Chapter 2

Time stopped. I watched as Darius's carefully guarded composure faltered, just for a heartbeat. He stared at me, searching my face as if my request must be the result of some mistake in the tether that bound. I could almost see the wheels turning behind those calculating eyes. The packless omega wolf who had used her rare blood type to secure a place in his prestigious lineage? What had changed? “You want out? Just like that?”he demanded, his Alpha voice making the air vibrate between us. “There isn't one that matters,” I told him, fighting to keep my breath steady. “I'll give blood for Isolde, but only if you grant me this.” "That wasn't our pact," he growled, eyes flashing with the amber glow of his wolf. "I know. I broke my word. Report me to the Pack Council if you want." I shrugged, the gesture more defiant than I'd ever dared before. For once, I saw something unreadable dance across Darius's face—confusion, maybe faint surprise. In the three years since our forced union, he'd never seen me as anything but compliant, always skirting sidelong around his anger, never meeting it head-on. But I was done living quietly. He stared, trying to puzzle it out.“Fine,” he said, the edges of his voice sharpened by a reluctance he didn't know how to hide. “Have you drawn up the papers?” For an alpha so obsessed with control, he was quick to let go. That hurt more than I expected. “No, not yet,” I breathed, caught off guard by his sudden capitulation. It shouldn't have surprised me—Darius always preferred efficiency, even with his own bonds. He stared at me for a long time, as if pondering whether every crack on my body was real. "Alright," he said, with a hint of reluctance in his tone, as if forced to concede. "Beta Charles, go prepare the documents." My heart skipped a beat, as if this vast room had suddenly amplified all echoes. His decisiveness caught me off guard, while also making me more sober. He had no intention of trying to keep me. My eyes welled up with tears that nearly spilled out, but I quickly raised my hand to wipe them away, forcing myself to remain calm, lifting my head as if I had practiced it a million times. Soon, Beta Charles returned with two printed divorce agreements. We stood shoulder to shoulder, yet like two strangers separated by a thousand mountains and rivers. He scribbled his name carelessly, without hesitation. At that moment, a faint glimmer flashed in his eyes—perhaps relief, perhaps melancholy, but before I could even confirm, it quickly returned to calmness. "Deal," he said coldly, putting the agreement belonging to him into an envelope, "I'll have Beta Charles send it to the council immediately. Don't waste any more time." I put my own copy into my bag, my fingertips icy cold, my throat tight, yet forcing myself to swallow the lump stuck in my chest. Three years of restraint, longing, and struggle, ended with just two signatures. "Let's go. Isolde is waiting for you," he said, taking the first step to leave. I didn't stop him, nor did I look back. When we reached the VIP suite, Isolde was propped up in bed, her posture making her seem even more delicate. She wore a deep rose silk robe against her olive skin—a calculated image. Beside her, the territory physician—the Silver Creek pack's elder healer—nodded off, exhaustion tugging at his features. The instant Darius entered, Isolde's eyes brightened, captivating and hungry for his attention. Then she saw me, and those painted lashes narrowed. “Darius, honestly,” she purred, her voice silken and familiar, “I told you I'm fine. You didn't need to drag Dorothy along.” Isolde offered a fragile cough—calculated, not convincing—then reclined with a practiced sigh. Darius didn't look at her. “She's here now. She can do her part.” He nodded to me, all Alpha command once more. “Dorothy, roll up your sleeve.” I walked to the bedside and stood in front of Isolde. “Dorothy, thank you for coming…” Her voice trembled, a little too staged for my taste. “I—” A high, wounded cry tore from her throat before she finished. I'd reached forward and, with a single practiced motion, tore the gauze away from her forehead. The scent of adhesive and skin—a far cry from blood—hit my sensitive nose. Darius's reaction was instant: “What are you doing?” His Alpha snarl filled the room, echoing Isolde's own shocked outburst. He stepped in, seizing my shoulder, dragging me back with a grip that was more reflex than cruelty. “You think this is some kind of stunt, Dorothy?” I heard a note of worry in his tone, disguised as anger. Isolde, for her part, recovered quickly, shifting from wounded to indignant, her pride stinging worse than any physical affront. “Why would you do that?” Isolde's words trembled with practiced vulnerability, but the hurt in her eyes was half-baked. She pressed her perfect hands to her temple, as if shielding herself from my “attack.” I ignored the melodrama, raising the pristine roll of gauze. “No wound, no trauma, no tragedy. Just a performance. You might win awards next month, Isolde.” Darius frowned, scenting the air, his gaze landing on Isolde's now-exposed, flawless skin. Not a drop of blood; not the faintest