When My Mate Locked Me in a Silver Cage

Seventy-two hours. That was exactly how long it took for a fated mate bond to rot and die in the dark.

The silver lacing in the dungeon walls hummed with a toxic, low-frequency vibration. It made the freezing, damp air taste like battery acid. My inner wolf was completely suppressed, buried so deep under the agonizing sickness of the silver that I couldn't even summon a sliver of her strength. I huddled in the corner of the pitch-black cell, pulling my knees tight to my chest, my teeth chattering uncontrollably.

Something wet and furry brushed against my bare ankle.

I kicked out blindly. A large, feral rat let out a vicious squeak, its sharp teeth sinking into my calf before it scrambled away into the shadows. I gasped, pressing my trembling hand over the bleeding bite. The pain flared, hot and sharp, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.

For the first two days, I had cried. I had thrown myself against the heavy iron door, begging Graham through our blocked mind-link, sobbing until my throat bled. I had prayed my Alpha would realize his mistake and come save me.

But on the third day, as I sat shivering in the dark, bleeding from rat bites and freezing to the bone, something inside me finally snapped.

The illusion shattered into a million jagged pieces. Graham didn't love me. He never would. He had thrown me into a literal cage of poison just to give Silas Thorne a scapegoat. I was just meat for the wolves, sacrificed to protect his murderous stepsister.

As the cold seeped deep into my marrow, the desperate, pleading she-wolf inside me died. In her place, a cold, razor-sharp clarity took root. I was Liana Morales. I came from a proud, powerful bloodline. I was a Luna in my own right. I didn't need this broken, abusive bond to define my worth, and I certainly didn't need a mate who would watch me drown.

The heavy lock suddenly clanked. The iron door groaned open, spilling harsh, blinding yellow light into the cell.

I squinted, holding up a dirty hand. Graham stood in the doorway. He looked immaculate in his tailored black suit, a stark contrast to my dirt-stained, soaked clothes. His face was an unreadable, stoic mask.

"Silas Thorne has concluded his initial investigation," Graham said, his voice flat and devoid of any guilt. "He found no evidence of treason against you. The pack's attention is satisfied. You're free to go."

He had successfully used me. Silas was distracted, and the heat was off Kendra.

Graham reached out a gloved hand to help me up. A week ago, I would have taken it. I would have wept, buried my face in his chest, and thanked him for his mercy.

Today, I ignored his hand entirely.

I pushed myself up from the freezing stone floor. My legs shook violently, but I forced my spine straight. I walked right past him, my shoulder brushing his arm. I didn't shed a single tear. I didn't scream or beg. I was eerily, perfectly calm.

"Liana," Graham barked, a hint of genuine confusion breaking his icy facade.

I kept walking. I bypassed the main hall and slipped straight into the packhouse's administrative office. Graham had publicly stripped my title, but in his arrogant rush, he hadn't formally revoked my security access in the pack's mainframe yet. My fingers flew across the keyboard. I pulled up the restricted logs, bypassing his locked files. I didn't need to prove my innocence anymore. I needed the weapon to destroy them.

Twenty minutes later, I stood outside Kendra's luxurious suite in the east wing. The air here was warm, smelling of expensive vanilla perfume and fresh orchids—a sickening contrast to the dungeon's rot.

I pulled my smartphone from my pocket, opened the voice memo app, and hit record. I slipped the phone deep into my jacket pocket, took a breath to steady my shaking legs, and pushed the door open.

Kendra was sitting at her vanity, brushing her glossy hair. When she saw me in the mirror, looking pale, bruised, and covered in dungeon dirt, a wicked, triumphant smile stretched across her face.

"Oh, look," she purred, turning around in her plush velvet chair. "The Luna returns. How were the rats, Liana?"

I slumped against the doorframe, forcing my shoulders to shake. I played the part of the broken, defeated victim she desperately wanted me to be. "You won, Kendra," I whispered, my voice intentionally hoarse. "Graham chose you. He always will. But I just want to know why. Why do you hate me so much?"

Kendra laughed, a high, grating sound. High on her perceived victory, her fragile, innocent facade melted away completely. She stood up, walking toward me with the swagger of a predator.

"You exist," she sneered, her voice dripping with pure venom. "You and your perfect fated bonds. Your glowing auras. I had to watch ranked wolves parade around this pack my entire life, acting like they were gods just because they had wolves. Especially his mother."

I held my breath, keeping my eyes downcast. "The former Luna... she was kind to you."

"She pitied me!" Kendra shrieked, her face twisting into an ugly mask of pure malice. "She looked at me like I was a defective pet! So I showed her who was really in charge. I crushed the wolfsbane into her tea myself. I watched her choke on it. I watched the mighty Luna die in her own bed, completely powerless against a wolfless girl!"

She stepped right into my face, her eyes wild with arrogant triumph. "I killed her, Liana. And Graham knows. He knows, and he still locked you in a cage to protect me. I own the Alpha. I own this pack. And there is nothing you can do about it."

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my face remained perfectly, coldly blank.

"You're right," I said softly, stepping back into the hallway. "You own him."

I turned and walked away, my hand slipping into my pocket to press save on the recording. The game was over. Now, it was time to burn their world to the ground.