Do you regret your crime?

Clara's POV

**FLASHBACK**

We were in the old garden, the summer before everything spoiled. Sunlight pooled in the cracks of ruined walls and tangled wildflowers. I perched on the stone bench—dress pale, knees tucked in—adrift in green. Taehyung sprawled beside me in untidy grace: the golden heir, laughter tumbling like coins, already crowned Alpha by every hopeful whisper.

He held out a piece of honeyed toast, peach jam dripping. “Stop squirming,” he gruffed, faux-displeased, fingers under my chin, insistent and warm. “Or you’ll be wearing breakfast, Clara. Again.”

I giggled. How could I have known what chains would taste like? I let him feed me. Sweetness clung to my lips—he wiped the corner with his thumb, then, wicked, licked it clean. The intentness in his eyes made my heart stumble.

He leaned close, voice soft as promise. “Stay with me,” he said. “Swear it. Don’t leave. Not for anything.”

I nodded, blinking through sunlight. In that moment, we were immortal—untouchable by hurt or hate.

Now, that memory is a blade pressed to my throat.

---

I clenched my fists against my mouth, fighting off tears that stung with something feral. The garden was gone; joy had curdled. Now, each mouthful was exile—food bitter, air bruised.

A hush swept the breakfast table, tin cutlery suspended. All conversation snapped off.

Evelyn set her glass down with deliberate noise. Minho kept his eyes cold. Seol pressed lips tight, fork shaking.

Taehyung’s gaze flicked to me—contempt sharpening every line of his face. Cold rippled out from him, enough to silence the room.

“If you have grief, keep it to yourself.” His words struck, sharp and public. The pack pretended not to hear, but all did.

I wanted to vanish—into the tablecloth, into the cracks. The wolf inside me whimpered; the girl in the garden curled small.

Evelyn eyed me—judgment in the smug twist of her mouth. Minho’s glance skittered past, colder than frost.

Seol’s trembling was the only kindness, the only echo of old friendship.

Taehyung watched, lips curling with disdain. “Stop sniveling.” He shoved his chair back—metal shrieked on stone—and rounded the table, looming.

He caught my wrist—iron hard. Pain rattled through me as he yanked me to my feet. My dress tangled, and I staggered, humiliated.

He dragged me out, past the staring pack, dominance burning in every movement.

“Move.” His command scalded my skin. For him, spectacle was a pleasure—a show of ownership.

Eyes fell. Some smirked. Evelyn smiled darkly. Minho’s jaw tightened.

Taehyung steered me into the corridor—relentless, grip bruising—through halls where dead ancestors peered from the walls. I stumbled; he didn’t slow.

He threw open a side door and shoved me inside—a cramped chamber, velvet curtains suffocating the morning. He closed the door; the click echoed like a verdict.

The memory of sunlight writhed in my chest, bitter and broken.

He kicked a chair at me. “Sit.”

I obeyed, biting back pain as wood jabbed my side.

Taehyung stood over me, arms folded, face set in iron.

“Are you broken already?” he mused, cold and amused. “Pathetic.”

He tossed a crumpled handkerchief at me—not a comfort, just another order. I wiped my tears with the back of my bruised hand.

“Why do you cry?” He drawled, voice venomous. “Remorse? Or just fear?” His smile, razor-thin, promised nothing gentle.

I stared at my hands; he grinned wider.

“You think the pack respects weakness?” His voice was a lash. “You disgrace my table with your tears—like a pup left out in a storm. Show anything but submission again, and I’ll mark you deeper. Maybe on your tongue. Maybe your throat.”

I shook my head, voice strangled. “I didn’t—”

He cut me off. “Enough. The only word I want is silence.”

He leaned close, shadow swallowing me. His presence was suffocation—a pressure that wouldn’t lift.

“You bring me nothing but shame. You repay my claim with whimpering.” He circled me, a predator’s satisfaction in every step. “Would you rather chains again, Clara? You looked better in iron. Maybe I’ll feed you scraps, see how long you last.”

I trembled, fists locked around my knees.

“You always wanted company for breakfast. Now you’ve got my pack watching you. Not hungry for power now, are you?” His laugh was a sneer.

He crouched before me, hands gripping the chair—their strength a warning. “The girl from the garden—she’s dead. You belong here, under my hand.”

He seized my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

His voice, low and lethal: “Cry at my table again, and I’ll carve my mark where anyone can see it. I want them to witness you bleeding for me, and know you’re nothing except my property.”

He let go—a careless shove. My head dropped, shame burning hot.

Satisfied, he stalked for the door. “Hold your head up. Don’t disgrace me. You exist for my claim, for my will. Remember it, Clara.”

He left, a door-wide wound in the velvet hush.

I followed, numb, dragging memories of sunlight and sweetness into the raw cold.

---

At the breakfast table, silence knifed the air. The pack watched every inch I moved—Evelyn’s smile sly, Minho’s stare harsh, Seol’s gaze averted.

Taehyung reclaimed his seat—every gesture dominant, every glance a silent dare for challenge.

I retook my chair, keeping my spine rigid, hands steady despite their tremor. Eyes flickered at me, some gloating, some hateful, none kind.

Taehyung surveyed the table, voice slicing: “Resume.”

Conversation limped back, brittle. Evelyn laughed too loudly at Minho’s joke. Seol only pushed food around her plate.

My meal sat untouched. Bread, honey, jam—memories soured by iron, turned bitter.

Taehyung watched every bite I lifted, every flinch.

After a while, his voice cut through the meal, loud enough for all:

“Clara.” Silken, venomous. “You stain my name—not Luna, not mate.”

Evelyn snickered. My blood ran cold.

I forced my eyes up to his, refusing every urge to break. He smiled—predatory, pleased.

“Do you regret your crime?” he said, voice booming. “Or do you force me to punish you further?”

I shook my head, words lost—reminding myself not to risk a reply.

He tapped his claws impatiently on the table. “You will. Soon.”

A tremor prickled through me.

He leaned in, voice a private threat:

“You’re not the girl in the garden any longer. You’re nothing but mine. As long as my mark burns on your neck, remember: you exist to serve me, to suffer for me, and nothing else.”

He drew back, smiling for the pack—a cold, victorious show.

I finished my meal in ritual silence, surrounded by wolves and the dead. The taste of sweetness became a chain—no more gold, only iron.

I lifted my chin, bloodless but unyielding. The Alpha’s eyes flickered with contempt and satisfaction.

As the pack resumed their meal, every eye measured me, waiting for me to falter, for Taehyung to break me further.

The memory of honeyed toast and sunlight was nothing but a scar now.

Taehyung was Alpha, and I was the spectacle, the warning, the prisoner.

My summer was gone. And so was the boy.

Now, only the mark remained, pulsing—a relentless reminder that I belonged, utterly, to his cruelty.