Chapter 2 CHAPTER 2

Anya Pov

The sky-blue dress Elara chose for me feels like a fragile shield against the world. She helps me clean the cuts on my back, her touch gentle, her voice a low murmur of comfort. The antiseptic stings, a different kind of pain than the lash, and I grit my teeth to keep from crying out.

"This is not a pity party," Elara says, her tone firm but kind. "Tonight is about you having a good time."

I want to believe her.

"I don't know, Elara."

"Look at you! You're stunning."

She brushes my hair, weaving in tiny silver beads. I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror and I barely recognize the girl staring back.

"Are you sure about this?" I whisper, my voice thick with fear.

"I'm not letting you hide anymore."

"He's going to be there."

"So what? He won't notice us."

I don't argue. She doesn't understand. A wolf like Kaelen Thorne doesn't just "not notice" things. What if I make a mistake in his presence and he punishes me? I won't survive it. My heart hammers in my chest, a scared bird trapped in a cage. My life depends on being invisible.

I finish getting dressed, my body trembling slightly. The dress is beautiful, but it feels like a disguise. I’m a wolf in a human's clothes, a mouse in a hall full of cats. I just have to survive tonight.

---

The moment we step into the grand ballroom of Nocturna Palace, the world explodes. The air hums with the ancient magic of wolves. The scent of a thousand different packs, pine, rain, earth, floods my senses. The music is a powerful, pulsing melody, a grand symphony that seems to shake the very foundations of the palace.

Elara’s eyes are wide with excitement. "Oh my god. It's perfect."

I nod, trying to disappear. I move to the side, to the edges of the crowd, where the shadows are thickest. I am here to be a servant, an object for their endless cruelty. My pack members watch me, their smiles full of disdain. They know I am a disgrace.

Elara pulls me toward a table laden with food and drink, her eyes darting around at the other wolves. "Come on, Anya! Try the spiced wine. It’s delicious."

I pretend to listen to her, but my senses are on high alert. I keep my head down, my gaze fixed on the ground. My pack members watch me, their whispers following me like a shadow. They are waiting for me to be disgraced.

"Looks like the peasant knows how to clean up just fine," one of the warriors says, his voice dripping with venom.

"No matter the attire, it is branded on you, the type of scum you are," another chimes in, and the crowd erupts into a loud laughter.

I flinch, my hands trembling as they grip a wine goblet. My face burns with a humiliation hotter than any fire. Every laugh feels like a taunt, every glance a judgment. I am a mouse in a hall full of cats.

"Don't listen to them," Elara whispers fiercely, her hand closing over mine. "They're just jealous."

"Jealous of what?" I whisper back. "My blood on the floor? My torn clothes?"

She shakes her head, her jaw set. "Of this. Of you. They're so used to seeing you broken, they can't handle it when you stand tall."

I want to believe her. I try to breathe, to quiet the racing beat trapped in my chest. Elara is my anchor. She tries to distract me with a new conversation, pointing out different packs and their colors. We talk about the intricate designs of the chandeliers, the elaborate gowns of the Lunas, anything to keep my mind off the inevitable.

After what feels like an eternity, I start to feel a false sense of security. The laughter has died down, the whispering has faded into the general noise. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it through the night. The thought is a dangerous poison, but a small part of me embraces it. Maybe he won't come. Maybe the rumors were wrong.

Then, a hush falls over the crowd.

It’s a total silence, the kind that can only be commanded by a truly powerful wolf. The music fades, and every head turns to the grand entrance. My breath catches in my throat. I feel the shift in the air, the collective anticipation of every wolf in the room.

He arrives. Kaelen Thorne.

He is even more magnificent than the whispered stories. He looks like he was personally created with enough time at hand, his tall, muscular frame a big difference to the quiet elegance of the hall. His dark eyes, the color of a starless night, sweep the room. A primal, terrifying instinct screams at me to run, to hide, to vanish.

And then, his gaze finds me.

It's a jolt, a shock of raw power that courses through my entire body. It’s an instant, undeniable connection. A recognition so unprepared it steals my breath and makes my very soul tremble. The air crackles with it. My world narrows to just him, and a small, dangerous flicker of hope ignites in my chest. He is my mate.

Terror claws at me. This isn't safe. This is a cruel joke. He is the most powerful Alpha, and I am a worthless omega. I am a disgrace. I have to run. I turn, stumbling, trying to disappear into the crowd.

My escape is short-lived. A hand wraps around my arm, the grip firm and inescapable. He pulls me toward him, effortlessly. My gaze is forced up to his face. He is devastatingly handsome. His features are sculpted from myth: a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and those piercing eyes that now hold a spark of cold fury. This is the face that is supposed to love me.

"You." His voice, a low rumble that vibrates through the floor, shatters my fragile hope. "You are my fated mate?"

The words are not a question, but an accusation. A gasp ripples through the crowd. Elias, my Alpha, stands at the edge of the circle, a smirk playing on his lips.

"What is your name?" he asks not in interest, but out of curiosity or something I can't actually lay my hands on.

"Anya Petrova, Alpha," his grip doesn't falter for a moment; instead, it tightens more, making me whimper from the pain.

"I, Kaelen Thorne, Alpha of the Crimson Moon Pack," he declares, his voice ringing through the silent hall, "reject you, Anya Petrova. I reject you as my mate."

The words are a physical blow, a shard of ice plunged directly into my heart. They tear through my soul, ripping away the very fabric of my being.

The bond, which was a vibrant, fiery connection, snaps with a deafening crack, leaving behind an agonizing, hollow void. The pain is so much it steals my breath, a cold, empty ache that spreads through my entire body.

"I would rather die than be mated to a weak omega like you," he spits, his words laced with pure disgust. "You are a disgrace to your pack, and you are unworthy of me. I cast you aside."

Humiliation, hotter than any fire, burns on my cheeks. This isn't just about him. This is about them. All of them. They are watching, waiting for me to break. I can't stay here. I have to run.

I turn and run, my legs fueled by a desperate need to escape their laughter, their scorn. But the pain of the snapped bond is too great. It's a physical agony, a deep, unbearable ache that saps the strength from my limbs.

The blood from the lash on my back seeps through the beautiful dress. I stumble, and then my legs give out. I look into the crowd to see if I can find any help. I see Elara being held back by her father, with tears streaming down her face. She is screaming something, but I can't seem to hear it. A white, sharp noise rings in my ears.

The world spins, the brilliant colors of the ballroom draining to a blur. The sound of their mockery grows distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears. I fall, my body hitting the cold marble floor with a soft thud. I am a broken, cast-off toy.

My spirit begins to fade, a flickering flame about to be extinguished. The darkness that begins to claim me is not frightening; it is a merciful, welcome oblivion.