CHAPTER THREE

Amaya’s POV

The bond should have broken. I felt the shift the moment he said those words right after he wiped my tears. I stood there long after Evelara left, waiting for the pain to end, or at least, show signs that it was finally at the end.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it changed. 

Now, the pain has dulled under my skin, rearing its head on days when I feel like I am drowning under water. On the nights when it starts, I find myself back in the woods, curled against the tree where he left me. 

I don’t cry anymore. I have promised myself that that day would be the last time I would cry for Darian. Right now, I am filled with fury and hate, deepened by the fact that I can still feel the bond clinging to me, pulsing through my bones.

My wolf enjoys the feeling, but I don’t. I want to get back at Alpha Darian and strike where it hurts. 

By the time I make it back to the pack house, the crack of dawn is already visible through the skies. The hallways are quiet as I walk through the wooden floors. It has been three days since the mating ceremony, yet the feeling of celebration still lingers in the air.

The sight of the garland makes me think of him. I haven’t seen him since the last time. Still, I feel every bit of him like my own heart knows him more than I do. And I hate that it makes me crave him. 

I am barely inside the kitchen when Evelara’s voice pierces through my thoughts. She materializes through the door, from the hallway I just strolled in through only seconds ago. 

“Why are the floors still wet, Amaya?” she thundered, her robes swishing all around her frame. “I came here to have coffee because I didn’t want to wake any of you, and I almost slipped.”

Evelara didn’t almost slip. Hell, I am certain that she hasn’t been in the kitchen this morning. She must have heard me coming and tried to look for a way to get me riled up. She has been doing that every single day. 

Not knowing what to say, I stare at her in silence, willing it to be enough. 

"You dare not ignore your Luna, your filthy rogue!" She pushes herself further into the kitchen. She looks radiant in the morning sun slipping in through the windows, despite the fact that she has only just got out of bed.

Compared to her, I look like a sack of potatoes. 

Suddenly, I feel her hand in my hair, yanking back with a cruel grip. I struggle against her hold, screaming at the top of my voice when I feel my neck stretching. 

"You think just because the Alpha looked your way once, you're suddenly more important than you were around here?" Her voice is eerily calm. Evelara has been dying to know why Darian wanted to see me that day, but she has gotten nothing from either of us. 

And it must be driving her insane. 

“Darian didn’t look my way,” I whimper, feeling the pain return. 

“Of course, he didn’t. Why would he?” It sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. If she noticed that I just called the Alpha by his name, she doesn’t give it away. 

“You’re nothing, Amaya. In fact, you are less than nothing. And I’ve spoken to the healer. You are no longer going to work at the pack’s clinic.”

The floor seems to shift underneath me as I rock on my feet. Evelara’s hold on my hair cannot be compared to the sudden despair that takes hold of me. The clinic has been the only place I get to avoid seeing him throughout the day.

And now…

Now, I will be stuck here, in the pack house, under his roof.

Evelara must have noticed the impact of her sudden announcement as she suddenly lets go of me, a smug smile on her face as she wipes her hands on her robes like I am filth. 

“I want the hearth scrubbed by nightfall. And the blood on all the training weapons washed. Along with the dishes from tonight. All with your hands. The washers are off limits to you from today.”

Evelara expects me to argue, to plead on my hands or knees. But I am not going to beg the enemy. Instead, I force stillness into my voice as I stare at the ground. "Yes, Luna."

I don’t move until I hear her walk out of the kitchen, her steps echoing until they become faint. I wait another minute before slipping out of the kitchen, a sudden wave of anger washing through me.

I have spent the past two days carefully planning my revenge against the Grayhide pack, and more specifically, against Damian. And now that the packhouse isn’t crawling with activities yet, I need to make use of the quiet. 

I don't know why I choose the West Wing. I haven't seen anyone go there since I was brought into the pack house. Still, my feet lead me there. The first door creaks as I push it open. I drown out the noise, rushing inside and closing it behind me.

My breath comes out in ragged breath as I keep moving, walking up the stairs until I reach the third floor. 

No lock. 

Perfect.

Inside, the room is filled with trunks carelessly tossed around, with coatings of dust around them. I shouldn’t be in here, but I cannot stop now.

Something catches my eyes near the wall. The light from the stained glass meets it, causing a distribution of colors around the room. I move towards it, kneeling as I wiggle it out of the floorboard. 

My eyes narrow when I take in the crest. It is red and gold, with scratched edges. I am sure I have never seen it before, but for some reason, it feels familiar. 

A picture of a wolf with a silver opening on the wall behind it.

There is a nudging in my brain, but each time I feel like I am about to grab it, it slips further away. Irritation starts to eat at me. 

Just then, I hear a series of hurried footsteps close to me

Too close to me.