Elara Vance's POV:
I spent the day in the dusty, neglected archives, my body wracked with waves of nausea from the wolfsbane. Every movement was an effort, but I forced myself to work, to create some semblance of order in the chaos of forgotten records. By the time I dragged myself back to my room at dusk, I was utterly spent.
I had just closed the door when a sharp knock echoed through the wood.
I opened it to find Mira Thorne standing there, a cruel smirk on her face. The servant, Martha, hovered nervously behind her. Mira swept into my room without invitation, her eyes cataloging the sparse, shabby furnishings with theatrical disgust.
"My son is certainly... generous with his charity cases," she remarked.
I stood by the door, wary and exhausted, wondering what new torment she had devised.
Her gaze sharpened, pinning me in place. "I heard a rumor," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "That Ryker spent the night here a few days ago."
My heart stuttered. How could she know?
"Oh, don't look so frightened," she purred, though her eyes were anything but kind. "As his mother, I'm simply concerned for his... well-being. One can never be too careful about the cleanliness of an Omega from the outside."
The insinuation was vile, a direct assault on my honor. My face flushed, then drained of all color. "I am not—"
"Whether you are or not is for me to decide," Mira cut in sharply. She turned to the trembling servant. "Martha. The bedsheets. Bring them to me."
My world stopped. She was going to inspect them. She was going to perform a public, humiliating examination of my virtue.
Martha looked at me, her eyes wide with horror, but she didn't dare disobey. She moved toward the bed. I took a step to block her, but a single, warning glare from Mira froze me to the spot.
With fumbling fingers, Martha pulled back the covers. And there it was. The scarlet proof of my innocence, stark against the pale fabric.
Mira’s smug expression faltered. A flicker of disbelief, then raw annoyance, crossed her face. This was not the outcome she had expected. She had come for a swift, brutal execution of my character, and instead, she had been handed proof of my purity.
But a woman like Mira Thorne never admitted defeat. Her shock quickly curdled into a new, baseless rage.
"Hmph. Lucky for you," she spat, refusing to acknowledge the truth before her. Her eyes darted around the room, landing on the tray from that morning, where the dregs of the wolfsbane tea still sat in the cup.
A new, vicious idea lit her eyes. She snatched the cup and marched toward me.
"Even if you weren't soiled before," she hissed, inventing a new crime on the spot, "you still seduced my son. That is a sin that requires penance."
Before I could react, she flung the cold, poisonous contents of the cup directly onto the back of my hand.
I cried out, a short, sharp gasp of pain. The icy liquid, still potent with wolfsbane, felt like acid on my skin. A burning, agonizing sensation erupted, and the skin instantly turned an angry, inflamed red.
"A lesson," Mira said, her voice dripping with venom as she admired her handiwork. "To remember what happens when you touch what does not belong to you."
Satisfied, she swept from the room, dragging a horrified Martha behind her, leaving me alone with the throbbing, searing pain in my hand and a heart that had turned to ice.
