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He stood in front of me, held my face between his hands and stared down at me. I waited, once again, I did. For what? This time I didn't know. But the moment he spoke, I knew, the wait was over. "You waited." He said. I gasped. " You waited." He breathed.

On Valentine's Day, my husband, Jason Smith, gets sent to the hospital after getting into a car crash. He's not alone—his naked adopted sister, Susan Lane, is sent there as well. The police officer explains to me, "Your boyfriend got distracted when he was driving, resulting in him crashing into a car that was in the opposite lane." After that, I retrieve the items that have survived the crash. They consist of a diamond ring, a pair of stockings, a pack of condoms, and an agreement. "I, Jason Smith, promise that I will never see Susan Lane ever again!" Three days later, Jason gets discharged from the hospital. He shows up in front of me with a bouquet. "Happy Valentine's Day, honey! Susan thinks these flowers are rather fresh, and that it's a waste to throw them away. I remember you loving flowers the most. You should get them placed in a vase. Don't let them go to waste." I just shake my head as I stare at the bouquet. The flowers are as rotten as my five-year marriage. That's why it's time to throw everything into the bin once and for all.

The night before I was supposed to stand beside Lucius Corleone at the altar and become his wife, he sent me a message. Sienna was pregnant. According to the family code, her child would be the first legitimate heir to the Corleone name. So Lucius ordered me to leave Sicily for three years—and tell everyone I had broken our contract first. For eight years, I had been his shadow. I wiped away his blood, buried his crimes, protected his business, and waited for the day he would finally bring me into the light. But now, he said Sienna belonged in the sunlight. I stared at the message, my hands still burning from scrubbing away the evidence of his latest murder. Then I typed back one word. "Understood." A second later, Sienna's official wedding announcement appeared on the Corleone family's private network. Apparently, she couldn't even wait until morning to wear my ring.

Three years ago, the Moon Goddess stole his hearing and gave him one sentence: You will hear only the voice of your mate. And only when you claim her fully will the silence end. Alpha Kael Thorne searched every palace, every throne room, every daughter of every powerful bloodline in twelve territories. He was certain the Goddess would send him a queen. A wolf whose beauty would make other Alphas weep. A mate worthy of the most feared conqueror alive. She sent him Seraphine. An orphan. A painter. A woman with a limp she was born with and a spine she built herself. When her voice cut through three years of silence like a blade through silk, Kael made a choice: he would bring her into his manor, keep her close enough to hear, and use her voice to survive without ever claiming her as his. A tool. A frequency. Nothing more. But the curse has rules he didn't anticipate. Her voice grows clearer when she is happy. It vanishes when she is hurt. And the more he tries to use her without caring for her, the more the silence punishes him for the lie. She doesn't know she's his mate. He intends to keep it that way. But there are people in Kael's world who understand exactly what Seraphine is, what she is worth, and what destroying her would do to the Alpha who cannot afford to lose her. And they have been waiting three years for him to find something worth protecting. He told himself he would never need anyone. The Moon Goddess decided to make him need the one person his pride would never let him choose. The silence isn't the punishment. The silence is the warning. What comes next is the cost of ignoring it.

Brynn Ashwood survived ten years as a servant in Greymire, beaten, starved, and invisible. She learned to endure the whip, to swallow her screams, to become nothing. Survival meant silence. Freedom was a fantasy she'd buried alongside her slaughtered pack. Then he felt her pain. Torrhen Ashford, the ruthless alpha of the Northern Territories, wakes one night to agony that isn't his. A rare pain bond, the kind that hasn't surfaced in fifty years, has tied him to a girl he's never met. Every bruise she earns, he feels. Every lash she takes, he bleeds. And he's done pretending he doesn't care. When Torrhen storms Greymire to claim her, Brynn doesn't trust him. Alphas don't save servants. They own them. But the bond doesn't lie, his rage when she's hurt, his gentleness when she breaks, the way he'd burn the world down to keep her safe. For the first time in a decade, she dares to hope. But hope is dangerous. Rodrick Vale, the alpha who destroyed her pack, won't let her go. To him, she's property. Proof of his conquest. And when the council rules that Torrhen violated territorial law by taking her, Brynn is forced to make an impossible choice: let one of Torrhen's wolves pay the blood price, or return to Greymire herself. She chooses hell. One year of servitude in exchange for the pack's safety. One year of surviving Rodrick's revenge. One year of Torrhen feeling every moment of her suffering through the bond, unable to save her, forbidden from crossing the border, slowly losing his mind. Some loves are fated. Some are forged in fire. Theirs was built on pain. And when her year is up, Rodrick will learn what happens when you hurt an alpha's mate.

My fiancé, Lucas Vance, had an absolute rule: he never, under any circumstances, answered a phone call after 9:00 p.m. Even during the most passionate days of our relationship, he would hang up without hesitation the second the clock struck nine. One night, I came home late and realized a stranger was tailing me in the dark. Panic-stricken, I called Lucas, only to be met with a voice dripping with utter annoyance. "Can you learn to respect my schedule for once? I'm hanging up." That night, I sat alone in the cold lights of the police station, filling out a police report by myself. Yet, back then, I convinced myself I didn't even have the right to blame him. But tonight, while using his laptop, I accidentally stumbled across his synced call logs. There, staring back at me, was a continuous record spanning from 9:00 p.m. to 9:00 a.m. the following morning. 12 hours straight. Every night. For five long years. I knew the number perfectly. It belonged to his mother's star student and his trusted teaching assistant. For a moment, my spine felt stiff. I sat frozen in front of the screen until my legs went numb. Then, without a word, I shut the laptop and canceled our upcoming appointment to register our marriage. That late-night line was never meant for me. And I no longer wanted to wait.