My Mate Put Me in Chains

The mahogany desk between us felt less like furniture and more like a barricade. On its polished surface lay a stack of documents, the crisp white paper glaring under the study’s warm lighting. The header was bold and unmistakable: *Transfer of Assets and Estate Title*.

“It is standard procedure for theft restitution, Lily,” Hunter said. He stood by the window, his back to me, looking out over the territory that was supposed to be ours to rule together. “You stole a priceless heirloom from the mother of the future Alpha. The Council demands compensation. Since you have no income of your own... your family’s estate will have to suffice.”

My hands clenched in my lap. My parents’ estate. The trust fund, the southern border lands, the small cottage by the lake—everything they had left me. He wasn’t just taking my money; he was erasing my history.

'He’s stripping us,' Mist growled, pacing circles in the back of my mind. Her fur bristled with a rage that made my skin itch. 'He wants us dependent. He wants us to have nowhere to run.'

“I didn’t steal anything,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it didn't waver. “Amaya planted that necklace. You know she did.”

Hunter turned slowly. The mask of the benevolent caretaker slipped, revealing the cold, hard lines of the Alpha beneath. “I know that you are unwell, Liliana. I know that your jealousy has made you dangerous. And I know that the Pack needs resources to care for the new pup.”

He tapped the pen lying on the documents. “Sign.”

I stared at the pen. “No.”

The air in the room instantly grew heavy, thickening like concrete pouring into my lungs. Hunter didn’t shout. He didn’t raise a hand. He simply let his Alpha aura flood the space, a suffocating wave of dominance that triggered every biological instinct I had to submit.

“**Pick up the pen, Liliana.**”

The Command slammed into my spine. It wasn’t a choice; it was a puppet string being yanked. My right hand shot out, trembling violently, and snatched the pen. I tried to drop it, tried to pry my own fingers open with my left hand, but my body was traitorous. It obeyed him while my mind screamed.

“**Sign the papers.**”

Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. I watched my own hand move across the paper, the nib scratching loudly in the silence. My signature looked jagged, broken—just like me. With the final stroke, I lost my financial freedom. I was a pauper in the house I was built to lead.

“Good girl,” Hunter murmured, the crushing weight lifting from the room. He picked up the papers, checking them with a satisfied smirk. “Now, for the next matter. Your... outbursts.”

He pressed a button on his desk, and the heavy oak doors creaked open. The Pack Warlock, a stooped man named Elias with eyes like clouded glass, shuffled in. He smelled of burnt sage and old ozone.

“She’s been hearing voices, Elias,” Hunter lied smoothly, walking around the desk to stand behind my chair. His hands settled on my shoulders, heavy and possessive. “Spreading lies to the Elders through the mind-link. We need to give her peace. Silence.”

My blood ran cold. “Hunter, don’t. Please.”

To cut a wolf off from the mind-link was to sever them from the herd. It was solitary confinement within one's own skull.

“It’s for your own good,” Hunter whispered against my hair. He nodded to Elias.

The warlock placed a dry, papery hand on my forehead. He began to chant in a low, guttural rhythm. I felt a pressure building behind my eyes, a sharp, static whine that grew louder and louder until it felt like my head would split.

'Fight him!' Mist roared, clawing at the mental barrier being erected. 'Don't let him—'

*Snap.*

The sound was internal, like a dry twig breaking. The constant, low-level hum of the Pack—the feeling of other minds, of life, of connection—vanished. The silence that followed was absolute and terrifying. I was deaf to the world. I reached out with my mind, screaming for the Beta, for the Elders, for anyone. My mental voice hit a wall of gray fog and bounced back, echoing only in my own head.

I slumped in the chair, gasping for breath. I was alone. Truly, utterly alone.

***

The next afternoon, I sought the only refuge I had left. The sunroom at the back of the house was dusty, filled with the smell of dry earth and neglect. In the corner, hidden behind a stack of old crates, I found my easel and paints.

Hunter had forbidden me from painting years ago, calling it a distraction from my recovery. But today, with the silence of my mind deafening me, I needed to scream in the only way I still could.

I mixed the oils with shaking hands. I didn't paint the garden outside the window. I painted the Ridge—the high cliff overlooking the ocean, the place where the wind was strong enough to knock you down. I painted the storm clouds gathering in silver and charcoal, the whitecaps of the waves crashing against the jagged black rocks. It was dark, turbulent, and free.

For hours, I wasn't the broken Luna. I wasn't the prisoner. I was the storm.

The sound of the door opening shattered the spell. I froze, my brush hovering over the canvas.

Hunter walked in. He was holding a glass of dark red wine, his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed, the master of his domain surveying his property.

“I thought I told you to rest,” he said, his voice casual. He walked around the easel, studying my work. My heart hammered against my ribs. I waited for him to yell, to use the Command again.

Instead, he chuckled softly. “It’s... quaint.”

He took a sip of wine, his eyes mocking over the rim of the glass. “But the perspective is all wrong, Lily. It’s childish. You make the world look so angry.”

“It’s how I see it,” I whispered, gripping the brush like a weapon.

“Then you’re seeing it wrong.”

He tilted his hand. The red wine poured out of the glass, splashing onto the canvas. It ran down the painting in thick, bloody streaks, drowning the silver clouds, staining the white waves crimson. The landscape I had built, the escape I had created, dissolved into a muddy, ruined mess.

I stood paralyzed, watching the wine drip onto the floorboards.

“You aren’t an artist, Liliana,” Hunter said, setting the empty glass on the easel’s ledge. He stepped close, tilting my chin up with a finger so I had to look into his empty eyes. “You are an ornament. And ornaments don’t make messes. They sit on the shelf and look pretty. Do you understand?”

I looked at the ruined painting, then back at him. I forced my face to remain blank, forced the tears back down my throat. Inside, Mist was silent, crouched low in the grass, waiting.

“I understand, Alpha,” I said softly.

He smiled, satisfied, and walked away, leaving me with the wreckage of the only thing that was mine.