abrasion. “You said she had an accident, Darius. That Isolde needed urgent transfusion, lost too much blood…” I could hardly hide my contempt. “Unless she bleeds invisible now?” I saw irritation flicker in his eyes, quickly replaced by suspicion. He rounded on the healer—Doctor Patel, a human under pack protection whose fear-sweat made the air stifling. “Explain,” Darius demanded, his tone all dark Alpha thunder. “Your diagnosis was head trauma. You called Swan and demanded a transfusion.” The doctor rose, hands visibly trembling. He glanced furtively at Isolde before speaking. “Alpha, I… I only followed orders.” Darius stepped closer, his presence alone enough to make even humans drop their gaze. “Whose orders?” “Yours, Alpha Silverclaw…” the doctor insisted, staring at his own shoes. The fear in the Alpha's scent soured the room. “You think I ordered you to fake all this?” Darius's posture radiated disbelief, but he was already putting the pieces together. I drew back, arms folded, watching the tableau unfold with a detachment born of exhaustion. I'd seen this game too many times. The doctor's voice wavered. “Miss Isolde… she gave the instructions. She told us—told me—that you wanted the records to show severe trauma, so… so Luna Dorothy would be called in to donate.” Isolde's eyes flashed with mounting panic. “Darius, don't listen, he's making this up!” She sat up straighter, clutching the hospital sheet. But Darius raised a hand—Alpha decree for silence. Even Isolde fell quiet beneath that command.My heart pounded. Darius waited for the explanation. The doctor was sweating through his shirt. “She warned she'd see me out of work if I didn't comply,” he muttered. “And the rest—there was no actual blood loss, so… the RH negative could be resold. It's rare, more valuable than gold in these parts.” He trailed off, shame twisting his scent. For a moment, Isolde looked almost small, color leeching back into her perfect face. “I can explain—” she began, but I cut her off. “No need.” I pulled out my phone, tapping quickly. “I just sent Darius a photo—annotated—of the real situation. Your little performance didn't just need a fake wound. It needed a story too, right?” Darius's phone buzzed. He glanced down, lips tightening as he saw what I sent: a photo with unmistakable clarity, of Isolde pressed up against him, intimacy written in posture and smile. I held Darius's gaze, letting him see the truth that lived in my bones. “Your security can trace the sender. You get to decide if this is worth your Luna's explanation.” Darius's voice was low now, almost dangerous. “Where did this come from?” I shrugged. “Not my secret to reveal. Maybe Isolde should answer.” Isolde's composure faltered, but in true Luna candidate fashion, she regrouped, batting her eyes through another wave of false vulnerability. I didn't wait for her excuses. “My deal here is void,” I told her, voice flat. “You'll have to find another blood bag next time Isolde decides she's in peril.” Behind me, the doctor slunk away the instant the Alpha's attention shifted.Instead, Isolde chose that moment to tumble dramatically from the bed. Her knees hit the vinyl with a thud . She pressed a manicured hand to her chest, breathing fast. “Darius—I don't feel well. I think—” Her voice trailed off as she feigned collapse. Darius hesitated for a heartbeat. He turned to her, jaw clenched, that flickering Alpha softness reserved for his True Mate threatening to surface. “What's wrong?” “I… I feel faint. Please—don't leave.” She clung to his arm, her sobs muffled against his crisp shirt. “I miss Lucian. If only he were still here—he wouldn't let me fall…” Darius froze. For a second, I caught the ghost of sorrow in his eyes, the shadow of old wounds reopening. Some memories of lost brothers, of loyal wolves who never made it home. Isolde must have sensed his hesitation, for she upped the ante, squeezing harder, letting her body go limp until she slumped into some imitation of unconsciousness. I left and pressed the elevator button, counting the seconds, straining for a sound that never came—footsteps, a call, anything. Nothing. No Alpha barreling down the hall to stop me, no whispered promises, no goodbye. The silence inside the elevator was louder than any goodbye. It echoed every night I’d gone to sleep with emptiness beside me.I smiled to myself, sharp and bitter as frostbite. Three years, and the great Darius Silverclaw couldn't even spare a parting word to the omega who'd nearly bled dry for his precious Luna. It was almost funny, in a twisted way. Was my absence a relief for him, or did I simply leave no trace at all? The elevator doors slid open, I stepped inside.In the underground garage, Darius's black Bugatti gleamed in the Alpha's reserved spot, as imperious and untouchable as its owner. I passed it by without a backward glance. At a polished Rolls Royce Phantom—smoky quartz with the Blackwood Pack insignia—I paused, bowing my head. Let Isolde have her sob story. Let Darius drown in silence. I was done bleeding for people who only ever took. I wasn’t Dorothy Miller anymore. The heiress of the Blackwood pack, Dorothy McAllister, had returned.