Chapter 46

Dominic’s POV

Those walls were closing in, squeezing tighter every hour. It felt like I was getting crushed alive in a tomb lined with my father’s regrets. The fireplace kept spitting out noise, all crackle and pop, pretending it could melt the ice that’d taken root in my bones. I just sat there, hunkered in that ancient chair, knuckles going white on the armrests, nearly splitting the wood.

Why the hell, Dante? What are you playing at? I don't know what he needs to achieve by this when we literally have the kingdom. It belonged to us both.

Nobody ripped the throne away from me. Dad handed it over, dying breath and all, his voice shaking as he said, “Keep the pack safe. Lead them, Dominic. Dante’s at your back, but all this is yours.” I had clung to that, like some prayer. Figured my brother had too.

So where’s this crap from? The notes, the sneaking, the whispering? Dante’s betrayal hangs in the air like smoke I can’t clear from my lungs.

My jaw locked up. Could almost taste the bitterness, like chewing on pennies.

And then, there’s Elora…

Thinking about her stings in a whole different way. Scraped raw, jagged. It would have been easier if she had run off, handed her faith to someone else, let me hate her clean and simple. Anger...anger I can do with my eyes closed. But deep down, every aching bit of me knows she had never blinked, never broken. Saw her holding the line in that council room, words blazing hot enough to make the elders quiver, fighting for Dante like her own skin was at stake. And when I snuffed her protests, had to, right?...something in me snapped anyway.

I could have made an example of her. Chains, accusations, the works. The law was on my side. Nobody would have batted an eye. But no, I didn’t go through with it. It wasn’t about justice, it wasn’t mercy either. Just… pride. Elora is my Luna. If I laid a finger on her, the other Alphas would have a field day, calling me a lovesick fool, saying the family is led by a bleeding heart and a traitor. Not a chance. I would rather spill my own blood before I let them cackle at my expense.

So there I am, elbows digging into my knees, hands yanking at my hair, head all tangled up with Mira’s poisonous little whispers. “Elora and Dante...too close, don’t you see it? Why else is she so desperate to save him? Why’s your brother gambling it all?” I hated that I started believing her. God, I hated it.

But damn… Elora. She didn’t run. Kept her head up while I sulked in my private hell. Sat at that long table, giving orders, keeping the old guys in line, making the scouts actually listen, holding the border together while I, well, I just hid. Let Mira pet my ego, try to drown myself in jealousy, and cheap comfort.

I caught Elora once, standing outside the council room, chin up as the whispers circled, refusing to break. Her strength should have driven me mad, should have. Instead, it just made me… I don’t know. Respect her, I guess. Or maybe just wish I was anywhere but here.

Damn her.

I couldn’t help it. I slammed my fist into the desk, the ink pot went flying, and it bled out across my papers. That black stain, almost like the rot inside me crawling out for everyone to see.

Why can’t I get her out of my head? Why does every night taste like her skin, a memory of a kiss that has never happened? And when Mira’s there, soft and perfect, why does it feel all wrong?

Mira… she’s supposed to be my anchor, right? Always in the background, stroking my pride, feeding me pretty little lies about duty, strength. Giving me what I say I want.

But she’s not Elora.

Elora doesn’t sugarcoat a damn thing. She stands her ground, looks right through me, dares me to flinch. And that...that’s dangerous. Makes me want to fold.

Couldn’t sit still. Got up, started pacing across the stone tiles, boots knocking like a judge’s gavel. Every step, a verdict I could never outrun.

Honestly, I could practically feel the pack tearing at the seams. Not falling apart on the surface, at least not yet, but the cracks were there, deep and ugly and getting worse by the day. Half of them kept to Dante’s side, drawn in by whatever dignity and even-handedness he radiated. Others had their little groups huddling up, whispering Elora’s name like it was some kind of secret password. The rest? Staring me down. Every time I walked into a room and boom, those eyes. Too sharp, too hungry, waiting for me to slip.

If I screwed up, even just for one heartbeat, these people would eat us alive from the inside out. No mercy.

Leaning against the window, I stared outside at the circus pretending to be orderly, a web of wolves, all rehearsed movements and fake normalcy. Guards pacing like it mattered, messengers darting back and forth, everyone putting on that business as usual act. Underneath, everyone felt it. That tension practically hummed through the stones. Wolves know when their Alpha’s off-balance. They just do.

My old man handed me this job, and trusted me not to screw it up. Some legacy, huh? Dropped right in my lap, heavy as lead.

And yet... if I actually got this wrong. If Dante really was innocent and Mira just spun the story, I had just trashed my own brother. Hell, if Elora was true-blue loyal, I would lock up the only woman willing to stand by me and fight. Nailed it, right?

Caught my own reflection in the glass, a sad, twisted stranger with haunted eyes looking back. Doubt gnawing at every patch of skin.

I muttered into the dark, barely above a sigh, “What the hell have I turned into?”