Eleonore POV:

The key turned in the lock. The door swung open.

He was there.

Sitting on my sofa in the dark, waiting like a predator in its den.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be.

He rose. The air in the room thickened with the weight of his Alpha presence, the scent of storm and fury wrapping around me.

"My grandmother called me tonight," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "She heard I brought Angelena into the pack's clinic. She heard the Elders are already asking questions about my conduct—about whether I'm fit to lead when I can't even keep my own house in order." His eyes narrowed on me. "Careful, Eleonore. If you think running to the Elders, or letting them draw their own conclusions, will win you any sympathy, you're wrong."

The accusation was so absurd, so far from what had actually happened, that I almost laughed out loud. I had spent the hours after he left doing exactly what I always did—finishing my rounds, saving a life, then dragging myself home. The Elders hadn't crossed my mind once.

"I didn't say a word to anyone," I said.

"Don't lie to me." He closed the distance step by step, each one deliberate, until my back hit the door. His hand came up to brace beside my head. "I know how this works. The Elders have never liked how much power my father handed the Sargents when he arranged this marriage. Give them one more reason, and they'll use you to weaken me."

"My family," I said, meeting his eyes without flinching, "has nothing to do with this."

"They have everything to do with this," he said. "This marriage was their price for a supply contract they couldn't survive without. You were the seal on that deal. And you've never let me forget it."

The words landed like blows. Because some part of them was true. Our marriage was a transaction. I was a commodity. But I was also his mate, bound by a bond neither of us had chosen, and he had spent three years punishing me for it.

His hand moved from the door to my jaw, tilting my face up. His eyes were storm-dark, unreadable.

"You're my wife," he said. "My Luna. Remember your place."

Then his mouth was on mine.

A guttural snarl ripped from his throat. He didn't answer with words. He answered by crushing his mouth to mine.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. A brutal claiming. His lips were hard and unforgiving, his teeth grazing my bottom lip, demanding entry. I struggled, my hands pushing against his unmovable chest—but it was like pushing against a granite cliff. He was an Alpha. I was nothing.

My struggles only seemed to fuel his rage. His wolf was roaring, demanding submission, demanding that I be marked and reclaimed. He wanted to erase any trace of my defiance, to cover me in his scent until I reeked of nothing but him.

He ripped me from the wall, his arm a steel band around my waist, and dragged me toward the bedroom. The world was a blur of darkness and his overwhelming presence.

It was a storm. A loveless, violent collision of bodies driven by nothing but raw, possessive instinct. There was no tenderness, only the desperate need of his wolf to brand what was his.

When it was over, he pulled away instantly. The fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by the familiar, chilling cold. He stood and straightened his clothes, which were barely even rumpled. He was completely unmoved.

"Remember your place, Eleonore," he said, his voice flat. "And stop causing me trouble."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone in the dark.

I stood there for a long time, the ghost of his touch still on my skin, his words echoing in my ears.

She's not like you.

Three years. Three years of silence and coldness and these sudden, brutal visitations. Three years of being invisible in my own marriage.

I walked to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. A woman with tired eyes, a swollen mouth, and the dark beginnings of bruises on her neck.

His wife. His Luna.

I didn't recognize her anymore.

I didn't stand in front of that mirror for long.

Staying meant staring at the stranger in the glass. I came out of the bathroom without turning on the lights, and lay down on the stiff designer sofa. Closing my eyes, his voice echoed again in the dark.

She's not like you.

That word, like "pathetic" from the clinic, was a brand.

Hours later, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Laura Hayes.

"Ellie! You will not believe the night I am having. You have to get out of that apartment and meet me. Now."

"I can't, Laura," I mumbled, my voice hoarse.

"I'm not taking no for an answer. The Onyx Den. Twenty minutes. Don't make me come drag you out myself."

She hung up. Not giving me the chance to refuse again.

As much as I wanted to refuse, the thought of being alone in this apartment, in this bed that reeked of him, was even more unbearable. Moving like an automaton, I dragged myself into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror was the same stranger from hours ago: tired eyes, fresh bruises on my neck.

