Chapter 3

The night air was a biting shroud of frost, but Kreygan—standing stiffly in his new leather guard’s armor—felt only the searing heat of the Mate-Bond.

He stood outside Serefy’s ornate chamber doors, his hand resting on the hilt of a standard-issue sword. To any passing sentry, he was the picture of a dedicated protector.

But inside his mind, he was a predator.

Through the bond, he could feel Floreighn. She was three floors below in the servant’s wing, her breathing ragged and her spirit a tattered flag.

The Mate-Sickness was peak-fever now, a punishment from the Moon Goddess for his rejection. Kreygan’s own wolf was pacing a frantic circle in his subconscious, snapping its jaws at the Greg mask he wore.

‘She is hurting,’ the beast growled. ‘Go to her. Heal the wound you made.’

‘Silence,’ Kreygan snapped back, his jaw tightening until it ached. ‘She is the Anchor. Every tear she sheds is a link in the chain I must break to reach the throne.’

Serefy’s door creaked open. She stood there in a thin, silken nightgown, her golden hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. She leaned against the doorframe, a playful, victorious smirk on her lips as she looked at her new guard.

"Still awake, Greg?" she whispered, her voice a sultry caress. "You’re so much more... diligent... than the others."

"I take my duties seriously, My Lady," Kreygan replied, his voice a low, modulated baritone.

Serefy stepped closer, her hand sliding up the cold leather of his chest piece to rest on his neck. She could feel the heavy thrum of his pulse. She didn't know it was hammering because of Floreighn’s proximity; she thought it was for her.

"What you said earlier in the garden was right," Serefy murmured, her eyes flicking toward the stairs where Floreighn had fled earlier. "And the way you looked at my sister... it was so cold. It made me feel... safe." She leaned in, her scent of expensive lilies clashing with the oak-and-storm musk Kreygan tried so hard to suppress.

"She was clumsy with the wine, Greg. She ruined the mood. Don't you think she needs to learn that she shouldn't do that again to me?"

"She will learn, My Lady," Kreygan promised, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I have already seen to it."

Serefy giggled, leaning her head against his shoulder for a moment before retreating back into her room. "Good. I sleep better knowing the trash is being swept away."

As the door clicked shut, Kreygan’s expression turned to stone. He reached into his pocket and turned the heavy iron ring on his finger—not once, but three times.

The Triple Signal. It was the order for a "Full Correction."

A mile away, in the dense thicket of the pack’s neutral zone, three shadows detached themselves from the trees.

These were his Lavigne Subordinates—warriors who didn't exist on any scroll, men who had traded their names for numbers to serve the Lavigne crown. They moved with a lethal, silent grace that the Kenneally guards could never hope to match.

Floreighn was jolted from a fitful, feverish sleep as her door was kicked open.

She didn't even have time to scream. A heavy, calloused hand slammed over her mouth, while another gripped her by her silver hair. She was dragged from her pallet, her bare feet scraping against the cold stone floor.

"The Alpha says you have a problem with your hands," a voice hissed into her ear—a voice that sounded like grinding gravel. "Spilling wine on the Lady... that's a sin that needs to be bled out."

They dragged her to the root cellar. They didn't just use Alpha-pressure this time. They used silver-coated chains—not enough to kill a wolf, but enough to make the skin sizzle and the soul weep.

"Please," Floreighn gasped, her voice a broken reed. "I'm sick... I can't..."

The lead Subordinate didn't answer. He released his Alpha-Pressure. For a girl already suffering from Mate-Sickness, the aura was like a physical weight of a thousand tons. It felt as though her lungs were collapsing, her ribs creaking under the invisible force.

But the physical pain was secondary.

Through the bond, Kreygan was anchored to her. He was standing outside Serefy’s door, but his mind was in that cellar. He used the link to amplify her fear, to broadcast his own satisfaction at her suffering. He wanted her to know that her mate—the man who should have been her shield—was the one holding the sword.

‘Do you feel it, Floreighn?’ his mental voice was a jagged blade. ‘This is what happens when a you tries to hurt Serefu. Every time you look at me, every time you try to claim the bond, I will send them. I will break you until there is nothing left,'

Floreighn sobbed as the silver burned her wrists, her wolf howling in a mournful, hollow tone. She looked into the darkness of the cellar and realized that the man she was fated to love was more dangerous than any notorious Alpha she had ever heard of.

He wasn't just rejecting her. He was trying to delete her.