Chapter 25
And next came Margarette Hartclaw. She was the easiest prey to track; her scent lingered in the wind, too heavy with vanity to hide, too soft with fear to run far.”
Marga, in all her arrogance, still believed she could simply board a plane, hide among mortals, and vanish like mist at dawn. She wasn’t clever enough to abandon the red Louis Vuitton, the same bag she once dragged across our ancestral estate with the self-importance of a queen. She thought that a forged passport, a surgeon’s knife, and a new name would cleanse her scent from the world. But wolves remember. Wolves never forget betrayal.
I watched from the balcony as they dragged her in, shackled in silver, barefoot, trembling, still clutching the suitcase that bound her to her delusions. That’s the curse of the weak; their sentiment outweighs their survival.
They threw her down before me in the Vale receiving hall, the same polished stone floor where she once smirked at me from her jeweled throne. Now the tables had turned. She knelt where she had once sneered, and I stood above her, cloaked in black. No jewels. No paint on my face. Just the raw weight of presence, the aura of an Alpha who needed no adornment.
‘Trying to run?” I asked, crouching until my burning eyes met hers.
She did not answer. Her face, once flawless, was now streaked with mascara and smeared lipstick, ugly as a wound.
opened the suitcase. Inside, bundles of cash, forged bonds, and a passport under the name Claire Black. A pale wig, hollow eyes, a mask of a woman who thought she could erase the
blood that tied her.
‘You thought you could cross the sea, seduce some mortal with wealth enough to drown your sins, and live soft while the rest of us carried scars? You thought the Moon would let you slip away?”
Marga blinked, her throat working as she swallowed. Her voice cracked when it finally crawled
out.
‘Stella… you don’t have to do this. I was just, just trying to leave. It’s over now. You’ve won Haven’t you?”
I stared at her until the silence made her squirm like prey caught in its own guilt.
“Oh, sweet Marga,” I murmured, my wolf’s growl curling beneath the words. “This was never about winning. This is about balance. And balance always demands blood.”
I didn’t kill her, Death is mercy. I preferred chains. Humiliation.
I walked her down the marble corridors she once ruled. Ram fastened silver cuffs around her ankles while Edrick stood watch, his wolf humming low and dangerous. I handed Marga the uniform myself, a grey shift, a stained apron.
“You wear it,” I said softly, “or you sleep naked in the dog cages. The choice is yours, Marga.”
She put it on, hands trembling, her scent sour with fear. By the end of the day, she was on her knees, scrubbing blood from the tiles, blood she once helped spill.
Two nights later, I found her in the kitchens. Her eyes swollen, her fingers raw as she scrubbed
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silver. She looked up when I entered, hoping sparking and dying in the same breath.
“I made mistakes,” she blurted, voice hoarse. “But you don’t have to keep me like this. I only dic what Alpha Shawn demanded. I never wanted to hurt you.”
“You didn’t mean to hurt me?” I leaned against the marble counter.
‘You stood by while they starved me, while they beat me, while my wolf clawed inside my bones for freedom. You wore diamonds bought with my pain. You drank wine while my blood stained he floors. And now you think these chains erase the chains you placed upon my soul?”
She broke then, crying the same tired tears every coward bleeds when power shifts. I stepped closer, wiped a tear from her cheek.
‘This is what mercy looks like,” I whispered, dropping a filthy silver knife at her feet. She bent >bedient, to pick it up. That was when I knew she had finally been placed where she belonged.
And Lydia…
Lydia’s mind is unraveling. Not with loud screams, that would be easier. No, her unraveling i quiet. She rocks in the darkness of the stone chambers, whispering to shadows. Always, it comes back to the twins.
‘Please,” she whispers when I enter. “Please, Stella. Just tell me they’re alive. I don’t care wha happens to me. I only need to know they’re safe.”
handed her a tablet. Played the footage. Ken and Kurt, sitting in white shirts, the sun spilling >ver them through tall windows. One nibbling grapes, the other struggling through Italian words while the tutor sighed in frustration.
Lydia gasped, pressing the screen to her chest.
They are learning to be men,” I said. “Something their father never managed to become.”
She sobbed, then lifted her tear-stained face.
Let me speak to them. Just once. Please.”
let her record her goodbye. She told them to be strong, told them she loved them, told them hey were safer with me.
never sent it. Some truths are meant to remain buried.
Weeks passed, until one storm-heavy dusk, Edrick burst into my office. His eyes burned gold.
‘He’s here.”
‘Who?”
‘Mark. Alone.”
Inside me, everything was still.
I waited in the garden where my mother’s bones lay, beneath lavender blooming no matter how much blood-soaked the soil. The storm had softened the earth and left the headstones slick.
And then I heard him. Boots dragging through wet grass. The gait of a man stripped of everything.
I turned, and there he was.
Mark.
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My once-beloved. My pup. My ruin.
His face was sunken, his hair wild, his eyes hollow. His body reeked of defeat. He stood before me, trembling lips searching for words.
I did not speak. I only tossed the gun at his feet.
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Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.