After My Mate Tortured Me, the Lycan Claimed Me

The bristles of the scrub brush had become an extension of my hand, a harsh, scratching limb that I couldn't detach. My knees were raw, the skin worn thin against the unforgiving marble of the ballroom floor. It had been weeks since my release from the asylum, yet I felt more imprisoned now than I ever did behind iron bars.

"Missed a spot."

The voice drifted down from above, dripping with false sweetness. I didn't need to look up to know it was Jolene. The scent of synthetic roses and rot was suffocating.

I kept scrubbing, the rhythmic *shhh-shhh* of the brush the only thing grounding me. "I have cleaned this section three times, Jolene."

"Luna Jolene," she corrected, her voice sharpening. "And I say it's still filthy."

A shadow fell over my work. I watched, frozen, as she tipped a bucket she had been holding. Thick, muddy water—likely dredged from the garden beds—sloshed out, pooling instantly over the pristine white marble I had spent the last two hours polishing. The dark sludge spread toward my knees, soaking into the hem of my gray servant's dress.

I stopped scrubbing. My hands, red and chapped, trembled on the handle of the brush. I looked up. Jolene stood there, smirking, her manicured hand resting on her hip.

"Oops," she said, her eyes devoid of apology. She crouched down, ignoring the mud near her expensive heels, and reached out to touch my hand. Her nail, painted a perfect crimson, traced the jagged scar on my wrist where the silver cuffs used to be.

"Look at you," she whispered, her voice low enough that only I could hear. "Broken nails. Gray skin. You look like a corpse, Naomi. Do you really think Cole ever wanted this? Even before the accident, he hated weakness. He just didn't know how to tell you."

She stood up, wiping her hand on her skirt as if I were the dirt. "Clean it up. The ball starts in four hours. If I see a speck of dust, you sleep outside with the rogues."

***

The ballroom was a galaxy of crystal and light. The chandeliers I had once picked out myself cast a golden glow over the Pack’s elite. Music swelled, a waltz that vibrated through the floorboards, mocking the ache in my bones.

I moved through the crowd like a shadow, clutching a heavy silver tray of champagne flutes. I was invisible to them. Warriors I had grown up with, friends I had once shared secrets with—they all looked through me. To them, I was just a stain in the corner of the room, draped in a coarse, shapeless sack of gray linen.

Then, the double doors at the top of the grand staircase opened.

A hush fell over the room. Alpha Cole stepped out, looking regal in a tuxedo that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. But my eyes didn't linger on him. They were drawn, like a moth to a killing flame, to the woman on his arm.

Jolene.

She was wearing it.

The breath left my lungs in a painful wheeze. It was a gown of white silk chiffon, with delicate lace sleeves that looked like spun sugar and a bodice encrusted with tiny pearls. I knew every stitch of that dress. I had sketched the design myself three years ago for my own Luna Ceremony.

It was supposed to be mine. It was the symbol of my union, my future, my pack.

Now, it hung on the woman who had stolen my life.

Cole led her down the stairs, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. As they reached the floor, the crowd bowed. I shrank back against a pillar, trying to merge with the stone.

"Champagne!" a voice barked.

I flinched and hurried toward a group of visiting dignitaries near the orchestra. One of them was Alpha Sterling from the Northern territory. He didn't recognize me. Why would he? The vibrant, strong girl he had met years ago was dead.

As I approached, balancing the heavy tray, I felt a sudden, sharp pressure in my skull. It wasn't a headache. It was an intrusion.

*Look at me, Omega.*

Cole’s voice thundered in my mind, utilizing the Alpha command. My head snapped up against my will. Across the room, Cole was watching me over the rim of his glass. His eyes were cold, hard flint. He wasn't looking at me with pity; he was looking at me with disgust.

He wanted a show.

I reached Alpha Sterling, offering the tray. "Your drink, Alpha," I whispered, my voice raspy.

*Spill it,* Cole commanded.

My heart hammered against my ribs. *No,* I pleaded silently, fighting the compulsion. *Please, Cole. Don't.*

The pressure in my head intensified, a crushing weight that threatened to snap my sanity. The bond flared, burning hot with his dominance. He wasn't asking. He was forcing my limbs to move like a marionette.

*I said, spill it on yourself. Show them what a clumsy, useless thing you are.*

My resistance shattered. My hand jerked violently.

The tray tipped. three full flutes of champagne cascaded down the front of my dress. The cold liquid soaked instantly through the thin gray fabric, plastering it to my skin, sticky and humiliating. The glass flutes shattered on the floor with a sound that silenced the nearby conversation.

"What the hell!" Alpha Sterling jumped back, brushing droplets from his suit.

I stood there, dripping, shaking, surrounded by broken glass. The room turned to stare.

"I... I'm sorry," I stammered, dropping to my knees to pick up the shards with my bare hands. "I'm so clumsy. I'm sorry."

A shard sliced my palm, but I barely felt it. I could only feel Cole’s gaze from across the room. I risked a glance. He was smiling—a cruel, satisfied curl of his lip—while Jolene laughed behind her hand, the white gown pristine and glowing under the lights.