From Discarded Mate To Enemy's Gamma

Elara Vance POV:

The rich, savory scent of rosemary and garlic filled the small kitchen, clinging to the warm air. I smiled, turning the lamb chops in the sizzling cast-iron skillet. They were seared to a perfect, deep brown, the fat rendering and crisping just the way Zane loved it.

On the counter, a bottle of his favorite aged whiskey stood next to two crystal glasses, and a simple chocolate lava cake—his weakness—was waiting to be warmed.

Everything was perfect.

I glanced at the calendar hanging by the door. Today’s date was circled with a bright red heart. *Seven years*. Seven years since he’d chosen me, a girl with no name and no standing, to be his. Tonight, we were supposed to celebrate, to talk about making it official, about the ceremony that would finally make me his Luna.

My inner wolf, Lyra, hummed contentedly in my mind, her tail thumping a happy rhythm against my ribs. *Hurry*, she urged, her excitement a warm buzz under my skin. *He will be so pleased.*

The lamb was done. I arranged the chops on a heated plate next to a mound of creamy mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus. It was a feast, a testament to seven years of learning his every preference, his every desire. It was my love, made tangible on a plate.

I decided to give him a little surprise. Pouring a generous measure of the amber liquid into one of the glasses, I carried it carefully, my heart fluttering with anticipation. I would bring him his favorite drink, steal a kiss, and pull him away from his work.

His study door was at the end of the hall, and as I approached, I saw it was slightly ajar. I could hear voices from within—Zane’s deep baritone, and the smoother tones of his Beta, Kian Reed.

I slowed my steps, a playful smile on my lips, ready to interrupt.

But then I heard Zane’s words, and the sound froze me in place.

“Kian, you must understand, the arrangement with Elara was always a matter of convenience. Her bloodline is common. It offers nothing. She cannot give the Blackwood Pack the strength it needs.”

The glass in my hand trembled violently. A cold dread, sharp and suffocating, washed over me. The whiskey sloshed over the rim, splashing onto my hand and dripping onto the expensive hall runner. The dark stain spread like a drop of poison.

Convenience?

Kian hesitated, his voice laced with confusion. “Alpha, I understand, but… it’s been seven years. The pack… everyone assumes she will be your Luna.”

A harsh, dismissive sound came from Zane. It wasn’t a laugh; it was colder than that. “Seven years? So what. She’s been a loyal, useful tool, and that’s all I required of her. Now, things have changed. Seraphina Croft is back. Her bloodline connects us to the Northern Alliance. *That* is the kind of power Blackwood needs in its Luna.”

Each word was a shard of ice, plunging into my chest. My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. The entire world, the solid floor beneath my feet, the very air in the hallway, seemed to dissolve into a dizzying, nauseating blur.

A tool. Useful.

“As for Elara,” Zane continued, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, “I’ll find the right time to manage the situation. She’s devoted. She won’t leave me, and she has nowhere else to go. She’ll accept whatever role I give her.”

A gut-wrenching howl of pure agony ripped through my mind. It was Lyra, my wolf, her spirit shattering under the weight of his betrayal. The sound was so raw, so full of despair, that my knees almost buckled.

I couldn't hear any more. I backed away, my stockinged feet making no sound on the polished wood. Each step was a careful, deliberate movement, as if I were walking on a field of broken glass.

I returned to the kitchen. The scent of rosemary and garlic was no longer warm and loving; it was cloying, sickening. The beautifully arranged dinner on the counter wasn't a celebration. It was a monument to my own stupidity. Seven years of my life, a pathetic joke.

My hand drifted to the knife block on the counter. I pulled out a small, sharp paring knife. Not to cut anything for the meal. My hand was shaking, the tremors running up my arm. I pressed the cold steel edge into the palm of my other hand and drew it across my skin.

A thin red line appeared, welling up with blood. The pain was sharp, clean, and blessedly real. It cut through the fog of shock, a painful anchor in a world that had just been ripped apart.

I watched the blood drip onto the pristine white countertop. The love, the hope, the years of devotion—all of it drained out of me, leaving nothing but a hollow, echoing void. The warmth in my chest had turned to cold, dead ash.

I walked numbly to my bedroom, bypassing the kitchen, the meal, the life I thought I had. I went to the old wooden chest at the foot of my bed and opened a drawer. Pushing aside soft sweaters and worn books, my fingers found what I was looking for at the very bottom.

A blank sheet of parchment and a bottle of ink.

Outside, a thick cloud slid across the face of the moon, plunging the world into darkness. It matched the sudden, total eclipse of my heart.

My hand still trembled as I uncorked the ink and dipped the nib of the pen. But as the tip touched the parchment, a strange calm settled over me. The letters I formed were not shaky. They were sharp, clear, and unyielding.

I began to write the words that would sever the last seven years from my life.