Chapter 2 The Ghost of Home

Elone's POV

Marcus's words cut through me like shards of silver.

My face drained of color. For a heartbeat, my vision blurred, and the rain lashing against the car window turned into a muddy, grey smear.

Three years. Three hellish years in Hollowstone. I could still conjure the smell of scorched flesh from the silver chains, the rhythmic sound of laughter and boots hitting my ribs in the dark—those inmates who were "arranged" to look after me. I could replay the sound of my own bones snapping with my eyes closed.

Stop being weak.

I took a shaky breath, digging my nails into my palms, forcing the bile back down my throat.

As the car crossed the stone bridge into Kelsa territory, shadows danced across Marcus's face. He had retreated back into that mask of cold indifference, looking at me as if I were a piece of unclaimed luggage.

I swallowed the bitterness.

"The people in the dungeon..." My voice was a raspy shadow of its former self. "Did you arrange that?"

I needed the answer. Even if it killed me.

For three years, I had considered ending it all while the silver burned my skin. Every single time, I thought of him. I thought about who would tend to his old wounds after a full moon, or who would brew the herbs to soothe his rampaging wolf spirit if I were gone.

How pathetic.

Even in that cage, I was still worried about him.

Marcus didn't turn his head.

"What answer are you looking for?"

His tone was flat. Dead.

I froze.

Then, a hollow laugh escaped me.

That was his confession.

I remembered the charges.

Marcus was convinced that, out of jealousy for Astoria, I had conspired with the Redfang Syndicate, leaking pack border patrols and nearly letting a group of rogues abduct her. The Council's "evidence" had been airtight: forged comms, altered logs, and three "eyewitnesses" who sang the same lie in unison.

I had opened my mouth to plead, but no one listened.

And Astoria... she had gambled with her own safety.

She won.

Seven years. I had loved him for seven years. From the moment I first saw him outside the Moon Altar at fifteen, to our mating bond at eighteen, to the day he personally dragged me to the cells at twenty-one.

Seven years.

Now, that love felt like a punchline to a joke no one was laughing at.

My gaze went hollow.

The car came to a halt.

I looked up. My breath hitched.

The East Wing of the Greyman Estate. The grey-stone porch, the evening primrose on the windowsills, the faint shimmer of protective runes etched into the walls.

This was our home. Our sanctuary.

My heart constricted, squeezed by an invisible hand.

I remembered every inch of this place. I had picked out those grey stones myself, spending two days at the quarry until my fingertips bled. I had moved those primroses seven times because Marcus once complained they "blocked the light," adjusting them until he finally stopped scowling. I had carved those runes with my own healer's touch, pouring my wolf Sia's energy into every curve. I had slept for twelve hours straight after finishing them.

I used to dream of spending every full moon here with him.

Then, I stepped inside.

Astoria's scent hit me like a physical blow.

Her velvet shawl was draped over the sofa; her scented candles sat on the mantel. Rose and amber. The sweetness made my stomach churn.

And then, I saw the photo.

On the hand-polished oak shelf above the fireplace sat a silver frame. Marcus and Astoria. His hand was on her shoulder, his lips curved into a ghost of a smile—something I hadn't seen in seven years.

It was a silver blade to the chest.

I bit my lip until it went white, my nails nearly piercing my palms. The metallic scent of blood seeped through my fingers, mingling with the phantom ache of my old scars.

Marcus brushed past me without a glance.

A maid emerged from the side door, head bowed. Marcus didn't stop, throwing a single command over his shoulder.

"Get her cleaned up."

He paused, his brow furrowing in disgust.

"She's too filthy."

The maid led me to the bathroom.

The moment the door closed, she covered her nose and recoiled, eyeing me with pure revulsion. I knew that look. It was the same look the guards at Hollowstone gave me.

"How long since you've bathed?" she sneered, her face twisted. "How can you let yourself get like this?"

I didn't look at her.

"Leave."

The lock clicked.

As the hot water hit my skin, I bit down on the back of my hand.

Not because of the heat.

But because the wounds were emerging from the steam like ghosts. Fingerprint bruises. Scuff marks. Massive blooms of purple and sickly yellow where boots had met ribs. Thin, jagged lines from blades—some healed into ugly white keloids, others weeping from repeated infections. They were everywhere: my waist, my inner thighs, beneath my shoulder blades. New wounds over old ones. A map of my suffering.

There were no herbs in the dungeon.

I was a healer; I knew exactly what these injuries needed. But for three years, all I could do was press my fingers to the skin and pray it wouldn't turn septic.

The worst was my left ankle.

The silver lash had left a crater of charred, sunken flesh, surrounded by angry, puckered ridges. It had flared up for over a year. Every time it rained, it felt like silver dust was burning inside my bones. I had tried the primitive ways—mixing saliva and dirt to cool it. It was useless. The infection ran deep.

The damage was permanent.

"It'll get better," I lied to myself.

I let the water run for an hour, maybe more, until it turned lukewarm, then cold.

I changed into the clothes the maid had left—a grey midi dress. The fabric was coarse, but the fit was surprisingly perfect.

I didn't let myself think about why. Numbly, I raked my fingers through my damp hair and opened the door.

I slammed straight into a wall of muscle.

Pine and tobacco.

Marcus.

My center of gravity vanished. I started to fall back, but his instinct was faster than his mind. His arm snaked around my waist, yanking me forward.

I crashed against his chest.

His scent flooded my senses—thick tobacco mixed with that lingering pine. It was the smell I had clung to in the darkest nights of the cell.

My fingers instinctively bunched his shirt, wrinkling the pristine fabric.

One second.

Two.

His heartbeat thrummed against my palm through the shirt. Steady. Powerful. Each beat felt like a hammer striking my own chest.

I snapped back to reality.

My heart raced. I practically tore myself away from him, stumbling back to put distance between us.

"Mr. Greyman."

I lowered my head, my voice a whisper.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an unlit cigarette between his fingers.

He was just passing through to go smoke.

I felt the air in the hallway turn frigid.

"What game are you playing now?" he growled, his voice dropping an octave.

I pressed my lips together, silent. My eyes were already burning red.

That was the difference between being loved and being hated: to a man who hates you, even your existence is a provocation.

Marcus put the cigarette between his lips. The click of his lighter echoed, the flame illuminating the sharp angles of his face.

He exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, the haze drifting between us.

"Three years in the hole and you've certainly improved your methods of seduction."

His voice was soft, laced with smoke.

He tilted his head, a cruel smirk dancing on his lips.

"Tell me, Elone... are you really that desperate?"