C3

Brielle Ashford POV

"You think this is a joke, don't you?" I say, trying to force a laugh to mask the reckless tremor in my breath.

Ronan Graywolf doesn't answer immediately. He watches me from the tangled sheets of the Mooncrest Lodge, a wicked, knowing smirk pulling at his lips. My skin is sweating, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped beast as I play the part of a cold, experienced seductor. I need him to think I do this all the time so he doesn't see the raw desperation bleeding through my pores. But he is a wolf; he smells the lies on me.

"I need to get out of here before the sun hits the trees," I mutter, throwing my legs over the edge of the mattress. My five-foot, plus-size body shivers as the chilly mountain air hits my bare skin.

"Let me drive you back to the village," Ronan rumbles, his deep voice sliding down my spine.

He stands up from his side of the bed, his massive six-foot-six frame completely naked. He turns his back to me to grab his trousers, and that is when I see them. Bright, angry red claw marks are carved deep into his dark skin, stretching from his shoulder blades down to his lower back.

He catches me staring in the mirror, his dark eyes twinkling with pure amusement. "You are the first human to ever draw blood from my hide, Brielle."

"I did not mean to scar you," I snap, my cheeks burning a hot pink against my white complexion.

"Then what do you call that violent gripping?" he asks, sliding his pants up his muscular legs.

"You were ripping me apart, Ronan. I did it because I was trying to survive you," I defend, crossing my arms over my full breasts.

He lets out a dark, barking laugh that echoes in the quiet lodge room. "You were just too small and tight for me, human."

"Oh, so now it is my fault? I thought you boasted about being too large for a human woman?" The words slip out before I can filter them, and my face burns even hotter the second the heavy smut of our night flashes through my mind.

He stops, his gaze turning incredibly serious as he pulls his shirt on. "Garrick must have pushed you to a very dark place to make you wild enough to climb into my bed."

Just like that, the mood shatters. He blames my passion on my husband's betrayal. A cold wave of reality crashes over me. Ronan knew all along. He knew Garrick was out in the Thornvale Forest marking Ivy Cross, and he stayed silent because wolf pack loyalty runs thicker than any human marriage vows. They are all the same beasts.

"You knew what he was doing," I say, my voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "Why didn't you tell me he was breaking our vows?"

He shrugs, strapping his watch onto his wrist—the silver memento mori that never ticks, forever frozen at the hour of his first kill. He winds the purple linen wraps tightly around his forearms, covering his dark skin completely. "Tell you what? That my alpha was slaking his thirst with a young pack admirer? Should I have dragged you by your hair into the woods to watch them knotting?"

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The imagery makes my stomach churn with bitter bile.

He steps closer, extending his massive, wrapped hand toward me. "Dress yourself. Let's go."

"I do not need an escort from you, wolf," I hiss, slapping his hand away with enough force to make my palm sting. I grab my rumpled clothes, pulling them over my curves in a frantic rush.

He doesn't pursue me when I storm out into the hallway.

The morning air in Blackridge Falls is biting, but I run straight to the small human apothecary in Oakridge Village. My hands shake as I buy a heavy dose of mountain herbs to stop any half-breed pregnancy from taking root in my belly. I swallow the bitter tonic right there at the counter, my throat burning as the liquid settles the panic in my womb.

By the time I slip back into the Ashford Cottage, the sun is barely peeking over the trees. Garrick is sprawled across our bed, snoring softly, completely dead to the world. He didn't even notice I was missing from our sheets. He didn't send a single mind-link or text to ask why his human wife was out past the pack curfew. He trusts me blindly, or more accurately, he simply does not care enough to check.

I pull the heavy velvet curtains shut to block out the morning light, stripping out of my clothes to wash the scent of Ronan off my skin. Just as I reach for a fresh gown, my phone vibrates on the nightstand.

It is a message from an unknown number: Why are you hiding behind those curtains? I can still see your shadow from down here.

My breath hitches. I spin around, ripping a corner of the velvet curtain back to peer down at the foggy lane. A heavy, dark carriage with the crest of the Graywolf Dominion is parked right under the oak tree.

Ronan. The bastard tracked my scent all the way to my front gate.

My phone buzzes a second time in my palm: Do not drink those apothecary herbs next time. I will wrap myself in leather before I slide inside you.

My jaw tightens in sheer disbelief. He actually thinks there will be a next time.

Down below, the heavy engine of his carriage revves, a low growl that cuts through the quiet morning before he speeds away toward the Graywolf Ridge Estate.

I don't type a reply. My fingers hover over the glass for a long, agonizing moment before I delete the entire conversation and wipe the history completely clean. I cannot let a single trace of this night remain in this house.

An hour later, the silence at the breakfast table is suffocating. Garrick sits across from me, casually turning the pages of the pack gazette while chewing on a thick piece of roasted meat.

"Where did you spend the night, Brielle?" he asks carelessly, not even lifting his eyes from the paper.

I freeze mid-motion, my fork slipping from my fingers and clattering loudly against the porcelain plate.

I study his face, looking for any sign of suspicion, any flash of the dominant alpha wolf who rules the Thornvale Wolf Pack. There is nothing. His face is completely blank, his focus entirely on the territorial news.

A wave of intense bitterness coats my tongue. The alpha who claimed to cherish me doesn't even blink when I disappear for hours. Yet Ronan, a man I used for a single night of vengeful sin, followed me all the way to my doorstep to ensure I was breathing.

"I was at the village baths with Selah Whitmore," I lie, my voice smooth despite the sweat pooling between my breasts. "We stayed late talking about the winter harvest."

"Mmh," he grunts, flipping the page without a single follow-up question.

Two years of marriage, and this is what I am reduced to—a ghost living in his alpha manor, completely invisible unless he wants to breed.

I stand up, stacking the dirty plates to take them to the basin, desperate to escape his oppressive indifference. But before I can take a step, a heavy, pale hand presses down firmly on my shoulder, forcing my weight right back into the wooden chair.

I gasp, flinching away from the sudden touch. Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of pristine white fabric moves into my line of sight.

Selah Whitmore slides into the empty chair right beside me, a sharp, dangerous smile stretching across her face as she looks between me and my husband.