The Alpha’s Punishment Her Faked Death, His Ruin

My mate's omega liaison deliberately destroyed a painting I'd poured two years of my soul into.

The canvas held moon-blessed pigments, each stroke infused with my rare bloodline's gift. I was furious. As punishment, I made her serve as a den-maid for three days—scrubbing floors at my exhibition while the pack watched.

Alaric said nothing at first. He carried on as if the incident had never occurred.

But three moons later, his pack's territory collapsed. Allied packs severed their blood oaths. The Council Elders stripped him of his holdings and cast him into the binding den beneath the central keep.

To settle the tribute debts he'd accumulated, I worked three positions each day, running myself to exhaustion. I cleaned dens for hostile packs. I served at alliance gatherings where wolves who once bowed to me now spat at my feet.

For three years, I was cornered in shadowed alleyways by rogue hunters demanding payment, their claws leaving marks on my arms as they hurled insults at my bloodline. For a hundred coins, I took work as a "test sleeper" in abandoned territories rumored to be cursed by feral spirits.

Then one night, while I was serving mead at a pack feast, I caught his scent—Alaric Blackthorn, the Alpha heir who was supposed to be rotting in a binding cell—hosting a lavish moon-celebration for his precious omega liaison.

A packmate asked, "Alaric, you gifted Lily Ashgrove a moonstone collar worth a fortune, meanwhile your bonded mate is sleeping in cursed dens for a hundred coins. How does your wolf bear the shame?"

Alaric exhaled slowly, smoke curling from the pipe between his fingers. His laugh was cold as winter frost.

"Lyra forced Lily to serve as a maid. These three years? They're her pack penance."

"Once it's complete, I'll stage my return to power."

"She'll still bear the Blackthorn mark."

My body swayed in the cold night wind. I stood there like a puppet with severed strings.

So this was it. Three years of living death—all orchestrated by you.

Fine then. I'll repay you double.

——

I felt like I'd plunged into frozen waters, drowning in darkness. And still, voices drifted out from inside—Garrick Stonewalker was speaking.

"Alaric, she's still your bonded mate. Before you claimed her, she was a treasured daughter of the Nightveil line, a rare-blooded omega pampered from birth. Don't you think this penance is a bit... cruel?"

"Last time I caught Lyra's scent, it was wrong. Weak. Fading. She looked gaunt. Hollow. Her wolf is probably at its breaking point."

Alaric's voice was flat, utterly indifferent.

"We agreed on three full years of penance. Not a day less."

"Besides, there's only one moon cycle left. She's survived this far—what's a few more days?"

Garrick hesitated, then spoke again.

"She came to me a while back. Begging. She only wanted to borrow a few hundred coins."

"The Lyra Nightveil I used to know—the golden omega, born into the highest bloodline—I've never seen her that desperate. Her submission posture... it wasn't an act."

Alaric let out a cold snort. "You didn't give it to her, did you?"

"Of course not. You issued the Alpha command—any wolf who helps her faces pack shunning. I wouldn't dare defy you."

Through the haze of pipe smoke, Alaric's lips curled into a frigid smile.

"Smart wolf."

"Lyra Nightveil is spoiled. Arrogant. Insufferable. Lily accidentally damaged one painting, and Lyra made her grovel as a den-maid for three days in front of the entire pack."

"An omega that entitled needed to be taught her place. And look—three years of penance, and it worked, didn't it?"

His voice dripped with pride. Satisfaction.

As if his cruel experiment had broken me. Reformed me into something more obedient.

Garrick sighed and swallowed whatever protest had risen in his throat.

There were things he hadn't told Alaric.

That day, I had knelt before him.

I had bared my throat in full submission, tilting my head to expose the vulnerable curve where my pulse beat.

"Just five hundred coins. Please. I'm begging you."

"Alaric is sick in the binding den. He needs a pack healer. I'm five hundred short."

The wolves present had exchanged glances—then burst out laughing, their mocking howls echoing off the stone walls.

"Is this really the Lyra Nightveil we used to know?"

"You were so proud back then. Wouldn't wear pelts that cost less than a thousand. Now you're offering your throat for five hundred?"

I could only kneel there and endure it. My face showed nothing.

What expression was I supposed to wear?

Every shred of pride, every ounce of dignity I'd been born with—ground into dust by this brutal reality.

"If you're willing to offer more coins..."

My voice cracked, barely a whisper.

"I'll submit however you want."