The Alpha’s Punishment Her Faked Death, His Ruin

I traced my claw across the scent-message parchment, embedding my reply:

"Understood. I'll retrieve you in three moon cycles."

Three cycles later, I stood at the gates of the Pack Holding Cells to collect Alaric—without exposing his deception.

I caught his scent before I saw him, mingled with false notes of deprivation. He emerged dressed in torn furs, playing the part of an Alpha heir stripped of territory and status, reduced to nothing. He'd even used ash and herb paste to create a fake scar slashing across his jaw.

The moment his amber eyes found me, he limped forward, rushing toward me with exaggerated emotion.

"Lyra!"

He pulled me against his chest, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"I reflected on everything during my confinement. The Council Elders noted my reformed behavior and granted early release."

"Lyra, you've endured so much these past seasons. I'm deeply sorry."

He looked so sincere, so genuinely moved—as if he'd truly suffered through three years in the binding den.

But I gently pushed against his chest, my expression unchanged. "It's good you're free."

Alaric stiffened, his wolf clearly sensing something different in my demeanor. But the next heartbeat, he seized my wrist.

"Lyra, what happened here?"

His concern seemed genuine as his thumb traced the damaged flesh.

But I found it almost laughable.

Alaric, what exactly are you pretending for?

You're the one who sent those wolves. They appeared claiming to be Rogue Hunters collecting on my family's debts and beat me until I looked like this.

And now you're playing innocent?

A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Or perhaps I was simply afraid to face what would happen if I tore away the mask.

"It's nothing. I fell during a run."

I pulled my hand free from his grip. "The Pack Healer said it will mend with time."

Alaric finally relaxed, releasing a breath that stirred the air between us. "That's good."

He reached for my hand again, lacing his fingers through mine with practiced tenderness.

"The injury's on your right wrist. If it worsens and affects your moon-blessed painting, you'll be howling with grief again."

His voice dripped with indulgence. But every word cut straight through me.

I used to possess extraordinary talent for scent-art painting—the rare gift of capturing emotions in pigments that carried living scents.

Recognition from allied territories, more honors than I could count. Everyone said my future shone bright as the full moon.

But for those experimental treatments—for that tribute payment—

To secure Alaric's early release from confinement—

I let them destroy my wrist in the healer's trials.

Now I cannot even grip a brush.

And now I learn it was all merely a punishment game Alaric orchestrated.

How utterly absurd.

I remained silent the entire journey back to the den. Alaric seemed nervous, filling the quiet with endless chatter.

Obviously rehearsed words he'd gathered from other wolves.

All to convince me he'd truly spent three years in the holding cells.

I listened without really hearing. When he finally stopped, I asked quietly:

"Alaric."

"Did I do something wrong?"

He went completely still. His eyes reddened as he turned to look at me, his wolf flickering behind his gaze.

"What do you mean, Lyra? Why would you ask that?"

I suddenly remembered the last time I'd been permitted to visit the binding den.

I was so happy. I'd saved my meager allowance for ages and hunted fresh game to prepare for him—a proper meal I'd made with my own hands.

No wonder he'd wrinkled his nose and refused to touch it.

He thought the offering was beneath him.

Of course. I believed he'd spent three years suffering in confinement.

But in reality, he'd been traveling through distant territories with his little Omega Liaison.

Fine feasts. Imported delicacies from across the realm.

Why would he ever lower himself to share my hardships?

Even that prison visit—he'd paid a hundred and twenty tribute coins to stage the entire scene.

These past three years, I'd been nothing but a fool. Their plaything, spun in circles by their lies.

When Alaric noticed my tears, panic flashed across his face. He stepped closer, reaching up to wipe them away with his thumb.

"Lyra, why are you crying? Did someone hurt you?"