Chapter Four

Isolde’s POV

My knees buckled, the world spinning around me in a dizzy blur. I barely registered Ryder stepping back before my body collapsed with a sickening thud against the cold, hard floor.

Rough hands seized my arms before I could catch my breath.

"Take her to the west wing," Ryder’s voice cut through the air, low and emotionless.

The guards didn’t hesitate. They hoisted me up like a rag doll, their grip bruising. I struggled to match their long, urgent strides, but my legs refused to cooperate. I stumbled again, my knees scraping stone, my skin tearing against the harsh floor.

Gasps echoed.

Whispers followed.

“Is that Isla?”

“How will I know? They both look the same anyway!”

“Alpha didn't call her Isla when he came in”

“No… that’s the other one—Isolde.”

“She must have done something unforgivable…”

Soon, we reached the west wing. They threw me inside like I was filth—nothing more than a stain on their pristine pack floors. The door slammed behind me.

The west wing was still part of the packhouse, yet it felt worlds away. A forgotten corner of darkness. The walls were gray, chipped, and crumbling in places. The air was damp and heavy with mold and old blood. No windows. No sign of life except mine.

This place had a history. The former Alpha had built it to punish wayward concubines and disobedient wives.

I felt dizzy, hot, and unbelievably faint, knowing I would pass out soon. Despite that, I decided to take a tour of the west wing. It was large, almost like a castle on its own, with countless rooms and floors, but it felt lonely. Not even a guard or maid was in sight.

I wandered around for a long time, constantly bumping into walls and brushing against cobwebs, with rats scurrying by my feet.

Finally, I stopped when I felt a rush of air hit me. It was a window! I pushed it open and drew back the dusty curtains, allowing enough light in to see my surroundings. The window was small, but that would work—better than nothing at all.

Inside, the room was just as dusty as the others, but in some ways, it was better. I took off the wedding dress, feeling a throb of pain in my neck. Once the dress was off, leaving me only in my underwear, I turned around and noticed a mirror covered in dust. I grabbed my wedding dress and used it to wipe the mirror, watching as it came back to life while the dress turned from its perfect white color to a brownish hue.

I threw the dress aside and stared at my reflection in the mirror. It was a total mess—makeup smeared across my face from tears, my eyes puffy and red, and dried blood scattered around my neck and shoulders.

I stared at the mark. It pulsed against my skin. A reminder. The wolf’s head was cruelly elegant, blackened like ash, and etched where his mouth had claimed me. For werewolves, marking symbolizes love and possession; however, mine was born out of ownership and hatred. I threw my head back as a sarcastic laugh rippled out of my mouth.

The scene flashed before my eyes—the pain and agony I felt as his fangs sank roughly into my neck, his vows of hate, everything.

I reached up and touched it with trembling fingers. The skin was still tender, burning faintly like it hadn’t finished scarring over.

I closed my eyes. At one time, I wanted his mark on me. I imagined how it would feel, his teeth against my skin, his warm breath on my neck, the connection that would join us together. I dreamed about it like someone longing for warmth, eager to be chosen and wanted.

And now, I bore the mark I once longed for except it wasn’t love that placed it there.

It was rage.

Punishment.

His fangs hadn’t pierced my skin with tenderness. They had torn into me, a violent promise that this was my new reality. A mockery of everything I’d ever wanted.

My breath hitched, my chest caving with the weight of it. I wrapped my arms around my body, trying to hold myself together, but it was no use. I was breaking from the inside out. I opened my eyes slowly, staring into the mirror.

“Stupid,” I whispered. “So stupid.”

To think I could ever take her place. To think he would ever forgive me for it. Even if I hadn’t meant for her to die. None of it mattered now.

My family saw me as a disgrace.

The pack saw me as a liar.

He saw me as a traitor.

And I... I didn’t know who I was anymore. The sound of scurrying feet broke through the silence. Maybe I should've been scared, but fear was dulled now. Like everything else. Maybe it was the rats again.

I turned away from the mirror as I took countless steps toward the other part of the room, the mark throbbing with every beat of my heart.

I wished I could rip it off.

But more than anything, I wished I’d never loved him.

Because that was the part that hurt the most.

Time passed and a knock never came. No tray of food. No healer for the wound. No maid with linens or water. Nothing. It was like I’d ceased to exist the moment he walked out of that ceremonial hall.

I found a basin in the corner of the room with a cracked pitcher beside it. The water inside was cold and stale, but I splashed it on my face anyway, scrubbing the remnants of makeup from my skin.

I couldn’t afford to cry anymore.

I wore old clothes I found in a forgotten wardrobe—a thin linen shift and a rough cloak that smelled musty from years of neglect.