Esther POV:

Panic is a luxury. I couldn't afford it.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, forcing the air into my starving lungs. The practiced calm of my previous life—a life spent navigating treacherous pack politics and hiding my own pain—began to settle over me.

I walked to the window, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Down below, crossing the moonlit expanse of the formal gardens, was a tall, solitary figure. Archer. He moved with a purpose, his long strides eating up the ground, heading toward a low, stone building at the far end of the estate.

The command center. The heart of the Fitzpatrick pack's security and military operations.

Of course. He was the Alpha. He had duties far more pressing than a hysterical bride.

He wouldn't be coming back tonight. Not after what I'd done.

And that meant Jonah was coming.

I knew it the way I knew my own heartbeat. In my previous life, the moment Archer's footsteps had faded down the hall, his cousin had slithered in. The same night. The same hour. A drunk wolf who had been waiting in the shadows, watching, counting the minutes until his prey was left alone.

A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept over my skin. This house was full of enemies I knew and, I was sure, enemies I had yet to discover.

But this time, I was not helpless. This time, I was the one waiting.

I needed a weapon.

My eyes scanned the opulent room. Everything was too soft, too decorative. Then I saw it, on the heavy mahogany desk in the corner. A letter opener. It was old, made of heavy brass, with an ornate handle and a blade that tapered to a wicked point.

I picked it up. The cool, solid weight of it in my palm was a small comfort. I clutched it tightly, the metal a stark contrast to the trembling in my hand.

Okay. A plan.

First, survive tonight. Jonah would come. He always came when the Alpha was away. I would be ready.

Second, wait for dawn. Find Archer. Try to explain. I would stick to the "nightmare" story. It was the only version of the truth he might possibly believe.

Third, contact my family. I had to warn them, to start putting things in motion. My father was a good man, but too trusting. He wouldn't see the danger until it was too late.

I locked the door. The click of the latch was small and final. In my previous life, I had never thought to do it in time.

Then I positioned myself. Not on the bed. Not in the center of the room where he would expect to find a frightened bride. I melted into the shadows beside the heavy velvet curtains, the letter opener held low along my forearm, and I waited.

As I waited, I found myself pressing my thumb against my lips, a nervous habit I thought I'd lost a lifetime ago.

A sound from the hallway. Right on time.

Footsteps. Shuffling, unsteady. And a low, muffled laugh that made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

I knew that laugh. I would know it in the deepest pits of hell.

Jonah Fitzpatrick.

My heart slammed against my ribs—but not with the same fear. This time, it was the steady, pounding rhythm of a huntress who hears her prey approaching.

I adjusted my grip on the letter opener, my knuckles aching from the pressure. I was already where I needed to be.

The doorknob rattled.

It didn't turn. I'd locked it.

"Esther?" Jonah's voice oozed through the thick wood, slurred with alcohol. "Come on, little bird. Open up. I know my cousin isn't in there. Don't be lonely."

My breath hitched. My entire body went cold.

Inside, I was stone. But not from fear. From the cold, crystalline focus of a woman who had died once already and would not be broken again.

Thump. Thump.

Jonah began to bang on the door, his patience gone. "I know you're in there, you little bitch! Open the door! You think marrying my cousin makes you some kind of queen? You're just a backwoods Omega. You're here to serve." His words grew fouler, more explicit.

I trembled, a storm of rage and fear warring within me. This was how it started last time. His drunken visit. My terrified silence. My failure to fight back.

Not again. Never again.

I heard a faint metallic scrape. A grunt of effort. Then a sharp crack of splintering wood.

From his pocket, Jonah had produced a pry tool. A flat, sturdy piece of metal meant for forcing open doors. The old lock, elegant but not designed to withstand brute force, gave way with a shuddering groan.

The door swung open with a violent crash. Jonah stumbled in, a foul cloud of whiskey and smug entitlement preceding him. A leering, predatory grin was plastered on his face.

"There you are," he slurred, his eyes scanning the room, not yet seeing me in the shadows by the door. He took a step toward the large, empty bed.

Esther POV:

Jonah lunged for the bed, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. He collapsed onto the mattress, pawing at the empty space where he expected to find me.

"Playing hide-and-seek, are we, little kitten?" He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. He pushed himself up, turning, his eyes scanning the room. His gaze swept past the heavy velvet curtains where I stood pressed into the shadows, the letter opener held low against my inner forearm, blade parallel to my skin. Invisible. Patient.

