Punished a Hundred Times, Now He Begs

I took a deep breath, forced my heartbeat to slow, and knocked gently on the door.

The door opened almost immediately.

Beta Ryan’s eyes met mine—sharp, flustered, and filled with hostility.

“You’re late,” he snapped. “Alpha Jack nearly passed out from the pain while you were out wandering!”

He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing his tirade. “If you’re having second thoughts, just say it! No one begged you to stay. You’re the one who cried, begged, and clung to him, insisting on taking care of him yourself. Maybe if someone more competent had stepped in, he’d be healed by now.”

His words cut deep, but not as deep as the look in his eyes—pure disdain. To him, I’d always be the Rogue. The outsider. The mistake Jack should’ve left behind.

I said nothing. No defense. No argument. Just walked past him, toward the bed.

Alpha Jack lay there—pale, drenched in sweat, body tensed like he was barely holding himself together. His wolf, Alexander, let out a low whimper, a pitiful sound that would’ve shredded my heart not long ago.

But now?

Now I could still smell the faint scent of roasted meat on his skin.

He’d eaten. Recently. Comfortably.

It was the same charade—just like the other 98 times. The tremors, the fake gasps of pain, the trembling limbs. And I’d bought it every single time. For three damn years.

“What are you waiting for?” Ryan barked, shoving me hard. “Go make the herbal soup!”

The force knocked me off balance. I hit the floor, my knees scraping raw again—fresh blood soaking into my torn jeans from wounds already opened by the thorny trek through the woods.

But I didn’t flinch.

Not from the pain. Not anymore.

What hurt worse was the realization: the man I once called my savior—the man I’d given my loyalty, my time, my heart—was nothing more than a liar in a mask.

He had faked a silver wound. Pretended to be paralyzed. Played weak for three years... all to punish me.

“Beta Ryan, that’s enough,” Jack’s voice came, low and strained.

I looked up. He was sitting upright, reaching a hand out toward me like some benevolent god.

“Anna, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Ryan’s just... worried. He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I stared at that outstretched hand. The same hand that had held mine once under moonlight, the same one that had cupped my face like I was something precious. Now it just looked... empty.

“I understand,” I said softly, rising to my feet. “You’re in a lot of pain. Even your wolf is crying.”

The flicker in his eyes—the hesitation, the flash of doubt—was quick, but I saw it.

He was starting to sense it: the change in me. The cold in my voice. The quiet resistance.

But he still thought he had the upper hand. I was a Rogue with no pack, no name, no lineage. And Alphas like Jack? They didn’t tolerate disobedience.

I turned and walked to the kitchen. Boiled the herbs I’d risked my life to gather. Let the scent of bitter roots fill the room as I stood silently over the bubbling pot.

When it was done, I brought the bowl out and handed it to Ryan, warning him about the heat.

Then I left without looking back.

After all, Jack once told me not to stay when he drank the herbal soup. He said it made him feel pathetic. That seeing my sad eyes would break his heart.

But the truth?

It wasn’t sadness in my eyes.

It was something far more dangerous.

For three years, I had prayed to the Moon Goddess to take my strength, my youth, my lifespan—anything—if it meant Jack would be healed.

Now I pray for something else entirely.