Clio POV:

The next morning, I woke to find a set of clean clothes laid out on the chair where Conrad had sat. It wasn't my simple, practical attire from Blackwood. It was a dress, a simple slip of white linen, elegantly cut. The size, I noted with a disquieting feeling, looked like it would be a perfect fit.

I showered in the adjoining marble bathroom, the hot water a luxury that felt alien. I washed away the lingering scent of fear and the phantom feel of Bradford's touch. When I stepped out, I put on the white dress. It settled on my frame as if it were made for me, the fabric cool against my skin. There was something about it, a style or a cut, that tickled the edges of my memory, but I couldn't place it.

A soft knock came at the door before it was unlocked. A woman entered, carrying a breakfast tray. She was tall, with severe, dark hair pulled back in a tight bun and a face that was all sharp angles. Her name, I would learn, was Eleanor Foster, Conrad's most trusted assistant.

Her demeanor was professional, polite, but her eyes were cold and assessing. She placed the tray on the table.

"The Prince sends his regards," she said, her voice crisp. "He trusts you slept well."

"Like the dead," I replied, the words out before I could stop them.

A flicker of surprise in her eyes was her only reaction. I tried to press for information, asking about Conrad, about his plans, but she was a fortress. Her answers were clipped, formal, and revealed nothing. The Prince wished for me to rest. The Prince would see me when he was ready.

I spent the morning pacing the confines of my gilded cage. I couldn't stay here. Every moment I was trapped in this room was a moment Bradford and Julie were solidifying their plans, a moment my revenge was delayed. My passive strategy had gotten me through the first night, but it wouldn't get me out the door.

I had to be proactive.

I called for Eleanor. When she appeared, I made my demand.

"I want to see him. Now."

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow but simply nodded and left. A short while later, the door opened again, and he was there.

Conrad filled the doorway, just as he had the night before. Today, in the light of day, he was even more imposing. He was dressed in dark trousers and a simple black shirt that did little to hide the raw power in his shoulders and chest.

His golden eyes swept over me, and when they took in the white dress, something shifted in his expression. For a split second, a look of raw, unguarded emotion crossed his face-a flash of pain, of memory, of something I couldn't decipher. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual cold mask.

But I saw it. And I filed it away.

"I want to leave," I said, my voice clear and steady. I didn't wait for him to speak. "I want to go back to my pack. Back to Bradford."

The mention of Bradford's name was like a switch. The temperature in the room dropped by twenty degrees. Conrad's face darkened, a thundercloud of fury gathering in his eyes.

"You think you have a choice?" he sneered, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

I lifted my chin, refusing to be intimidated. "I am Bradford Cote's fated mate. By keeping me here, you are declaring an act of aggression against the Blackwood pack." I was throwing their own ancient laws in his face, a desperate, foolish gamble.

He seemed more amused than angered by my audacity. He stalked toward me, each step deliberate and menacing. The sheer force of his Alpha presence washed over me, making it hard to breathe, making my knees feel weak.

"An Alpha who uses his mate as a bargaining chip?" he scoffed, stopping just a foot from me. "He brings shame to the name of Blackwood. He is nothing."

My heart secretly agreed with every word, but I couldn't let it show. "That is a matter between him and me," I insisted.

He reached out, and my flinch was instantaneous. But his touch, when it came, was surprisingly gentle. His fingers, calloused and warm, brushed against my cheek. His thumb stroked my skin lightly. It was a gesture so at odds with the man I thought he was that it sent a shiver down my spine.

"You are so much like her," he murmured, his voice suddenly thick with an emotion I didn't understand. His golden eyes were distant, looking at me but seeing someone else.

A cold dread trickled down my spine. "Her? Who is 'her'?"

He didn't answer. His gaze dropped from my face to the white dress I was wearing, and his expression grew even more complicated.

And then, the pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.

The dress that fit so perfectly. His moment of unguarded pain when he saw me in it. The soft, almost wistful touch. The words, "You are so much like her."

In my first life, I had been killed before I could learn anything about his personal life. But now, a horrifying possibility bloomed in my mind.

I was a substitute. A replacement. A stand-in for some other woman he had lost.

The realization was a punch to the gut. It was a humiliation deeper and more profound than anything Bradford had done. To be used by my mate was one thing. To be used by a stranger as a ghost's effigy was another.

A surge of pure, undiluted rage, the first truly honest emotion I had felt since my rebirth, flooded through me.

I slapped his hand away from my face. The sound echoed in the silent room.

"I am not her!" I spat, my voice shaking with fury.

He blinked, startled out of his reverie. He looked at me, truly looked at me, and saw not a ghost, but the furious woman standing before him.

I seized the moment of his surprise. "Let me go," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous command. "Or I swear to you, all you will have is an empty shell. Or a corpse."

The word corpse hung in the air between us. I saw his pupils dilate, the gold in his eyes turning to molten lava. His inner wolf roared in my mind, a furious, wounded sound at the thought of its mate being harmed. But he fought it. I could see the struggle in the rigid line of his jaw, in the corded muscles of his neck.

We stood there, locked in a battle of wills. The air crackled with tension.

Finally, slowly, he reined in his fury. The suffocating pressure of his aura receded.

"Fine," he said, the word clipped.

I stared at him, stunned into silence. I had been prepared for a fight, for him to call my bluff. I was not prepared for him to agree.

"I will let you go," he continued, his eyes like chips of ice. "But I am taking you back myself."