Lyra’s breath caught. Her eyes widened as she stared at Darius, disbelief freezing her in place. She couldn’t comprehend that he’d said those words—so easily, so cruelly.

And yet, there was no hint of guilt in his eyes. The man she once shared a life with now looked at her like a judge delivering a sentence.

“You’ve really disappointed me, Lyra.” His tone was calm, almost cold. Then his gaze shifted toward Mireille, who was curled against him like a wounded bird. “You drugged her. Whatever happens after this—it’s your fault.”

As his arm tightened around her, Mireille’s fingers trailed idly over his chest. Her eyes flicked up to meet Lyra’s—taunting, amused.

Lyra’s knees trembled. She clutched the edge of the table, forcing herself to stay upright. When she finally spoke, her voice came out laced with mockery.

“You actually think I drugged her just so you—” her finger shook as she pointed at him “—could be the antidote?”

Her voice grew steady, sharp. “There are plenty of ways to neutralize drugs, Darius. This,” she gestured at the scene before her, “was never one of them.”

“Darius…” Mireille’s soft voice broke in, trembling just enough to sound sincere. Her nails grazed the bandaged cut on her arm, opening it slightly so a drop of red rolled down. “Don’t worry about me. Let me handle this myself.”

She tilted her head, her next words angled sweetly toward Lyra. “And please don’t blame her. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me. She just… loves you too much.”

Something in Lyra snapped. She’d already decided to leave Darius, but that didn’t mean she would let Mireille disgrace her in her own home.

“My God, Mireille—do you even have any shame left? You’re clinging to my mate in my house, pretending to be some innocent victim. Did your lover forget to teach you manners?”

The sound that followed was sharp and immediate—Slap!

Lyra’s head snapped to the side. Her cheek stung.

“Enough, Lyra!” Darius roared. “Mireille hasn’t spoken a single bad word about you and yet you keep spitting venom! You disgust me!”

He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled, gasping as he dragged her toward the door.

“You like drugging people, huh? Then stand here and listen to what that leads to!”

He tore the tie from his neck, bound her wrists to the doorknob and tightened the knot until metal bit into her skin.

His eyes were ice when he said, “You brought this on yourself. Don’t blame me—or her.”

The door slammed shut.

At first came silence. Then a sound—a soft groan. A breath. Then another. The rhythm built, unmistakable, unrelenting.

Lyra shut her eyes. Tears slipped silently at first, but eventually, even those dried up. All that was left was a hollow ache spreading through her chest.

Every moan from inside the room hammered another nail into the coffin of her love.

‘This is what happens when you love the wrong man,’ she thought bitterly.

Then pain struck deep in her abdomen. A sharp, twisting ache that sent her to her knees. The cords cut into her wrists, her body hanging from the door handle, drenched in cold sweat.

Her lips moved, but her voice came out barely a whisper. Compared to the pleasure-filled sounds beyond the door, her faint gasps were nothing—completely drowned out.

The night dragged on, each second longer than the last.

When the door finally opened, dawn light spilled in.

Darius stood there, adjusting his sleeve, his voice calm as ever. “Have you learned your lesson?”

No answer.

He frowned and looked down—Lyra lay motionless at his feet.

“Lyra?” He crouched, pressed a hand to her cheek—hot as fire. Panic flickered in his eyes.

He lifted her into his arms, about to rush out.

“Darius.” Mireille’s voice drifted lazily from the bed. “You were a bit rough last night. I think something’s swollen. And… I can’t exactly ask anyone else to help with that, can I?”

No response.

She continued, “Lyra used to get fevers all the time back in college. Just take her to the hospital. Let the maid handle it.”

Then, with a sigh, “And you know my reputation. If gossip spreads, people will talk. I can’t afford that.”

Lyra’s lashes trembled. Her vision was blurry, her body numb—but she saw it.

She saw Darius hesitate.

She saw him turn.

And then she felt herself being handed off to someone else’s arms.

Darkness followed.

When she opened her eyes again, everything was white. White sheets. White walls.

The steady beeping of a heart monitor.

“Ma’am,” the doctor said gently, “you’re about three months pregnant. But the baby isn’t stable. You should—”

“Doctor,” Lyra interrupted, her voice hoarse but firm. “I don’t want the baby. Schedule the abortion.”

The doctor blinked, taken aback. “There’s no medical necessity to terminate—”

Her next words cut him short.

