Chapter 2

Before anyone could react, I had already begun undoing the buttons of my coat.

It was the coldest stretch of winter. My coat was thick and warm, shielding me from the icy wind howling outside.

I stood by the door, where the wind still crept in—sharp, whistling beneath my dress and clawing at my skin. Goosebumps rose on my arms and shoulders.

I reached behind me and unfastened the clasp of my evening gown. The silk slid down, whispering against my body until the curve of my back and most of my shoulder were bare.

Gasps scattered through the room.

"Oh my God—"

A few of the more timid ones covered their eyes.

The male wolves didn't.

They watched.

Except Shawn.

His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were dark, darker than I'd ever seen. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line, and the cigar between his fingers trembled.

The gown slid lower.

The cigarette burned his fingers before he noticed. He flinched, dropping it, and in the next second, he stripped off his suit jacket and rushed forward, wrapping it around my body.

"Clara, you really are asking for trouble!"

His voice cracked—not loud, but sharp enough to silence the room.

"Close your eyes! And if any of you breathe a word of what you saw today to the pack—I swear, you won’t leave here alive!"

"Get out. Now."

Shawn rarely lost his temper. But tonight, he did.

The guests left quickly and quietly—old acquaintances who understood when to disappear. Even the seven human girls he'd brought into this den over the years had retreated upstairs.

Only Shelly remained, standing beside the shattered silence.

I tilted my head up, wrapped in his coat, and met Shawn's eyes.

"Are you satisfied?" I asked. "Can you let me go now?"

Tears were brimming—but I wouldn't let them fall.

Not anymore.

I had cried enough for Shawn. I had dried up entire oceans for him.

"Clara," he sneered, "stop this pathetic act of fake indifference. It makes me sick."

He still didn't believe me. Still thought this was a performance.

Still thought I was here for him.

"Shawn," I said, voice steady, "this time, I really want a bond-severance."

He laughed. Laughed like I'd told him a joke with no punchline. Then he grabbed the back of my neck and bent me forward, the pressure making my knees buckle. His wolf was way stronger than mine.

"Do you dare sever the bond with me?" he whispered. "Can you afford your father's healing fees without me? Or your mother's debt bill?"

"Clara, your mother will be the first to kneel and beg me not to let you go."

His voice was venom wrapped in silk.

He hated her for drugging him.

He hated me for standing beside my mother.

And most of all—he hated that he had once wanted me.

"Even if she hadn't drugged me," he spat, "I would have bonded you. I would have helped you."

"But she forced my hand. And you—you let her. You destroyed everything."

I didn't speak.

There was nothing I could say that would change his mind. He would never believe me. Not in this life, maybe not in the next.

His grip tightened. He shoved me toward Shelly, pushing me to my knees.

"Wash her feet," he snapped. " You're good at it. You've done this for seven years."

And I had. For seven years, I'd not only taken care of Shawn—I'd tended to the girls he brought home. I had taught them, served them, cleaned up after them, helped them dress, and even helped Shawn undress them.

Things I should never have done.

Things I can never forgive myself for.

But I only want to end it now. Cleanly.

So I did as he said. I knelt. I took Shelly's foot in my hand and immersed them in warm water.

So obedient, it stole the satisfaction from him.

He scowled. Grabbed my wrist. Dragged me into his bedroom.

Then, he tore Shelly's dress off in front of me.

I'd seen this scene thousands of times.

Sometimes, Shawn even asked me to stay. To teach. To pass the tools.

I handed some tools to him—a reflex under repeating similar circumstances.

He slapped it away. "We don't need those tonight."

My hand trembled.

I took it back.

He didn't stop. But this time… he looked at me. For the first time in a long while, he looked at me.

I didn't return the gaze. I didn't need to.

There was nothing left in my eyes for him to find.

He shoved me into the bathroom and locked the door angrily.

The wind howled outside. Snow beat against the glass. Muffled sounds of movement and laughter echoed through the walls.

I sat on the cold tile floor and listened.

My arms wrapped around my knees, the tiles biting into my skin. The walls felt too close, like they were listening—like they knew.

The light above flickered weakly. I didn’t look up.

Every creak of the bedframe on the other side of the wall struck like a blade. Every breathless laugh, every moan, carved deeper than the last. And still… I didn’t cry.

I had cried the first time. The second. Maybe the third. But not tonight.

There was nothing left in me but silence.

He was supposed to be my mate. The one who protected me. The one I trusted before everything fell apart. Now he was in there—with her—while I sat alone in the dark, not even angry anymore.

Just… hollow.

My wolf curled up inside me, wounded and quiet. She didn’t snarl, nor howl. She just lay there, as tired as I was.

I wasn’t shocked. Not really. Not after all these years. But something inside me still shattered with every sound that slipped through the door.

I used to fight. I used to beg. I used to hope.

Now I just sat still, like standing in a blizzard, knowing the cold would take me eventually—and maybe that was easier than trying to stay warm.

I stayed there all night, listening.

A sharp trill of my phone shattered my numbness.

"Miss Clara? Your mother has been attacked by some wild wolves. She's in critical condition. Please come to the hospital immediately."

My heart dropped into my stomach.

"Shawn!"

I pounded on the door, hands shaking.

He opened it slowly, still shirtless.

Kiss marks on his neck.

Shelly draped over him like jewelry.

"What is it?" he asked lazily.

"My mother's in the hospital. Please… take me there. Please."

I dropped to my knees, begging. Tears spilled freely now, uninvited but unstoppable.

Shelly scoffed. "Seriously? At 3 a.m.? In a snowstorm? You expect us to believe that?"

She gestured out the window, toward the black sky and the thick snow still falling.

Shawn smirked. Didn't even look me in the eye.

"Clara, you're even lying about this?"

He leaned in close. "Or are our voices out there making you jealous again?"

Then he slammed the door in my face.

I screamed, begging him to save my mother—because deep down, I knew she was going to die.

My wolf sensed it. She was howling in agony, scratching at the door until her claws bled.

So I did the only thing I could—I shifted.

My hands turned into paws. I smashed the bathroom window with all the strength I had left and climbed out into the snow.

Shards of glass tore into me. Blood spilled hot against the cold.

I ran.

There was no taxi at that time, just red blood, cold wind and white snow.

A trail of crimson followed me through the snow.

Then—

Two sharp beeps.

A black limousine pulled up beside me.

The back window rolled down.

And that voice again—

Low, magnetic, and unmistakably calm amidst the storm:

"Get in."