Chapter Four

The pain started that night.

I was in my suite reading one of the books Diana brought me when my chest suddenly felt like someone was squeezing my heart in a fist. I gasped, dropping the book, pressing both hands to my sternum as the pain intensified into something sharp and wrong.

This was not anxiety. This was physical, real, agonizing.

I stumbled toward the door, meaning to call for help, but the room tilted sideways, and I crashed to my knees. The pain pulsed with my heartbeat, spreading from my chest down my arms and up my throat until I could barely breathe.

The mate bond. It had to be the mate bond.

"Help," I tried to shout, but it came out as a broken whisper. "Someone please..."

The door burst open. Anthony stood there, still dressed from dinner in dark slacks and a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the concern on his face would have shocked me if I could focus on anything except the agony ripping through my body.

He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside me. "Mirabel, look at me. Focus on my voice."

I tried, but another wave of pain stole my breath.

Anthony scooped me up like I weighed nothing, cradling me against his chest as he carried me swiftly down the hallway. I buried my face against his shoulder, shaking, trying not to scream.

"Christopher!" Anthony's voice echoed through the corridors. "Get Margaret to my rooms immediately!"

His rooms? Not the medical wing?

We entered a space I had never seen before, clearly his private quarters. He laid me gently on an enormous bed, then sat beside me, taking my hand in both of his.

"Breathe," he commanded softly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Breathe with me."

I followed his rhythm, using his steady breathing as an anchor while pain continued to tear through my chest. Slowly, gradually, it began to ease from unbearable to merely awful.

Margaret arrived minutes later, medical bag in hand, Diana trailing behind her, looking frightened. The healer took one look at me and started examining my chest, my pulse, my eyes.

"Mate bond rejection trauma," she diagnosed grimly. "Her body is too far from her bonded mate, and the bond is fighting the distance. Combined with the emotional trauma of the circumstances, it triggered a pain response."

"How do we stop it?" Anthony demanded.

Margaret glanced between us. "Three options: she returns to her mate, which I assume is not happening. Her mate formally rejects the bond, which apparently he refuses to do. Or we manage the symptoms with medication until her body adjusts, which could take months and cause permanent damage."

"There has to be another way," Anthony insisted.

"There is one more option," Margaret said carefully. "If another mate bond forms, strong enough to override the first, it would weaken the original bond's hold. But second-chance mate bonds are rare and cannot be forced."

The room fell silent except for my ragged breathing.

Anthony's hand was still holding mine, and I realized suddenly that where our skin touched, the pain lessened slightly. Like his presence was somehow soothing the bond's distress.

"Give her something for the pain tonight," Anthony told Margaret. "Tomorrow, we will research every possible solution. I do not care how obscure or difficult. We will fix this."

Margaret prepared an injection that made the world go soft and fuzzy around the edges. Diana helped me change into pajamas while the men stepped out, then tucked me into Anthony's massive bed like I was something precious.

"Why did he bring me to his rooms instead of the medical wing?" I asked Diana through the medication haze.

She smiled softly. "Because the medical wing is cold and clinical, and you needed comfort more than medicine. Also, I suspect the King wanted to be sure you were safe. His quarters are the most secure in the palace."

That made a strange kind of sense.

Anthony returned after Diana left, carrying a blanket and pillow. He arranged them on the couch near the fireplace, clearly intending to sleep there.

"You do not have to stay," I murmured, already drifting toward unconsciousness.

"Yes," he said quietly, settling onto the couch. "I do."

I wanted to ask why, wanted to understand this complicated man who bought me at auction and then treated me with more care than my own mate ever had. But sleep pulled me under before I could form the words.

I woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee. Anthony sat at his desk across the room, surrounded by old books and scrolls, still wearing yesterday's clothes like he had not slept at all.

"What are you doing?" I asked, voice rough from sleep.

He looked up, and I saw exhaustion shadowing his grey eyes. "Researching bond severance rituals. There are fourteen documented cases in the last three centuries of forced bonds being broken without mutual consent. I am trying to find common elements."

My heart did something complicated in my chest. "You stayed up all night researching for me?"

"I told you I would help," he said simply, like staying awake reading ancient texts in languages I could not even identify was a normal response.

I sat up slowly, relieved when no pain shot through my chest. The medication had worn off, but the agony from last night had not returned. "I feel better."

"Good." Anthony stood, stretching stiff muscles. "Margaret wants to see you this morning for a follow-up. After that, if you are feeling strong enough, I thought you might join the warriors for training. Physical activity can help manage bond stress."

