Twenty Years He Proved Love, Twenty Years I Lived In Regret

I did not struggle when the silver chain fastened to my wrist.

In the dome of the New York City Council's underground hall, twelve moonstone lamps shone simultaneously, illuminating the entire judge's bench as if it were daytime. Elder Marcus stood at the highest point, his voice as steady as if he were reading an insignificant document.

"Ethan Blackwood, you are accused of murdering Daniel Carter in his apartment on the evening of October 12, 2004. What do you have to say about this charge?"

I looked up.

The stands were packed. Pureblood nobles sat in the first three rows, elite werewolves in the middle, and ordinary werewolves and a few human journalists allowed to listen in the back. I spotted her immediately.

Selena Ashford sat in the third row, far right, her long silver hair styled in an elegant updo, her amber eyes fixed on her knees. She wore a dark blue suit, her hands clasped together on her lap, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her fiancé, Vincent Hargrave, sat beside her, his blond hair gleaming coldly in the light, one hand on her shoulder, his posture casual as if watching a performance that had nothing to do with him.

I didn't look at her a second time from the moment I walked into the hall.

"I have nothing to say."

Elder Marcus raised an eyebrow slightly: "You admit to murdering Daniel Carter?"

"I admit it."

A murmur rippled through the audience. Some said, "What a cold-blooded thug," others said, "The Blackwood family is finished." I listened to each word, swallowing them down.

Three days ago.

When I followed Selena's scent to the apartment building, the door was half open.

The stench of blood was so strong it was almost tangible. I pushed open the door and saw a corpse on the living room floor. Daniel Carter lay on his back, his throat ripped open, blood soaking the carpet beneath him. Judging from the shape of the wound, it was the claws of a werewolf.

Then I saw her.

Selena leaned against the wall, her hands stained with blood—she was crouching beside the body, her fingers still resting on Daniel's chest. She looked up at me, her expression not one of fear, but of utter bewilderment.

wrong.

Her pupils were unfocused, as if they couldn't be seen. Her lips were trembling, her silver hair was disheveled, and there was blood on her clothes, but no wounds on her body.

"I didn't..." Her voice seemed to be stuck in her throat, "I saw him as soon as I came in..."

She tried to stand up, but her knees buckled, and she leaned against the wall. Her movements as she held onto the wall were uncoordinated—not from injury, but from some kind of neurotic loss of control. It was as if she had been drugged, and her body hadn't fully regained its control.

I quickly scanned the scene. The wounds on the body were the result of a man's claws tearing the flesh; Selena's hand bones were too thin to match. There were three wine glasses on the coffee table. Two were overturned, and one remained standing, its rim devoid of her lip print. The air smelled of blood, along with a faint, almost masked cigar aroma—the brand Vincent Hargrave often smoked.

She didn't kill him.

Footsteps sounded outside the door. Daniel's human friends were knocking, and someone was calling his name.

I made a decision.

The entire process takes no more than three seconds.

I pulled her up, pushed her into the fire escape, and closed the iron gate. She looked at me through the crack in the door, her pupils still unfocused, muttering something—not "I didn't kill him," but repeatedly saying something even stranger: "How did I get here... How did I get here..."

I turned around and went back to the living room, standing next to the body.

The door was kicked open.

"Good heavens—Daniel!"

Three humans stood in the doorway, and one of them, a woman, screamed. They saw me standing beside the corpse, unarmed, but exuding the aura of a werewolf.

"It's him—"

"The werewolf killed Daniel—"

"Call the police—no, report directly to Parliament—"

I didn't run. I stood there, watching them make the call, watching them stare at me with eyes full of hatred and fear. Only one thought occupied my mind.

She is safe.

The silver soldering iron condensed from the moonstone, emitting a dazzling white light.

Two council guards held down my shoulders. I knelt on one knee, my hands bound behind my back with silver chains, my shirt torn, exposing my bare chest to everyone.

"According to Article 37 of the Treaty on Coexistence of Species, the maximum penalty for a werewolf who kills a human without cause is permanent exile." Elder Marcus's voice echoed in the hall. "Ethan Blackwood, you will be branded with the Silver Flame Mark, and you will never be allowed to return to werewolf territory or bathe in moonlight for the rest of your life."

