Chapter 8 The Truth on Screen

Sandra reeled back. “No! No, it wasn’t! The video’s fake!”

She was shaking, truly shaking now.

“How? There were no crystals down there!” she panicked. “There were no runes! How did she—how—”

‘Liar,’ her eyes screamed.

Her mother rushed forward, venom gleaming behind forced tears. “This girl is framing us! Aria was raised like a princess! We never laid a finger on her. She was trouble, sneaking around with boys. We disciplined her like any parent would!”

A murmur spread.

“Sleeping around?”

“At that age?”

“Disgraceful!”

Lycus turned to me, disbelief warping his features. “So that’s where the scars came from.”

His tone, accusation instead of concern, should’ve gutted me. It didn’t.

I met Sandra’s gaze. She looked just like she had in that cellar. Drunk on cruelty, confident in the world she believed she owned.

I laughed softly. 

“Lady Maren,” I said, “you’re right. There wasn’t a crystal in the cellar at first.”

The woman froze.

“But do you remember the night you went down there alone to retrieve something and fell?” I continued. “No one heard you. You might have been trapped all night if I hadn’t gone to look for you.”

Her face was drained of color.

“You… you’re lying,” she whispered.

I tilted my head. “Am I? After that night, I installed a pinhole rune in the wall. So it won't happen again.”

The hall shifted. Wolves exchanged glances.

Sandra grabbed her mother’s hand. “Tell them you’d never go down there alone! Mother, say something!”

Lady Maren trembled, then lifted her chin.

“I’ve never been in that place,” she said loudly. “Never!”

Of course. She would save herself, even from the truth.

My nails dug into my palms, grounding me.

What now?

When the abuser lies, and their pack of witnesses lies with them… what then?

Then—

A deep male voice sliced through the hall.

“Is that so?”

A chill slid down my spine as wolves turned to look behind.

“Then perhaps we should ask your butler to confirm,” the voice continued.

The chandeliers caught the speaker in pale light as he stepped forward.

A tall male wolf walked in with a stride so controlled it made others straighten. He wore a dark coat, its collar lined with faint silver runes. 

His presence hit the room like a cold front sweeping over a battlefield.

His eyes, dark, steady, limned in gold, cut straight through the drama.

A single beauty mark sat just beneath one eye, turning his already chiseled face into something distractingly unforgettable. A faint tattoo curled from his sleeve, hinting at a past most wolves wouldn’t dare question.

He brushed a stray thread from his lapel with a single, elegant flick, effortless and disdainful.

Crystals, runes, all faltered for a heartbeat under the sheer force of it.

Even his  disgust was breathtaking.

His eyes moved across the hall. My torn gown on the floor, the scars along my shoulders, the overturned crates, the guards who suddenly looked unsure of themselves.

His jaw tightened. A small, contained reaction that said far more than raised voices or outrage ever could.

Then his gaze reached me. His eyes sharpened. And for one brief, steady heartbeat, his eyes locked on mine and everything receded.