Divorcing My Cheating Mate To Become The Lycan Queen

Cora POV:

The beach went silent. Then it exploded.

"CAROLINE!" Vance dropped to his knees beside her, cradling her face, his thumbs brushing the red mark on her cheek. His voice was tender, wrecked, dripping with a concern he had never once directed at me. "Are you okay? Does it hurt? Baby, look at me—"

Tristan surged forward, pointing at me. "You psychotic bitch! You just hit her! In front of everyone! You're a violent, unhinged, trailer-park nobody and you just put your hands on a Yale graduate! You should be on your knees begging forgiveness!"

Another friend, Marcus, flanked him. "She's deranged. Actually deranged. Someone call the cops. Caroline, don't cry, we've got you. You don't deserve this. You're too good for this."

Caroline pressed the back of her hand to her reddened cheek, tears welling perfectly. "I just... I just wanted to teach her a lesson. Knock the box out of her hands so she'd stop being so dramatic. I have class. I don't hit people. I just... moved a thing." She sniffled. "And she attacked me."

Vance stood, his jaw tight, eyes burning at me. "Cora. What the fuck is wrong with you? She barely touched your stupid box and you hit her in the face? Apologize. Now."

I didn't move. I knelt in the sand, my fingers gathering the grey dust, pressing it back into the cracked urn with the tenderness of a woman holding a dying child. The roses were coated in ash. My parents were in the sand, in the salt, in the dirt beneath strangers' feet.

"This," I said, my voice low, carrying across the silent beach, "is my parents."

I held up the broken box. The flag-draped wood. The military insignia still visible on the lid.

"Captain John Taylor. Dr. Anya Taylor. They died on a peacekeeping mission holding a line so a field hospital could evacuate a child. Their remains were repatriated this morning. I collected them alone because you couldn't be bothered to answer your phone." I let that land. "These are the ashes of two decorated war heroes. And your girlfriend just scattered them in the sand like confetti."

Silence. Total. Even the waves seemed to hush.

Tristan recovered first. He let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, give me a break. You'd sell your own dead parents' story to guilt-trip Caroline into not pressing charges. 'Oh no, it's hero ashes, don't hit me!' You're pathetic, Taylor. You probably bought that box at a thrift store."

My hand moved before my mind authorized it. A backhand, clean and sharp, splitting his lip. He staggered.

Then I crossed the sand in two strides, grabbed Caroline by the sarong, and drove her down. She shrieked. I pinned her wrists, my knee on her sternum, and struck—controlled, precise, military. Not enough to break. Enough to teach. Three hits to the body. A backhand to the other cheek.

"Pick them up," I said.

"Cora, STOP!" Vance grabbed my shoulder.

I twisted, used his momentum, and put him in the sand with a hip throw that sent him sprawling. Marcus lunged. I sidestepped, drove an elbow into his solar plexus, and swept his legs. Two more friends rushed me. Three seconds. Two joint locks. Both on the ground, groaning.

I stood over them, breathing steady, the wolf in my blood purring with grim satisfaction. Five years of special operations training didn't evaporate because I'd played housewife.

"Vance Hayes," I said, looking down at him. "You just told me it's a small thing. That I'm overreacting. That I should apologize to the woman who scattered my dead parents in the sand." I crouched, meeting his eyes. "You are not worthy of the air they breathed."

I turned back to Caroline. She was crying, mascara streaked, sand in her hair. "Pick. Them. Up. Every grain. Now."

She looked at Vance. He opened his mouth—then closed it. Something in my expression told him that if he spoke, he'd eat sand again.

Caroline got to her knees. Trembling, weeping, she began to scoop ash from the sand with her manicured fingers, pressing it back into the cracked urn. Grain by grain. The beach watched in silence.

When she finished, I took the urn from her shaking hands. For a long moment I just looked at her—kneeling in the sand, mascara streaked, her manicured fingers still grey with ash she would never fully wash away.

“Next time you look in a mirror,” I said, quiet enough that only she could hear, “remember whose dust is still under your nails.”

I straightened. Didn’t wait for a reply. The urn against my chest. The white roses, grey with ash, still in my hand.

Behind me, Vance called my name. I didn’t turn.