I threw on a black dress. The highest neckline I owned.

Drove downtown.

The Onyx Den was a high-end private club, all dark wood, plush velvet, and dim, forgiving light. The thumping bass of the music was a welcome distraction, a physical vibration that drowned out the noise in my head.

Laura was already there, waving me over from a booth filled with laughing people. I forced a smile and made my way to the bar first. I needed a drink. A strong one.

As I turned from the bar, a glass of whiskey in my hand, a flash of movement from the VIP lounge on the second floor caught my eye.

It was Angelena.

She was walking out of a private room—a room I knew belonged exclusively to Cristian. She didn't look pale or weak at all. Her cheeks were flushed with a healthy, satisfied glow. She was laughing with another Omega, her voice light and carefree.

My wolf hearing caught their words as clearly as if they were spoken right beside me.

"You're amazing, Angie," her friend said, her voice dripping with envy. "Getting into Alpha Dixon's private lounge? He never lets anyone in there."

Angelena giggled, a sweet, triumphant sound.

Then, as if remembering her role, she pressed a hand to her forehead, a delicate frown creasing her face.

"I still feel a little weak," she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more fragile tone. "Cristian told me I should go home and rest."

Her eyes scanned the crowd below and landed directly on me.

She froze for a fraction of a second. Then, the mask of the innocent victim snapped perfectly back into place. She gave me a small, hesitant nod—a silent greeting from the victor to the vanquished.

Then, clutching the railing as if for support, she began her slow, "feeble" descent down the stairs and out of my sight.

I stood rooted to the spot, the whiskey glass cold in my hand. The ice cubes clinked together, the only sound in my suddenly silent world.

I don't remember leaving the Onyx Den. Laura was still shouting something over the music—something about another drink, about not letting him win—but her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. I nodded. I may have even smiled. I don't know. I walked out into the cold night air and got in my car.

The drive home was a blur. City lights smeared across the windshield in long, colorless streaks. I didn't turn on the radio. I didn't think about anything. My hands gripped the steering wheel at ten and two, the way they'd been trained to grip a scalpel—steady, precise, empty.

I parked in my usual spot. Walked up the stairs. Unlocked the door. The apartment smelled like him—pine and storm and something darker underneath. I didn't change. I didn't shower. I just kicked off my shoes, pulled the black dress over my head, and fell face-first onto the mattress.

The sheets were still cold. I curled into a ball, my knees drawn up, my arms wrapped around myself—the same position I'd held on the cot at the hospital, the same position I'd held on this bed a hundred nights before. The ceiling above me was dark and featureless. I stared at it until my eyes burned, until the last trace of whiskey warmth faded from my blood, until the silence became so loud it had a texture, a weight, pressing down on my chest like a hand.

I didn't cry. I didn't think. I just lay there, a hollow thing in a hollow room, and waited for sleep to take me whether it wanted to or not.

It did. Eventually.

Eleonore POV:

I woke to the jarring buzz of my phone on the nightstand. The morning light filtering through the blinds felt like an assault. My body ached, and the phantom scent of Cristian's storm-like rage still clung to the sheets, making my stomach turn.

I fumbled for the phone. It was a message from Jodi Pollard, my best friend and a brilliant fashion designer.

I opened it. It was a picture, clearly taken on the sly. Cristian. He was standing in a ridiculously expensive home goods store, the kind that sells five-hundred-dollar candles. A sales associate was holding up a plush cashmere blanket for his inspection. His expression was focused, intense. It was a look of concentration I'd only ever seen him use when analyzing pack financials.

Jodi's text followed immediately. "Isn't he thoughtful? Picking out gifts for his little Omega personally. I heard Angelena loves this brand."

I stared at the photo, at the tender focus on his face as he considered the soft fabric. He had never looked at me like that. Not once in three years.

As if summoned by the thought, his voice sliced into my mind, cold and impatient.

