Chapter 2 The Sound of the Bell

Patrick’s footsteps were heavy, echoing down the hallway like the prelude to a storm.

When he left the room and turned toward the kitchen, Michelle’s heart began to pound so violently she thought he could hear it.

She scrambled off the couch and rushed toward the refrigerator, her bare feet cold against the tiled floor. The quiet hum of the air conditioner was suddenly too loud, the air itself too thin.

“Let me fix you a sandwich,” she said quickly, opening the fridge before he could speak. “I usually cook dinner by five; I didn’t know you would be home early.”

Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears , too light, too fast, as if she could smooth over danger with words.

She pushed aside containers and bottles, searching desperately for something to please him.

Her hands moved faster, growing more frantic with each second, until realisation struck; there were no cold cuts, no ham, no meat at all. Only vegetables and leftover soup from yesterday.

Her throat tightened.

What was a sandwich without cold cuts?

Patrick loved his meat, thick slices, dripping with fat, the smell of it filling the kitchen.

She froze, staring blankly into the empty space on the refrigerator shelf. That small, stupid absence felt like a death sentence.

Behind her, she heard the faint scrape of his chair against the floor.

“You mean you haven’t cooked anything yet?” His voice sliced through the air, calm but sharp, carrying that dangerous undercurrent that always made her body stiffen.

Michelle turned slowly, hands still gripping the fridge door. “Alpha…” she whispered, forcing her voice to stay steady. She wasn’t allowed to call him by name. She’d learned that lesson long ago.

Her lips trembled as she tried to think fast. “Do you mind a peanut butter sandwich?”

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that stretches until it hurts.

Then Patrick laughed softly, the sound dripping with disbelief. “Do I look like a herbivore to you?”

The way he said it, gentle, teasing even, was worse than shouting. That tone meant he was winding up to something cruel.

Michelle’s mind raced. “Let me rush to the store and get some cold cuts,” she said quickly, grabbing her purse from the counter. “It won’t take long,”

She didn’t finish.

He was suddenly right there, closing the distance between them. His hand shot out, gripping her arm hard enough to stop her breath. The pressure was immediate, crushing, fingers digging into her flesh like claws.

Michelle gasped, but no sound left her lips. She had trained herself to be silent. Screaming never helped. Crying only fueled him.

He tilted his head, studying her the way a scientist might examine a broken thing. His eyes dropped to the mark on her neck, his mark, and the corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction.

“Tell me what you’re good for, Michelle,” he said quietly, his voice unnervingly calm. “Tell me what you’re good for, and I won’t hurt you.”

Her lips quivered. That tone, deep, steady, reverent almost, was the one that made her blood run cold. It was his warning before the storm.

She shook her head quickly, already knowing the answer he wanted.

“Nothing, Alpha,” she whispered. “Nothing.”

His smile was small, cruel, deliberate. “Good girl.”

He raised his other hand slowly, and her muscles locked. She braced herself for the pain she knew was coming, the strike, the burn, the humiliation.

But then, a sound.

The doorbell.

A single chime, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the silence like divine intervention.

Patrick’s head turned toward the front door. The air shifted.

He let go of her arm, the weight of his fingers leaving a white imprint on her skin. Michelle staggered back, clutching her wrist.

For half a second, she stood frozen. Then instinct took over, the desperate hope that whoever was at the door might be her salvation, or at least a witness to keep him at bay.

She darted toward the entrance, her breath shallow and uneven. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle. She didn’t even ask who it was; she didn’t care.

She pulled the door open, heart hammering.

“Beta Jason,” she breathed. Relief and dread collided in her chest.

Jason stood tall on the porch, his expression unreadable, his posture rigid with discipline. His face was handsome but impassive, like stone carved into duty.

“Luna,” he greeted with a curt nod. His voice was respectful, but his eyes flickered, just for a moment, to her trembling hands.

Michelle tried to compose herself, tucking her hair behind her ear to hide the faint bruise forming on her arm. “Come in,” she said softly.

Behind her, Patrick appeared at the edge of the hallway, leaning against the wall with the practiced ease of a man who owned the room. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Jason,” Patrick drawled. “You’re early.”

Jason inclined his head. “You asked me to bring the new patrol reports.”

Patrick’s smile widened slightly. “Ah. Right. Come in then.”

Jason stepped inside, and the air grew heavier, though for Michelle it was a temporary shield.

She could breathe again, just a little.

Jason’s presence meant Patrick would, for now, restrain himself.

Or at least she hoped so.

Still, she didn’t waste the chance. While Patrick and Jason exchanged words about the pack’s new patrol schedules, she quietly slipped her purse strap over her shoulder.

“I’ll step out for a moment, Alpha,” she murmured, keeping her eyes down.

Patrick didn’t answer right away. He glanced at her, and for a moment, she thought he might stop her, remind her who controlled her every movement. But Jason was there, and Patrick’s pride wouldn’t let him show his cruelty too openly.

He gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable.

That was all she needed.

Michelle opened the door and stepped outside, the cool air slapping against her tear-stained face. She didn’t look back.