent upon her return.
Not peaceful.
Just empty.
Aveline stood unsteadily as she stepped inside, pain blooming in her lower body—different from the rest. Unfamiliar. Deep.
She had stopped at the healer’s stall on the way back, almost without thinking, and taken what was offered.
Now she stood in the bathing chamber.
And stared.
Two marks.
Clear beneath the waterlight.
The world did not tilt immediately.
It simply… stopped making sense.
Pregnant.
Not joy.
Not fear.
Memory came first.
A night under a half-waning moon.
Soren’s voice low.
Just once. No harm will come.
She had believed him.
Trusted wrong twice in the same life.
Her hands trembled.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
Evander entered.
“You did not answer my calls,” he said at once. “Why—”
He stopped.
His eyes took her in.
The uneven cut of her hair.
The bruising beneath her skin.
The exhaustion carved too deeply into her face.
Something shifted.
Not softness.
Not concern.
Recognition that something had gone wrong without his permission.
“What happened to you?” he asked. “Who did this?”
Aveline gave a quiet, fractured laugh.
Who do you think signed the order?
She did not answer aloud.
Her gaze drifted instead to the basin.
The small wooden test strip resting there.
Still damp.
Still undeniable.
Silence fell.
Then—
“You are with child?”
His voice changed.
Not gentle.
Not warm.
But sharp.
Controlled.
Like the moment before a blade is drawn.
As if something inside him had just decided how this story would continue.