Training. The idea sent a thrill through me despite everything. "I would like that."

"Excellent. Christopher will show you the training grounds after your appointment." He paused at the door to his bathroom, then turned back. "Mirabel, we will fix this. I promise you. Mitchell does not get to control your life from a distance."

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving me alone with the knowledge that the Lycan King, the most feared wolf in North America, had just spent an entire night researching ways to free me from my past.

I got up, made the bed carefully, and tried not to think about how Anthony's scent lingered on the pillows or how safe I had felt sleeping in his space.

After breakfast and a quick check-in with Margaret, who confirmed the pain episode was exactly what she suspected, Christopher appeared to escort me to the training grounds.

"Fair warning," he said as we walked through the gardens toward a large open field, "the warriors can be territorial and skeptical of newcomers. Especially omegas who claim combat skills. They will test you."

"I can handle it," I assured him, surprising myself with how much I meant it.

The training grounds sprawled across several acres behind the palace, featuring obstacle courses, sparring rings, weapons racks, and groups of wolves engaged in various drills. At least forty warriors trained here, both male and female, all of them looking dangerous and competent.

They also all stopped what they were doing to stare when Christopher led me onto the field.

"Everyone," Christopher called out, "this is Mirabel Nicholas. She will be training with you starting today. Treat her with the same respect you show any recruit."

A massive male with scars across his face and arms like tree trunks smirked. "An omega? What is she going to do, organize our weapons alphabetically?"

Several warriors laughed. I felt my face flush, but before I could respond, a familiar cold voice cut through the mocking.

"She is going to put you on your back, Marcus, if you are stupid enough to test her."

Anthony emerged from the weapons building, dressed in training gear that highlighted every powerful line of his body. He walked straight to me, ignoring everyone else.

"Show them," he said quietly, for my ears alone. "Show them what your father taught you."

Marcus, the scarred warrior, stepped forward with a cocky grin. "I am always happy to spar with the King's guests. I will try to be gentle."

Anthony's smile was as sharp as broken glass. "I would not."

The other warriors formed a circle around the sparring ring. Marcus stepped inside, rolling his shoulders like this would be over in seconds. I followed, heart pounding but hands steady.

My father's voice echoed in my memory: Size is not strength, little wolf. Speed is strength. Precision is strength. Never fight their battle; make them fight yours.

Marcus charged like I expected, trying to use his size advantage to overwhelm me quickly. I sidestepped at the last possible second, using his momentum against him to send him stumbling past me. He recovered fast, swinging a fist toward my face. I ducked under it, drove my palm into his solar plexus, and swept his legs out from under him before he could reset his balance.

He hit the ground hard.

The watching warriors went absolutely silent.

Marcus surged back to his feet, anger replacing cockiness. He came at me again, faster this time, more controlled. We exchanged blows, and I gave ground deliberately, letting him think he was gaining advantage. Then I caught his wrist mid-punch, twisted, used his own arm as leverage to flip him completely over my shoulder, and pinned him to the dirt with my knee on his spine and his arm locked at an angle that would dislocate if he struggled.

"Yield," I said calmly.

Marcus struggled for three seconds before the pain made him tap the ground twice. "I yield."

I released him immediately and stepped back, offering a hand to help him up. He stared at it for a moment, then took it, allowing me to pull him to his feet.

"Who the hell trained you?" he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

"Marcus Nicholas of Ashwood," I answered. "My father."

Recognition dawned on several faces. Marcus's eyes widened. "The Marcus Nicholas? The one who held the eastern border against fifty rogues with only twelve warriors?"

"That was him."

Marcus nodded slowly, respect replacing mockery. "Then you have earned your place here. Welcome to the guard, Mirabel."

The circle of warriors echoed the welcome, and just like that, I was accepted.

I glanced toward where Anthony stood watching, and our eyes met across the training ground. He did not smile, but something in his expression made my breath catch.

Pride. He was proud of me.

For the first time since Mitchell pushed me onto that auction stage, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I was going to be okay.

Then a messenger ran onto the training grounds, skidding to a stop in front of Anthony and Christopher, and whatever he whispered made both of their faces go stone cold.

"What is it?" I asked, walking over.

Anthony's grey eyes met mine, and I saw anger and something else I could not identify burning there.

"Mitchell just filed a formal challenge with the Council," he said quietly. "He is invoking the Right of Reclamation to demand your return."