นางร้ายของท่านอ๋องปีศาจ

At our ten-year mating anniversary banquet, every eye was on me—mocking, bored, waiting for the meltdown.

"She won't break the bond. I'll put a million on it."

"Make that five."

"Ten million says she chickens out again."

Breaking the bond with Bruce had basically turned into the pack's favorite sport.

Every year, same game. Higher bets. Bigger laughs.

Some were hoping I'd finally grow a spine. Most just liked watching me crash and burn.

The ones who won hated me. The ones who lost? Hated me more.

Then came a voice—low, steady, cutting through the noise:

"I'm betting she does it."

The room froze.

They tried to talk him out of it, like he was throwing money at a lost cause.

I followed the noise and caught his profile—sharp jaw, clean-cut. I didn't know him.

A bitter smirk tugged at my lips. Figures. Only a stranger believed I'd actually do it.

Not that I blamed anyone. I'd cried wolf too many times. For ten years, I'd threatened it. Only now was I serious.

I slipped off the mate ring and necklace, calm as ever, and handed them to the she-wolf at his side.

Moye. Young. Gorgeous. Bruce's five-year side-chick.

"If the ring's tight, get it resized. The gown'll take longer—I'll change and have staff bring it over. Oh, and the house has other mistresses. Got questions? Ask them."

Ten years of the mate bond. Every year, Bruce brought home new side-chicks. Different faces. Same story.

Lucky him—Alpha of the Darkfang Pack. Rich, untouchable. He could keep a whole damn harem.

Some even joked he was channeling the old primal packs—mating like a tribal beast.

"Bruce, let's break the bond. Now."

I'd said it a hundred times. This was the first time I meant it.

He dropped Moye's hand, eyes narrowing like I'd lost it.

"What? Playing hard to get again?"

I exhaled, calm.

"Doesn't matter. You pick the time. I'll be there. Just break it."

I turned to walk.

His grip locked around my arm.

"Celina, you're not going anywhere. That gown—take it off."

I frowned. "You want me to undress here?"

He snapped, "That gown marks the Luna. You don't deserve it. Strip."

My wolf stirred beneath my skin. I went still.

He smirked. "What's the problem? Didn't your daddy toss you into my bed, naked and begging? You wanna walk? Fine—walk clean. Otherwise, get down and lick the dirt off Moye's shoes."

I just stared at him.

He wasn't even hiding it—he wanted to crush whatever dignity I had left.

Laughter rolled through the crowd. A few wolves even jeered.

Back then, I loved Bruce.

He never loved me.

His heart was stuck on some childhood sweetheart.

To lock in my Luna title, my father had a witch brew a heat potion. One night of forced lust—and the mark was done, the bond sealed.

Then he made it public.

Bruce had no choice after that. Alpha of the Darkfang Pack? Once the mark was made, the Luna ceremony was automatic.

His girl couldn't take it. Drove herself to the border. Rogues found her first.

She died slow. Tortured for days.

From that moment, he blamed her death on me—and on my father. And he never let it go.

Every time he brought a side-chick home, I had to hand him the condoms. Had to watch. Had to feel it through the bond.

Ten years of that torture.

I hit my limit.

"Fine," I said. "I'll take it off."