Chapter Three

Lila's pov

I was twelve the night she died.

It happened fast. A rogue attack on the northern border. Silver Moon sent warriors, but the rogues were faster, hungrier. Mom had been helping evacuate the younger pups when one of them broke through the line. She shifted, fought, bought time. By the time the warriors arrived, she was already bleeding out on the forest floor, throat torn open.

I remember my father carrying her body back to the pack house. His face was blank, like someone had carved the emotion out of him with a knife. He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Just laid her on the long dining table and stared at her until the healer said there was nothing left to do.

After that, he changed.

Thomas Thorne had always been distant, more politician than parent, but after Mom died, the distance became a chasm. He threw himself into pack business: alliances, trade deals, border security. Anything to keep the memory of that night at arm’s length. I became an afterthought. A reminder he couldn’t afford to look at too closely.

The grooming started when I was fifteen.

“You’re an omega,” he told me one evening in his study, voice flat as slate. “Your value to this pack lies in connection, not combat. We need strong ties. Marcus Greythorne’s line is powerful. His father controls the eastern timber routes. A mating between you two would secure our future for generations.”

I was still grieving in my own quiet way, still waking up some nights reaching for a mother who wasn’t there. I didn’t have the energy to argue. So I nodded. Let him believe I understood.

The first time I met Marcus was at a midsummer alliance banquet. I was seventeen, dressed in the pale green silk gown my father had chosen, modest neckline, fitted bodice, the kind of dress that said “valuable commodity” without screaming it.

Marcus Greythorne walked in like he owned the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark blond hair swept back, blue eyes that smiled even when his mouth didn’t. He moved with the easy confidence of someone who’d never been told no. When he took my hand to kiss it, his lips lingered just long enough to make my skin crawl.

“Miss Thorne,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “You’re even more beautiful than your father described.”

I forced a smile. “Thank you.”

He kept hold of my hand longer than necessary. His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, slow, deliberate. My wolf stirred uneasily, not in attraction, but in warning.

That night he cornered me on the balcony after dinner.

“You’ll make a perfect mate,” he murmured, stepping too close. His breath smelled of wine and mint. “Obedient. Graceful. Exactly what an alpha needs.”

I tried to step back. The railing pressed into my spine.

“I’m not sure I’m what you need,” I said carefully.

His smile tightened. “You will be.”

He leaned in, pressed his mouth to mine without asking. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claim. Hard. Possessive. When I pushed against his chest, he laughed low in his throat.

“Feisty,” he said, like it was amusing. “I like that. It’ll be fun breaking it out of you.”

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand as soon as he walked away. My lips felt bruised. My stomach churned.

After that, the visits became regular.

He’d come to Silver Moon every few months, trade negotiations, pack meetings, excuses to see me. Each time he pushed a little further. A hand on my lower back that drifted too low. Fingers brushing my thigh under the dinner table. Comments about how I’d look “swollen with his pup” that made my skin crawl.

My father never noticed. Or if he did, he chose not to care.

The suppressants started when I turned twenty.

Marcus had grown impatient. The mating ceremony was set for my twenty-first birthday, and he wanted me “ready.” He didn’t like the idea of my heat interfering with his timeline, or worse, drawing other alphas’ attention.

So he had the pack healer brew a stronger mix. Not the mild herbs most omegas used to delay a cycle. This was chemical, bitter, designed to mute everything, scent, desire, power. It left me foggy, tired, my wolf curled small and quiet inside me.

I hated it.

But I took it. Every morning, like clockwork. Because refusing meant questions. Questions meant confrontation. Confrontation meant Marcus.

The final straw came three weeks before the ceremony.

We were in the garden behind the pack house. Marcus had insisted on a private walk. The moon was waxing, almost full, and the air carried the faint edge of my suppressed heat trying to break through. He noticed.

“You’re fighting it,” he said, stopping under the willow tree. His hand closed around my wrist. “Why?”

“I’m not fighting anything,” I lied.

He yanked me closer. “Don’t play games with me, Lila. You’re mine. Your body knows it even if your mind is being stubborn.”

I tried to pull away. “Let go.”

His grip tightened. “You don’t get to say no.”

Something snapped in me then, months of swallowed words, swallowed touches, swallowed rage. I wrenched my arm free and shoved him. Hard.

He stumbled back a step, surprise flashing across his face. Then fury.

The slap came fast. Open palm across my cheek. The crack echoed in the quiet garden.

Pain bloomed hot and bright. My ears rang. I tasted blood where my lip split against my teeth.

“You will learn respect,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Or I’ll teach it to you.”

I stared at him, chest heaving. For the first time, I saw him clearly, not the charming heir, not the political match. Just a man who thought ownership gave him the right to hurt.

I turned and walked away.

He didn’t follow. Not then.

I went straight to my father’s study.

He was at his desk, papers spread out, glasses perched on his nose. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“Marcus hit me,” I said.

Silence.

I stepped closer. “He hit me. Because I told him no.”

My father finally lifted his gaze. His eyes were tired. Empty.

“He’s an alpha,” he said, like that explained everything. “Alphas correct behavior. You pushed him.”

I felt something crack inside my chest.

“He’s going to be my mate,” I said slowly. “And you’re telling me it’s fine that he hits me?”

“You’re an omega,” he repeated, as if the word itself was an answer. “Your role is to support. To yield. If you’d yielded, this wouldn’t have happened.”

I stared at him. The man who’d once carried my mother’s body like it was the only thing that mattered. The man who’d taught me how to tie my shoes, how to read the moon phases, how to be proud of being a Thorne.

He was gone.

Replaced by someone who saw me as currency.

I left his study without another word.

That night I packed what I could carry. A change of clothes. A few hundred dollars I’d saved from odd jobs. The last bottle of suppressants, I kept them, not because I wanted them, but because I knew I’d need every edge to survive the road.

I waited until the house was quiet. Slipped out the back door. Crossed the lawn. Entered the forest.

I didn’t look back.

The shower has gone cold.

I turn off the tap, step out, wrap myself in the threadbare towel. My reflection in the foggy mirror is blurred, but I can still see the faint red mark on my cheek from training today. A new bruise over an old ghost.

Marcus is still out there. My father too. They’ll come looking eventually. They always do when something they think they own goes missing.

But I’m not theirs anymore.

I’m here. In Bloodmoon. With three alphas who don’t look at me like property. Who haven’t touched me without permission. Who gave me a week to prove I belong, not because of my bloodline or my womb, but because of what I can do.

I dry off, pull on clean clothes—borrowed sweatpants and a faded T-shirt that smells faintly of pine and smoke. Someone left them folded on the dresser. Probably Maya.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.

The ghosts are still here, hovering at the edges of my mind. My mother’s laugh. My father’s silence. Marcus’s handprint.

But they’re quieter now.

Because for the first time in years, I have something to fight for that isn’t just escape.

A place.

A chance.

And maybe, jus

t maybe, people who will fight beside me instead of against me.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling beams.

Six days left.

I close my eyes.

This time, when the dream comes, I don’t jolt awake.

I let it linger.