My breathing was shallow, controlled. The terror of my past life howled in my skull, but I held it down, drowning it beneath the cold, black tide of hatred I had cultivated across a lifetime of suffering.

I wasn't the prey anymore.

Jonah's eyes were still adjusting to the dim light. He squinted toward the bathroom door, then toward the armoire. His back was to me, broad and exposed.

Now.

I moved.

Not away. Forward.

Two silent steps. My bare feet made no sound on the plush carpet. The letter opener shifted in my grip, rotating so the brass point angled downward, aligned with the soft flesh beneath his arm where the expensive jacket gaped open.

I was close enough to smell the whiskey souring on his skin when his ear caught the whisper of my movement.

He started to turn.

Too late.

I drove the letter opener into the fleshy part of his upper arm with every ounce of strength I possessed—strength born of years of repressed rage, of nights lying awake memorizing the geometry of his body so that one day, one day, I would know exactly where to strike.

A choked, guttural cry tore from his lips.

The sharp tip tore through jacket, shirt, and into the muscle beneath. Blood, dark in the moonlight, welled up instantly, staining the fabric.

For one perfect second, Jonah Fitzpatrick went completely still. The pain hadn't registered yet. His brain was still struggling to process the impossible: the meek little Omega had struck first.

Then the agony hit.

He screamed—a raw, animal sound—and spun toward me, his uninjured arm swinging wildly. The back of his hand connected with the side of my face.

Stars exploded behind my eyes. I staggered sideways, my shoulder cracking against the edge of the heavy armoire. The impact sent a jolt of pain down my arm, my knuckles scraping against the decorative metal sconce mounted on the wood. A thin line of fire opened across my upper arm.

But I didn't drop the letter opener.

My fingers tightened around the brass handle, slick now with Jonah's blood. I blinked the stars away and found him again. He was clutching his wounded arm, his face contorted in a snarl that was half pain, half disbelief.

"You little—" The words came out strangled. "You stabbed me?"

I didn't answer. I shifted my weight, settling into a crouch, the blade held before me. My free hand braced against the armoire. I could feel the warm trickle of blood running down my own arm, but the pain was distant, muffled. Adrenaline was a beautiful thing.

Jonah's eyes darted from my face to the bloody letter opener and back again. I watched the calculation happen behind his eyes—the drunk, entitled boy trying to decide if the price of continuing was worth paying.

He lunged again.

Slower this time. Hampered by the wound, by the alcohol, by the shock. His good hand grabbed for my wrist.

I twisted. Not away—into the grab. I let his fingers close on my forearm, then pivoted my body, using his own momentum to drag him off balance. The letter opener came up in a short, vicious arc, scraping across the back of his hand.

He howled. Released me. Stumbled backward, blood now streaming from two wounds.

I pressed forward. Not far—one step, two. Enough to make it clear I was not retreating. The letter opener dripped between us, a steady, rhythmic patter on the carpet.

"Get out," I said.

My voice was low. Quiet. It cut through the silence with the edge of shattered glass.

Jonah looked at me. Truly looked—past the fragile girl's body, past the Omega designation, into the thing that now lived behind my eyes. Something cold. Something patient. Something that had spent a lifetime learning exactly how much damage a person could survive.

The lust and drunken arrogance were gone, replaced by a dawning, primal fear. This was not the girl he remembered. This was not a victim.

He realized how much trouble he was in. If Archer found out...

He didn't wait for a second invitation. Clutching his arm, he scrambled toward the door, his retreat as pathetic and cowardly as his attack had been arrogant. He ran so fast, so blindly, that he never even glanced toward the shadows of the alcove where his cousin stood watching.

The sound of his footsteps faded into a hollow silence.

The adrenaline drained away.

My knees gave out. I slid down the wall to the floor, the letter opener falling from my nerveless fingers onto the thick rug with a soft thud.

I stared at my hands. They were shaking. There was blood on them now—his and mine, mingled together. I could smell it, the phantom scent of a lifetime of it layered beneath the fresh copper tang.

I did it. I struck first. I fought back.

And in that moment, the last vestiges of the frightened girl I used to be died, and something new, something harder and more resilient, settled into its place, solid as a foundation of stone.