Set up

~SET UP~

Tonight, the dining hall is packed. Everyone is dressed in their best, seated for the engagement party of my "beloved" sister, Betty, and my former boyfriend.

Betty is relentless. She spends the night looking for every possible way to needle me, desperate to rub it in that she’s the one marrying my ex.

I eventually pull away from the crowd. I walk to the far end of the hall and stand by the window, a drink in my hand, staring out at the trees.

She approaches me, her voice dripping with fake pity. "How does it feel being so worthless?" she asks.

I keep my back to her and ignore her. I can feel her temper rising at my silence.

She steps closer, almost whispering in my ear. "The Alpha is known to be bloodthirsty. He’ll rip you apart. Imagine his face when he finds out they sent him a wolfless loser."

I’ve had enough. I turn to walk away, but she lunges forward and knocks the glass right out of my hand. It shatters on the floor, and before I even realize what I’m doing, my hand flies up.

Crack.

The slap resounds through the hall like a gunshot.

Betty’s head whips to the side.

Her wolf surges instantly—air thickening, power crackling around her.

A low snarl rips from her throat.

Mother glides between us, controlled, dangerous.

And then—

Father’s hand slams into my face.

The force sends me sprawling across the marble.

My ears ring.

Blood floods my mouth.

“How dare you!” Father roars. His aura crashes over the room, Alpha dominance suffocating and violent. “How dare you touch my daughter!”

My daughter.

“You ungrateful stray whom I picked up and raised to this age,” he spits. “We should have left you where we found you.”

The words don’t hurt.

They annihilate.

I try to push up on shaking arms, but my body feels heavy.

Broken.

“Training you was a mistake,” he continues coldly. “But it’s not too late.”

He turns.

“Hippy!”

The Beta enters immediately, his presence massive, shadow swallowing the doorway.

“Yes, Alpha.”

Father doesn’t hesitate.

“Take Clary to the torture room.”

The room goes silent.

“The one where rogue werewolves are dealt with.”

The temperature drops.

Torture room.

I look up at them.

Mother’s eyes are indifferent.

Betty’s lips curve slowly, triumph glowing in her expression.

Everyone watches.

“I’m not useless.”

Father steps forward, his aura pressing down on the room like a storm front.

“Enough,” he says coldly. “I will not have this circus in my house.”

I am still breathing too hard, still shaking.

“I want her whipped. Twenty heavy lashes across her back.”

The words are delivered with the same tone he uses when ordering territory patrols.

For a second, I don’t react.

A dry laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It scrapes against my throat like broken glass.

“You want me dead,” I say hoarsely. “You just don’t want to do it yourselves.”

No one denies it.

Mother’s face is impassive. Trevor’s jaw is tight, but he says nothing. Betty’s mouth curves almost imperceptibly.

I feel something shift inside me then—not my wolf, not the familiar presence I once carried but something harder.

I stop struggling.

I stop crying.

I lift my head and look at them properly.

Father’s voice cracks through the silence. “Take her away.”

Hippy’s hand closes around my arm. His grip is firm but not cruel. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

As he pulls me toward the door, I don’t resist. My steps are steady despite the tremor in my muscles.

The dining hall grows smaller behind me.

I watch them as I am dragged away.

Mother smoothing Betty’s hair.

The humiliation burns hotter than the fear.

Then marrying the Alpha is better than this life.

As soon as Hippy drags me out of the house, the cool air strikes my face, sharp and unforgiving. The courtyard is full. They are not pretending not to look. Warriors, servants, even young trainees pause mid-step to watch me being hauled away like a criminal.

“She’s being taken to the torture wing.”

“I heard she’s wolfless.”

“She should’ve been executed.”

“She has always hated the true daughter of the Alpha.”

The whispers are deliberate. Meant to wound. I keep my chin lifted even as shame burns through me. I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break in public.

The torture house looms at the far edge of the compound, built from dark stone that seems to absorb light. The moment we step inside, the air changes. It smells of rust and damp and old suffering. The temperature drops as if the walls themselves remember every scream. Cages line the corridor.

We enter a circular chamber at the center. Chains hang from iron hooks. The stone floor is stained in uneven patches that no amount of scrubbing could ever erase.

Hippy releases my arm and gestures to the center. “Lie down.”