I Want to Leave

(Clara's POV)

One week later. The day of the engagement ceremony.

I was in my office, reviewing the itinerary one final time. Two guards pushed open the door and walked in, their faces blank.

"Clara. The Alpha wants to see you. Pack house. Now."

The moment I stepped through the pack house doors, I stopped dead.

The curtains, the rugs, the candelabras on the coffee table—every piece of furniture Damien and I had chosen together had been replaced.

As if I had never lived here at all.

I stood there, scanning every corner. Then I saw it—the closet door in the coat room hadn't been shut properly. In the deepest corner, a sliver of dark gray yarn peeked out.

The scarf I'd knitted for him by hand. That first winter, when I'd just arrived at the pack with nothing to my name, I wanted to repay him for saving my life. It took me three days to scrounge enough yarn. Two weeks to knit it.

When he received it, all he said was, "Not bad." But he wore it the entire winter.

Now it was shoved into the back of the closet like a secret no one was supposed to find.

I looked away and pretended I hadn't seen it.

"These flowers..."

A soft, hesitant voice drifted down from the top of the stairs.

I looked up. Wendy was cradling a bouquet of white roses against her chest.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to cause trouble." She held the bouquet out in front of her, turning it slowly, her brow furrowed with what looked like genuine distress.

"It's just... white roses. At Red Moon pack, only lowly Omega slaves would love white roses." She paused, lowering her eyes.

She looked up at Damien as he emerged from the study in a crisp suit, her eyes wide and glistening. "Damien, I'm not trying to be difficult. I just... want our engagement to be perfect. You're not upset with me, are you?"

"Not at all." Damien glanced down at her, his tone mild. "White roses are cheap flowers. Switch them out for whatever you like."

Cheap flowers.

I lowered my head.

Two years ago, on a rare evening when Damien had come home early, he'd noticed a single white rose I'd picked from the garden sitting on my desk. He'd picked it up, studied it for a moment, and said, "Pure. Like you."

Such a simple comment. But I'd been happy for an entire week.

Three months ago, when Damien first had me begin planning this ceremony, he'd said, "This event is the most important one yet. Design it entirely to your own taste."

I'd thought it was for announcing me as his true mate. So I chose white roses.

My fingers dug into my palms. I said nothing.

"Whatever." Wendy let out a small, forgiving sigh. "I heard your pack's event planner is an Omega."

She tilted her head, her voice gentle and understanding. "It makes sense, then. White roses are probably the prettiest flowers she's ever seen."

She acted as though I didn't exist—as if she had no idea I was that planner.

She paused, pressing her lips together as if a thought had just occurred to her, then looked up at Damien with soft, earnest eyes.

"Damien... could you let her work under me for a little while? Maybe I could teach her something.” She squeezed Damien's arm, her tone turning tender. "I'd hate for her to embarrass herself — or the pack — at such an important event. I want to help you."

My chest tightened.

Wendy had only been at Black Moon for a week, but her spies had infiltrated long before. She knew exactly who I was to Damien. By "whip her into shape," she meant make my life hell.

I looked at Damien.

"You can give her tasks." Damien pulled his gaze from me to Wendy. "But Clara isn't just any Omega. She's the pack's chief strategist. Show her basic respect."

The tension in my shoulders eased slightly.

He still... he still cared. Right?

Wendy pouted, tugging at Damien's arm. "I just got here and don't know anyone. I only wanted to make friends with her. Don't misunderstand me."

Damien was silent for two seconds. "Do whatever you want."

Wendy's face brightened with a grateful smile. She spun around, sweeping her gaze across the hall until it landed on the painting at the far end of the wall.

"That painting..." She tilted her head, studying it for a long moment. “May I hang one of our wedding photos here?”

My heart clenched.

That painting. My first pack hunt—I'd taken down a full-grown stag on my own. A wolfless Omega bringing down a stag had been the talk of the entire pack.

Damien hadn't said a word. But the next day, that painting hung in the most prominent spot in the pack house. It was a group portrait of everyone from the hunt—and I was standing front and center, Damien right behind me.

Wendy pressed closer to Damien's side, her voice soft and wistful. "I was just thinking... this is our home now, isn't it?”

Damien looked at the painting. Just one glance.

"Get rid of it. You're the pack's Luna now. That wall should have a portrait of us."

My fingers started shaking.

"No—" I stepped forward.

But Wendy had already turned to the servants, her tone light and pleasant. "You all heard the Alpha — please take it down."

Two servants brought a ladder. One climbed up and took the painting down.

As they carried it past her, Wendy reached out and touched the frame.

"It really is a lovely painting," she murmured, loud enough for me to hear. Then she smiled at the nearest servant. "Actually — there's no room in storage, is there? Just dispose of it."

The canvas hit the floor. A servant's boot caught the edge as he turned. The painting split right down the center—my face, Damien's face, the stag, the autumn forest—all of it torn to pieces.

Soon, Wendy led the servants upstairs to inspect the bedrooms. The hall emptied until only Damien and I remained.

Silence crashed down.

"Damien." I spoke. My voice was calm—so calm it frightened me. "Break our mate bond."

He turned, frowning. "What did you say?"

Three years ago, the very first thing he did after marking me at the Moon Goddess Altar? He hired a witch to brew a potion that masked our mate bond's scent so no one could detect it.

He said my status was too low. If other packs discovered that Black Moon's Alpha was fated to an Omega slave's daughter, the pack would become a laughingstock.

"You're jealous." There was a hint of impatience in his voice, but more than that—genuine confusion, as if he truly couldn't understand why I was doing this. "Clara, Wendy smashed a painting and you want to break our bond? You're overreacting."

"It's not about the painting." I raised my head to meet his eyes. "I just want to leave."

He stared at me, his frown deepening. Then he laughed.

"Leave? And go where?" He crossed his arms, towering over me. "Clara, when I picked you up at the border, you were drenched in blood and couldn't even stand. I gave you a place, taught you to fight, showed you how to run pack operations. Out there, you're a wolfless Omega. The rogues would tear you apart within three days. Who do you think would take you in?"

Every word was true. Every word cut like a blade.

"I want to leave." I said it again.

Damien's smile slowly faded. He studied me as though seeing me clearly for the first time.

The silence stretched on.

"Fine."

My heart hammered. A wave of relief flooded my chest.

Then Damien stepped forward, his massive frame swallowing me in shadow. He bent down, his lips nearly brushing my ear.

"But I have one condition."

My heart sank.