Alpha's Lies, My Freedom

Three weeks of healing, and still the burns on my skin remained pink and tender, a constant reminder of the wolfsbane-soaked gown. Dad had insisted on personally inspecting every element of the second ceremony—the candles, the altar cloth, the ceremonial wine. We checked each item together, his weathered hands trembling slightly as he examined the traditional knife meant to create the permanent bond mark.

"It's perfect," he assured me, turning the blade over in the candlelight. "Plain steel, as tradition demands. No silver, no poison."

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe that this time would be different.

The visiting Alphas returned for the rescheduled ceremony, though their expressions held less enthusiasm than before. I caught their whispered conversations as I waited in the preparation room—"troublesome mate," "bad omen," "perhaps the Moon Goddess is sending a message." Each word carved deeper into my already fragile confidence.

When I finally walked down the aisle toward the altar, my legs shook beneath the simple white dress we'd chosen as a replacement. No elaborate embroidery this time, just plain cotton that Dad had watched them wash three times before allowing it near my skin. Axel stood at the altar, his expression unreadable, while Anaya watched from her seat in the front row, her hand pressed delicately to her chest.

The ceremony progressed smoothly. Too smoothly. My heart hammered against my ribs as the Pack Healer blessed the union, as Axel and I recited the ancient words that would bind us together. Finally, the moment arrived—the marking, the physical seal that would make our bond permanent before the Moon Goddess and all assembled witnesses.

Axel lifted the ceremonial knife from the altar. In the candlelight, the blade gleamed with an almost liquid quality, beautiful and deadly. My breath caught as he raised it toward my neck, the traditional placement for an Alpha's mark on his Luna.

The blade touched my skin, and the world exploded into agony.

Silver. Pure silver flooding my system, burning through my veins like acid. Without a wolf to fight the toxin, my body had no defense. I felt my heart stutter, skip a beat, then race frantically as if trying to outrun the poison spreading through my bloodstream. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the altar, convulsing as the silver worked its way deeper.

Through the haze of pain, I heard chaos erupt around me. Dad's voice, raw with terror. The Pack Healer shouting orders. And somewhere in the distance, rising above it all, Anaya's familiar cry of distress.

"I can't breathe! Something's wrong with my wolf!"

I tried to focus on Axel's face above me, tried to find some anchor in this storm of suffering, but his gaze had already shifted away. Toward her. Always toward her.

"Get her out of here," he commanded, his Alpha tone cutting through the pandemonium. "Take Anaya to her rooms. Now."

"But Alpha, Skylar needs—" the Healer began.

"Do as I say!" His voice cracked like a whip, and I felt rather than saw people moving to obey. The weight of his presence lifted from beside me as he followed Anaya's retreating form, leaving me writhing on the altar where I'd almost become his Luna.

The Pack Healer worked over me with desperate efficiency, her healing touch the only thing standing between me and death. But even through my delirium, I understood the message being sent. Anaya's episodes would always take precedence. Her comfort would always outweigh my survival.

When I finally regained consciousness hours later, I found myself in the pack house infirmary. Dad sat beside my bed, his face aged a decade in a single night, while the Healer hovered nearby with worried eyes.

"The knife," I whispered, my throat raw. "How?"

"Someone switched it," Dad said, his voice hollow with defeat. "Between our inspection and the ceremony. Pure silver, disguised to look like steel."

We both knew who that someone was. But we also knew that without proof, without power, without even my wolf to give me standing in the pack, my accusations would mean nothing.

Two days later, Axel summoned me to his office. No witnesses, no formality—just a private meeting that felt more like a trial than a conversation. I stood before his massive desk, my burns still tender beneath fresh bandages, and waited for whatever judgment he'd decided upon.

He didn't make me wait long.

"Your father's treatments are expensive, Skylar." His voice was cold, clinical, as if discussing pack finances rather than my father's life. "The Pack Healer's time is valuable. Her skills are needed for warriors, for productive pack members."

My hands clenched at my sides. "My mother died saving your life. My father was crippled protecting you. That life debt—"

"Is being honored," he interrupted, leaning back in his chair with the casual arrogance of someone who held all the power. "Your father receives care. You have shelter, food, a place in this pack. But cooperation is a two-way street."

The word 'cooperation' hung between us like a noose.

"What do you want?" I asked, though I already knew the answer would break something inside me.

"Accept your proper place. You're not Luna material—two failed ceremonies have proven that. You'll take on omega duties without complaint. You'll never question Anaya's presence or actions." He paused, his dark eyes boring into mine. "And you'll do it all with a smile, because your father's access to the Pack Healer depends on your... cooperation."

Silent suffering. That was the price of my father's survival. The life debt my parents had paid in blood was now chains binding me to whatever humiliation Axel and Anaya decided to inflict.

I thought of Dad, barely able to stand without assistance. I thought of my mother's sacrifice, wasted on an Alpha who valued power over honor. And I thought of my own reflection in the mirror that morning—burns covering my skin, no wolf to heal me, no future except servitude.

"I understand," I whispered, hating how small my voice sounded. Hating how easily I surrendered.

Axel's expression didn't change, but I caught something flickering in his eyes. Not quite satisfaction, not quite guilt. Something darker and more complicated.

"Good," he said simply. "You start tomorrow."

I left his office with my head down, my spirit crushed, and my mother's warrior pendant heavy against my throat—a reminder of honor I could no longer afford to claim.