"Some of my grandfather's old files are in the manor study. Get them. I need them at my office by the end of the day."

A wave of nausea washed over me. I wanted to scream, to tell him to get them himself.

He must have sensed my hesitation. A flicker of pressure, the barest edge of an Alpha's command, pressed against my mind. "And stay away from Angelena. She hasn't recovered yet. Don't bother her."

The hypocrisy was so staggering it was almost funny. The warning, after what I'd seen last night, after the picture on my phone, was the final insult. It ignited a cold, hard rage deep inside me.

"Understood," I sent back, my mental voice clipped and sharp, and then I slammed the connection shut.

I drove to the Dixon manor, a place I avoided like the plague. It was his family's ancestral home, a sprawling stone monument to Dixon power. I was its Luna, but I felt like a trespasser every time I set foot inside.

The study was dark and smelled of dust and old paper. I found the box of files tucked away in a corner, just as he'd said. I clutched it to my chest and walked out without looking back.

But I didn't go to his office. Not yet.

I went back to my apartment. I needed armor.

I stood under the shower until the water ran cold, scrubbing my skin raw, trying to wash away the scent of him, the feel of him. I dressed carefully, choosing a pair of tailored black trousers and a sharp, silk blouse. It was my doctor's uniform, but today it felt like a suit of armor.

It was late afternoon when I finally pulled up to the gleaming glass tower of Dixon Industries.

This was the first time I had ever come here. In three years of marriage, Cristian had kept his two worlds—pack and business—strictly separate. I had never been invited into this one, never introduced to his staff, never so much as photographed beside him at a company function. To the people who worked in this building, I wasn't the Luna. I was a stranger in expensive clothes standing in their lobby.

But the receptionist, a young woman with sharp makeup and a name tag that read 'Ashley White,' looked me up and down with open disdain.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone implying I was something she'd scraped off her shoe.

"I have a delivery for Cristian Dixon," I said, my voice flat.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, her lips curling into a smirk.

"No."

"Then I'm afraid you can't go up. The Alpha is in a meeting." She dismissed me with a wave of her hand, already turning her attention back to her computer screen.

The blatant disrespect was galling. I could have pulled rank. I could have announced myself as the Luna and watched her grovel. But I didn't want the scene. I didn't want the attention.

I placed the heavy box on the marble countertop. "Just tell him Eleonore Sargent was here."

The name gave her pause. Her eyes widened slightly as the connection clicked in her brain. Sargent. The Luna's family name. Her face began to pale.

Just then, the elevator doors slid open and Cristian's Beta, his second-in-command, rushed out. He saw me and immediately stopped, bowing his head in a gesture of deep respect.

"Luna," he said, his voice filled with surprise. "We weren't expecting you. The Alpha is waiting."

Ashley White's face went from pale to chalk white. I could feel her mortification from across the lobby.

I didn't spare her another glance. I picked up the box and walked past her toward the private elevator, the Beta holding the door for me.

The ride to the top floor was silent. When the doors opened, I stepped into a corridor of hushed gray carpet and glass walls. The only sound was the click of my heels.

Cristian's office was at the end of the hall, the large oak doors slightly ajar. As I approached, I heard it.

A soft, feminine sob.

My steps faltered. A cold dread, heavy and familiar, coiled in my gut. Against my better judgment, I paused, listening.

I heard Cristian's voice, low and soothing. "It's okay. Don't cry. I'm not blaming you."

I took a deep breath, the air burning in my lungs. No more hesitation. No more hiding.

I pushed the door open.

The scene inside made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

Cristian was behind his massive mahogany desk. And perched on the polished edge of it was Angelena. She was leaning forward, one hand resting on his shoulder, the other dabbing at her tear-streaked face with a tissue he had obviously given her.

Her body was angled toward him, her legs nearly touching his. From where I stood, the angle was devastating. It looked like he was holding her, sheltering her between his body and the desk. It was intimate. It was proprietary. And it was happening in his office, the very heart of his power.

They both looked up as I entered, their private little moment shattered.

My world shattered with it.