LOGINEllara has been raised to be the perfect, obedient wife, sold into marriage with Xavier, the heir of a powerful werewolf family. While Ellara follows the rules, Xavier rejects the patriarchal world that shaped her. He believes women deserve more rights, but he struggles to connect with her, creating a cold distance between them. When Ellara discovers that Xavier and his family are werewolves, fear drives them even further apart. As pressure mounts for Ellara to conceive, Xavier is forced to marry a second wife, a woman who flaunts her superiority and torments Ellara. But as Xavier watches his new wife hurt Ellara, he realizes his deep feelings for her. As Ellara begins to break free from the chains of her past, Xavier secretly works to tear down his corrupt family’s empire. With danger closing in, Xavier must make a choice: will he burn everything down for a life with Ellara, or will the weight of their world tear them apart forever? Can love and loyalty survive a battle against family, fear, and fate?
View MoreXavier hadn’t touched a woman in his life.Not once.Not even in secret, in some hidden corner of the estate, like his cousins bragged about after dark. He’d never flirted with a maid. Never stolen a kiss behind a locked door. Never lingered in a hallway for the brush of a hand or the scent of perfume.He hadn’t wanted to.Or maybe he had—but the want was always crushed beneath something larger: the weight of expectation. The shadow of what came after the kiss.In the Valtoris house, intimacy wasn’t affection. It was possession. It was taking, breaking, and branding. And Xavier had never been able to reconcile the two.He stood at the edge of the west balcony now, staring out over the treetops as the sun sank behind the forest. The wind tugged at his collar. The air smelled like pine, stone, and inevitability.She was coming.Elara.Tomorrow.He should’ve been ready. He was the heir. The example. The one who never raised his voice or dropped his gaze or missed a step in the dance of p
The car was already waiting in the driveway.Sleek, dark, and quiet—its engine a low purr, like a predator at rest. Elara had never ridden in anything like it. Her father called it a courtesy—“the least the Valtoris could do.” She suspected it was more of a message: We’re watching now. She belongs to us.Elara stood on the front steps, dressed in pale blue. The gown was simple, elegant, pressed within an inch of its life. She had spent the morning being combed, powdered, scented, and rehearsed like a product being inspected before shipping. There was nothing personal left on her—not the hairpins she liked, not the bracelet she used to wear when she was alone.She had left her childhood room with a single suitcase. The rest would be sent ahead.It was better this way. Cleaner.“Stand straighter,” her father said from beside her, his voice a sharp whisper. “You’re not a burden. You’re a gift. Act like one.”She obeyed instantly, tilting her chin just slightly upward, eyes lowered. Her m
Xavier hadn’t planned on asking.He had spent the entire evening telling himself not to. Reminding himself it would raise suspicion, stir tension, open doors best left shut. But by morning, the thought still hadn’t left him, and that was enough to make him act.It wasn’t about curiosity.It was about certainty.He wanted to know if she—Elara—was all right. He didn’t expect her to be happy, or prepared, or even willing. He just needed to know if there was anything left in her. If the silence he’d seen in her eyes was something real… or something reversible.But asking for contact details? That was a line no Valtoris heir had crossed before.He found his father in the east study, as always—early, rigid, already dressed in one of his immaculate three-piece suits despite the hour. The fireplace was lit. The curtains were drawn. The bookshelves loomed like stone around them.“Speak,” Theron said without looking up from the morning reports.Xavier hesitated, then stepped forward. “I’d like
By the third lesson, Elara had stopped pretending to understand the diagrams.They were detailed—beautiful, even, in that distant, medical way: precise renderings of anatomy drawn in delicate pencil, labeled with looping script. Her mother laid them out on the table like they were precious heirlooms passed down through generations. There were dozens of them. Pages showing womb positions, ovulation charts, illustrations of the most “favorable” positions for conception.She was supposed to memorize them all.By the fifth lesson, she did.“Arch your back,” her mother said calmly, one gloved finger tapping a sketch of a faceless woman folded beneath her husband. “That allows for deeper penetration. Increases the chances.”Elara nodded. She had long learned not to ask questions.The room smelled like lavender and ink and sweat. The fire crackled in the hearth, trying and failing to bring warmth to the space. Two of the senior maids stood to the side, silent as shadows, their faces unreadab
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