“My mate cheated. We’re divorced. That’s reason enough. Please schedule it. Today.”

The doctor exhaled slowly. Whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed back. “Understood. I’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

Once he left, Lyra reached for her communicator and typed a message.

[A month’s too long. Three days. Come get me in three days.]

She hit send.

Lucian replied within seconds. [Okay. I’ll come fetch you in three days.]

Seeing his rune-light agree, Lyra felt a small ease settle in her chest at last.

Her body had always been fragile and after the cleansing and the procedure, she remained under the healers’ care for three more dawns to regain strength.

It wasn’t until the day she was discharged that Darius finally came to the White Hall.

“Hey. I’m sorry. Mireille’s been on her period for the last few days and the cramps have been so bad she can’t even walk. She gets anxious whenever I’m not around,” he explained.

With her back to him, Lyra continued folding the last of her small chest and answered flatly, “Mm.”

Sensing her coldness, Darius stepped close and wrapped his arms around her from behind.

“What happened with the potion that time—yes, you went too far. You crossed a line. But I’ve reflected too. I shouldn’t have lost myself… I won’t let it happen again,” he promised.

“I know you despise Mireille because you love me, but truly, there is nothing between us. She is only a friend. And remember—you’re my mate. What is it you fear?” he pressed.

If Darius could have seen her face then, he would have noticed the disdain flashing in her eyes.

Friends? You lay with her. What friendbed fools around like that? she thought, bitter. Would it only count as “something” if Mireille bore his pup?

But Lyra no longer cared. In a few moons she would be gone for good. There was no use quarrelling over things that would soon be ashes.

“What’s past is past. I don’t wish to speak of it.” She folded the last scarf. “Aren’t you here to escort me? Let’s go.”

Darius felt a strange hollow—she had not even offered him a smile.

Fine, he thought. When Mireille departs, I’ll surprise Lyra. We will begin anew. I will let the old nights be buried.

Everything of late only proved one thing clearer—Mireille is but a friend. What I feel for Lyra… His gaze lingered on his wife. It is love.

He lifted her trunk and guided her from the healing wing.

As they reached the corridor, the attending healer approached with measured steps.

“Lyra, is this your mate? I thought—”

Fearing the healer might speak of the procedure, Lyra cut him off. “Thank you for your care. I recover well now; I will not waste the pack’s resources.” She drew Darius away and hurried from the clinic.

But no sooner had they returned to the villa than Mireille’s voice rang like a bell.

“Oh, Lyra, three years and you remain unchanged!” she sang mockingly.

Lyra shot her a warning glare, then turned to climb the stairs to finish packing.

Mireille’s next words made her halt.

“Three years ago, I was the one who slipped a draught into your cup. I told you to find him at the bar. I knew Darius loved me, but when I left, who could say he would not fall for another? You liked him too, so I set a small trap.”

She sauntered forward, one strap of her dress deliberately hanging, the faded kissmarks at her throat and chest plain to see.

“You took care of him for three years. I appreciate that sacrifice. But now I’ve come back—this house is mine no longer. It’s time for you to leave, Lyra.”

She smiled, triumphant. “You have no kin here in Frostmere. Do not cross me. Take heed: leave while you still can.”

Lyra’s body trembled with cold fury; the revelation seared through her. So it was her plan from the start, she thought.

Without hesitation, Lyra raised her hand and struck Mireille across the face.

She fixed Mireille with a hard look. “So long as I breathe in this den, you will remain the other woman. Push me, Mireille, and none of us step away unscathed.”

Mireille reeled, stunned, lips parted with outrage. Her eyes hardened as she lifted her hand to strike back—when Darius appeared in the doorway like a blade.

In an instant Mireille’s expression shifted; her voice trembled with contrition.

“Lyra, Darius and I are only friends! That night was a mistake! Please! Don’t tell anyone!”

In the next beat, she sank to her knees, begging, forehead nearly kissing the floor.

Before Lyra could speak, Darius shoved her aside roughly.

Lyra, still tender from her recovery, hit the floor hard and hurt. But it was Mireille he lifted to her feet with practiced gentleness.

When he turned to Lyra again, his eyes cut like knives. “You are being absurd, Lyra! I’ve told you—why will you not let this lie?” he demanded.

“If you spread rumors of that night, how will Mireille live with shame?”

Tears rimmed Lyra’s eyes. She bit her lip. “You didn’t ask me what truly occurred, Darius. Will you believe anything she says?”

