Chapter 3
Violet's POV:
The hallucination had a grip like iron. It wasn't the gentle, steadying hand of a college student; it was a vice that dug into the soft flesh of my upper arm, radiating a heat that was terrifyingly familiar. The scent hit me a second later—not the cheap deodorant of a boy, but the overwhelming, suffocating aroma of cedar wood, expensive leather, and the ozone crackle of a furious Alpha.
"Daemon?" I mumbled.
Before I could process the shift from freedom to captivity, I was being dragged. My feet stumbled over the pavement as he hauled me out of the bar's side exit, his stride long and angry.
"Let go!" I tried to wrench my arm free, my boots scraping uselessly against the asphalt. "You're ruining my night. The pup was waiting for me!"
Daemon didn't stop until we reached his black armored SUV. He yanked the rear door open and practically threw me inside. I landed on the leather seats with a bounce, my hair falling messily over my face. Before I could scramble up, the door slammed shut, and the locks engaged with a heavy, final thud.
I pushed myself up, pressing my face against the tinted glass as he slid into the driver's seat. The engine ignited with a roar. He peeled away from the curb, merging into the late-night traffic with aggressive precision. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, glowing with a crimson luminescence that cut through the shadowed interior.
"You are pathetic, Violet," he spat. "Throwing yourself at a child? Robbing the cradle just to feel young again?"
What on earth is happening? For five years, I had been invisible to him—a ghost haunting the halls of his manor. Why did he suddenly care where I went or who I was with?
"He was cute," I countered, letting my head loll to the side as I watched the city lights blur into streaks of neon. "And unlike you, he had manners. Besides, why do you care? Two days ago, the tabloids caught you swallowing that little she-wolf's face on the road."
"Don't change the subject," Daemon growled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"I'm not," I said, my voice gaining a sharper edge. "I'm proposing a solution. Since you won't give me the rejection I asked for, we can just modernize our arrangement. Open mating. You keep your revolving door of mistresses, and I find my own entertainment. It’s only fair."
Daemon laughed, but it was a dry, cruel sound devoid of humor.
"Open mating? Look at you, Violet. You're pale and weak. You think you can handle the rough play of a rogue or a stranger?" He paused, his gaze in the mirror turning venomous. "And I’d advise against letting random mutts between your legs. I don't want you catching some filth—HPV or worse—and rotting from the inside out. You are still the Luna of Frost Pack. Your womb is a political asset, even if I have no intention of using it. Don't spoil the merchandise."
"Don't worry, Daemon," I said, my voice dripping with sweet poison. "I have excellent taste. And since we haven't had sex in five years, you're perfectly safe from whatever 'filth' I might pick up. You should be more worried about your own hygiene, considering where your tongue has been."
The brakes locked. The SUV drifted sideways, tires screaming in protest against the tarmac, before coming to a jarring halt on the desolate shoulder of the highway.
Daemon unbuckled his seatbelt. He climbed over the center console with predatory grace, invading the back seat. The space suddenly felt microscopic. He loomed over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the streetlights, casting me in shadow.
"You think this is a game?" he whispered, crowding me into the corner. One of his large hands clamped onto my knee, squeezing hard enough to bruise, while the other tangled into the hair at the nape of my neck, forcing my head back.
"I think," I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs, "that if you can't stand me, you should perform the Rejection Ceremony."
"You don't get to dictate the terms," he snarled, his face inches from mine. "We are bound by blood and contract. You want to play the whore? Is that what this is? You're desperate for a touch, any touch?"
His hand slid higher up my thigh, rough and possessive. It wasn't an act of desire; it was an act of conquest. He was reminding me that physically, he could break me in half.
"Get off me," I hissed.
When he didn't stop, I reacted on instinct. I didn't try to push his chest—he was immovable rock. Instead, I coiled my body and drove my elbow upward, putting every ounce of my wolf's lingering strength into the blow. It connected with the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch.
Daemon recoiled, his hand flying to his face, a string of curses exploding from his lips.
"That," I panted, pressing myself flat against the door, "is sexual assault. If you continue, Daemon, it becomes rape. Is that the kind of Alpha you are? Do you need to force women to feel powerful?"
Daemon stared at me, his hand covering his nose, blood seeping between his fingers. The red glow in his eyes flickered and died. He looked at me not with anger, but with a sudden, jarring unrecognizable realization. For the first time, he wasn't looking at the furniture; he was looking at me.
He wiped the blood away with the back of his hand, his expression hardening into ice. "Get out."
"What?"
"Get out of my car," he ordered, unlocking the doors. "If you want to be a stray, go be a stray. I’m done with this tantrum."
I didn't hesitate. I shoved the door open and stumbled out onto the gravel shoulder. The night air was biting, whipping through my thin t-shirt, but it felt cleaner than the air inside that vehicle. Daemon slammed the SUV into gear and tore away, the red taillights disappearing around the bend.
"Hypocrite!" I screamed at the retreating darkness.
I stood there for a moment, shivering. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, opening the app connected to Blackwood Dynamics' prototype vehicle system.
"Ghost Mode: Engage. Target location: Current GPS."
Ten minutes later, the low rumble of a high-performance engine echoed off the canyon walls. My BMW S1000RR rolled up the highway, upright and driverless, balancing on its gyroscopes like a loyal beast answering its master's call. It slowed to a stop beside me, the headlight cutting a bright path through the dark.
I swung my leg over the seat, the familiarity of the machine grounding me. I rode. I wove through the city streets, letting my instincts guide me, until I found myself slowing down near the university district again.
Fate, it seemed, was a magnet.
I pulled into the shadows across the street from the McDonald's where I had eaten earlier. The bright golden arches hummed with electricity. And there they were.
Celeste Morrison was standing by the entrance, holding a brown paper bag. She looked radiant, even under the harsh fluorescent lights. Standing next to her was a boy.
My breath hitched. It was him. The boy from the bar.
He was smiling down at her, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. The look in his eyes was pure adoration.
Zane Carter.
The name surfaced from the murky depths of my memories. By the time I discovered Celeste’s existence in my previous life, she was already ensnared by Daemon, and this boy was long gone—a footnote in their tragic romance.
I watched as Celeste kissed him on the cheek and went back inside for her shift. Zane stood there for a moment, touching his face, grinning like a fool. Then, he turned and began to walk toward the crosswalk.
A ruthless plan snapped into place.
I dismounted in the shadows and tapped the "Target" icon on my phone screen.
Sorry, Pup.
The BMW surged forward on its own, a riderless missile guided by cold algorithms.
Zane stepped off the curb, innocent and oblivious. He froze as the machine drifted with mathematical precision, its rear tire clipping his legs like a scythe.
He hit the pavement hard, rolling into the gutter.