Shattered Bond, Sweet Revenge

I slipped back into the mansion before dawn, the journal's revelations burning in my mind like acid. My fingers traced the spine of the book I'd returned to its hiding place, making sure it sat exactly as Marcus had left it. Evidence erased, but knowledge gained. Ninety-seven injuries. My entire relationship built on calculated torture.

Lyra whimpered in my mind. *We need to run.*

"Not yet," I whispered, straightening my shoulders despite the pain. "We need to be smart about this."

I moved through my morning routine mechanically—preparing Marcus's coffee exactly how he liked it, laying out his training clothes, checking the pack schedule. All while my mind cataloged every "accident" of the past three years, reframing them as deliberate acts of violence.

The dining room was quiet when I entered, save for the scrape of Marcus's knife against china. He looked up, his handsome face arranged in that familiar mask of mild concern.

"You're pale this morning," he observed, adjusting his cufflinks—the tell I'd never noticed before. "Are you still in pain from yesterday?"

"Just a little sore," I lied, lowering my eyes submissively. The role of the grateful, devoted mate now felt like broken glass in my throat.

He nodded, satisfied with my performance. "Good. There's a training drill today for all pack members. I expect you to participate."

My heart stuttered. Training drills meant combat, meant vulnerability. Meant opportunity for injury number ninety-eight.

"Of course, Alpha," I murmured, the title tasting like poison.

---

The training field buzzed with activity as pack members paired off for combat drills. I kept to the edges, hoping to be overlooked, but Marcus's voice cut through the din.

"Charlotte." Not Luna, never Luna in front of others. "Center field."

Every eye turned to me as I stepped forward, my body already tensing for what was to come. Marcus circled me slowly, his powerful frame blocking the afternoon sun.

"You've been sloppy in your defensive posture," he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. "A proper demonstration is needed."

Before I could prepare, he lunged. I managed to dodge the first strike, but the second caught me across the ribs, sending me sprawling. I scrambled to my feet, calling to Lyra for strength, but she cowered within me, weakened by years of suppression.

"Defend yourself properly," Marcus commanded, his voice laced with that subtle Alpha tone that seemed to press down on my very bones.

I tried to block his next attack, but my movements felt sluggish, my reflexes dulled. His hand caught my wrist, twisting until a sickening crack echoed across the field. Pain exploded up my arm as I fell to my knees.

"That's enough," Marcus declared, stepping back with practiced concern. "Someone take her to the infirmary."

As two Delta wolves helped me up, I caught Isabella watching from the sidelines, her beautiful face carefully arranged in a mask of sisterly concern. But I saw it now—the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, the slight curve of her lips.

Ninety-eight.

---

The pack infirmary smelled of antiseptic and herbs. The healer, an older wolf named Grace, clucked her tongue as she examined my wrist.

"Broken clean through," she muttered. "Your healing should have started already."

I said nothing. I knew why my healing was suppressed—had felt the weight of Marcus's Alpha command pressing down on my wolf, stifling her power.

"I'll wrap it and give you something for the pain," Grace said, turning to her cabinet of remedies.

While her back was turned, I noticed a sealed envelope partially hidden beneath my chart on the counter. The crimson wax seal bore the unmistakable crest of the Moonstone Pack—a wolf howling beneath a full moon.

My breath caught. The Moonstone Pack was legendary, one of the oldest and most powerful packs in Europe. What was their correspondence doing here, mixed with my medical records?

With my good hand, I quickly slipped the envelope into the pocket of my training jacket, heart hammering against my ribs. Grace turned back, a vial of pale blue liquid in her hand, none the wiser.

"Drink this," she instructed. "It will help with the pain until your healing kicks in."

I accepted the vial, my mind racing with questions. As the bitter liquid slid down my throat, I felt the weight of the letter against my side like a burning coal.

Who in the Moonstone Pack would be writing about me? And why would Marcus hide their correspondence in the infirmary, of all places?

For the first time since discovering the journal, I felt a flicker of something beyond despair—a dangerous, fragile hope.

Lyra stirred within me, her presence strengthening just slightly. *Maybe we're not alone after all.*