His hands balled into fists. Seeing her so fragile stirred something in him—but in the end he sided with Mireille.

“I only trust what stands before me,” he declared. “Apologize to Mireille now. Swear you will not lay a hand on her again.”

Lyra let out a cold, mirthless laugh, chin high with pride. “I did what any woman would. I am not the one to apologize.” Her stance did not waver. “You two are the ones at fault.”

Whatever conscience may have lingered in him evaporated.

He looked down at her with the weight of pack authority. “No. This time, Lyra, you will admit your fault.”

He summoned the guards. In moments, they seized her arms and hauled her upright.

“If you will not beg forgiveness, I will execute the family’s discipline. Ninety-nine lashes—you will not endure them,” he said, believing force would bend her will.

He thought threat would break her.

Lyra met his challenge without flinch.

“I struck her,” she said, voice steady. “Because she deserved it. But I have not threatened her.” Her eyes flashed. “Darius, if you dare lay a hand on me, even just once—you’re gonna regret it for the rest of your life.”

Seeing how stubborn and unyielding Lyra remained, Darius’s expression darkened. The faint glint of his wolf eyes—amber and cold—cut through the dim light of the council hall.

“Don’t hold back,” he commanded, his voice low but deadly. “Carry out the family punishment.”

The bodyguards, all seasoned warriors of the Halvorn Pack, lowered their heads. Their hesitation lasted only a breath before the first whip struck the marble floor and cracked across Lyra’s back.

The silver-threaded lash bit into her flesh, tearing through her gown like paper. Moonlight gleamed faintly on the strands of the whip—crafted with diluted moonstone dust to suppress a wolf’s inner strength.

“Lyra,” one guard murmured between blows, his voice trembling, “do you admit your mistake?”

Each strike echoed across the hall, heavy with ritual and cruelty. It was the punishment once reserved for traitors to the pack—ninety-nine lashes, each symbolizing a severed bond of loyalty.

By the thirtieth lash, the fabric of her gown clung to her skin, soaked with her blood. The metallic scent filled the air, mingling with the wild tang of suppressed magic. Her wolf whimpered inside her, but Lyra refused to yield. Her pride—her dignity—was all she had left.

Darius stood unmoving, his face a mask of cold discipline, but beneath it, something flickered. He wanted her to break, to scream, to beg—because only then could he convince himself she was still his.

But she didn’t.

At the thirty-third lash, her knees buckled. Her vision blurred, the world around her shrinking into black and white blurs of light and pain. The last thing she heard before darkness took her was her own heart pounding—steady, defiant.

That night, her fever soared beyond what any healer could explain. Her body convulsed under the moon’s pull, her wolf torn between agony and rage. They said a fever that high could burn away the wolf spirit itself.

For three days, she drifted between worlds—the living and the moon’s shadow realm—where whispers of ancient wolves echoed through her dreams.

On the third morning, she awoke to the faint ring of her crystal communicator. The device pulsed with a blue glow—Lucian’s mark.

“I’m three hours away,” his voice said through the link, deep and steady, like an anchor in the storm.

Exhausted but determined, Lyra pushed herself upright. Every breath felt like fire, but she refused to rest any longer. She packed lightly—only her ID sigil pendant, carved from her family’s old crest.

Just as she was about to leave, another message buzzed through the network.

It was Talia—one of her former trainees in the Mooncrest Guild, where Lyra had served as a diplomat and strategist.

“Lyra!” Talia’s voice quivered through the link. “When are you coming back? Alpha Darius let that Mireille take over your duties these past few days—she’s already ruined three trade pacts! Even the Duskmoore Clan broke their alliance with us!”

Lyra closed her eyes, a humorless smile curling her lips. “He didn’t blame her, did he?” she murmured, already knowing the answer.

“No! It’s like he’s under a spell. He won’t even listen to the council. He snapped at everyone who tried to question her!”

The irony stung. She remembered when she had made a single mistake in her early days as his adviser and Darius had gone silent for a week. That felt like another lifetime—when her heart still beat for him.

Her voice was steady as she replied, “Talia, I’m no longer part of the Halvorn Pack. You don’t need to report to me again.”

The silence that followed was heavy with shock. Then, slowly, Lyra ended the call.

Her decision was final.

But before she could take another step, her communicator flared again—this time with the crest of the MoonCorp. The elders.