An elderly lady of pure-blooded nobility in the first row let out a satisfied sigh. Someone in the back row whispered, "She got what she deserved."

I looked at the audience seats.

Selena finally raised her head.

She looked at me, her amber eyes devoid of any expression. No gratitude, no pity, no guilt. She simply stared, as if she were looking at a stranger in a news report.

I gritted my teeth as the soldering iron pressed down.

The burning sound of flesh reaching the brain before the pain even began. The silver branding iron, imbued with moonlight energy, sank into the skin of the chest, like a red-hot iron rod being repeatedly crushed. The smell of roasting meat mixed with the metallic tang of silver filled the nostrils, the air thickened, and each breath felt like fire being poured into the lungs.

I didn't call out.

I used all my strength to control my vocal cords. My teeth clenched so tightly that I tasted the blood seeping from my gums. My nails dug into my palms, blood seeping from under my nails and dripping onto the ground between my fingers.

When the branding iron was removed, a silver mark was left on my chest. The afterglow of the moonstone flowed around the edge of the mark, as if it were alive. The surrounding skin had already begun to turn black, and the toxins of the silver were spreading along my blood vessels toward my heart.

The guard released his grip. I fell forward, my forehead hitting the cold marble floor.

"The banishment order is effective immediately." Elder Marcus's voice seemed to come from a great distance. "Ethan Blackwood, you have been marked as a lone wolf. Leave New York within twenty-four hours and never return. Any werewolf or human who finds you in the territory has the right to take all necessary measures."

I was dragged out of the hall.

As I dragged myself down the aisle, I heard Vincent's voice. He was laughing, his voice low, but a werewolf's hearing wouldn't miss a thing.

“Selena,” he whispered in her ear, “the way you looked at him just now was like watching an execution.”

She did not answer.

My hand reached into my pocket. My fingertips touched a cold metal—a ring. An old silver ring from the Blackwood family, passed down from my great-grandfather. Engraved on the inside were the words "To My Beloved." Many years ago, I had it altered, intending to give it to her someday, but I never found the right moment.

I took it out.

The guard dragged me forward, letting go of my hand as I passed the last row of the stands.

The ring landed softly on the marble floor. Amidst the hushed whispers of the room, almost no one heard it.

I didn't turn around.

The guard roughly pulled me aside and dragged me forward. The last thing I heard as I was being pulled out the door was Selena's voice—not directed at me, but announced to the entire hall.

"I, Selena Ashford, hereby accept Vincent Hargrave's marriage proposal. The wedding date is the 25th of this month."

As Vincent walked out of the side door of the hall, I was being shoved into the transport vehicle.

He stood on the steps, a glass of champagne in his hand, looking at me through the car window, raising his glass in a gesture of farewell. His lips silently uttered two words.

Thanks.

The car door closed.

As the car drove into the New York night, smoke was still rising from my chest. The silver flames continued to burn my flesh, and moonlight shone through the car window, falling on the edges of the brand, like someone dripping lemon juice onto a wound.

I closed my eyes.

When I was eighteen, I said something to Selena. It was after her first breakup, and she was sitting in the garden of Ashford Estate in Boston, crying. I'm terrible at comforting people, and I stood there for an hour before finally managing to utter that clumsy sentence.

"No matter what happens, I'll be there for you."

When she was twenty-four, her father passed away, and the family was on the verge of bankruptcy. I took the last sum of money from my father's estate and anonymously transferred it into her account. She never knew.

At twenty-eight, she began frequenting parliamentary social circles, and everyone said the Ashford daughter was trying to marry into the Hargrave family. I stood in a distant corner, watching her smile at Vincent.

Thirty years old.

I took the blame for her murder.

She then announced that she was marrying another man.

The transport vehicle stopped at a red light. Moonlight streamed in through the window, falling on the silver chains of my handcuffs, echoing the brand on my chest.

I suddenly laughed.

Because I know that this secret will never be known to anyone in the end. It will be taken to the grave, and into the rest of my destined lonely life.

But if one day the truth comes to light—

By then, it would be too late.