Chapter 29 Sisterly Bonds
[Nyx]
"And the bracelet?" I asked tensely, my fingers automatically caressing the silver band.
My father was silent for a moment, his gaze falling once more on the moonstone. "Keep it," he finally said, his voice containing an emotion I couldn't decipher. "It belongs to you anyway."
Just then, the door to the study opened and Lilith walked in, clearly fresh from her morning run, still in her workout clothes. When she saw Lysander and me, her eyes widened in shock.
"Nyx!" she cried out, rushing across the room. Before I could react, she threw her arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace. "You're back! I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I thought you wouldn't come back. I was afraid they'd turn you human and send you away."
Tears streamed down her face as she clung to me. I stood frozen for a moment, surprised by this uncharacteristic display of emotion from my usually composed sister. After a moment's hesitation, I slowly wrapped my arms around her.
"I'm here," I said quietly, patting her back.
She pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes, then noticed the silver on my wrist. "What's that?" she asked, her fingers reaching toward the bracelet.
"It's Aunt Diana's moonstone bracelet," my father answered, his voice gentler than usual. "They went to the island to retrieve it."
Lilith's eyes grew even wider, understanding dawning. "So that's why you left the wedding?" She turned to our father. "Then they shouldn't be punished! They were only recovering a precious family heirloom!"
"Lilith," my father's voice regained its authority. "Their actions still have consequences. No one defies an Alpha's command, even for a righteous cause."
"But to punish either of them?" Lilith said passionately, her voice trembling with emotion. "That's not fair! They were retrieving Mother's bracelet—something precious to our family, to Nyx!"
"Lilith," I said softly, surprised by her defense.
She glanced at me, her chin lifting slightly. "Don't think I'm doing this for you," she said, her voice carrying a stubborn edge despite the emotion in her eyes. "I just care about what's fair."
"Father," I spoke up, "if punishment is necessary, extend my confinement, but spare Lysander. He spent seven hundred thousand dollars of his own savings to get mother's bracelet back for me—"
"Do you think I care about money?" Karl snapped, his eyes flashing. "Do you think I can't afford seven hundred thousand dollars? This isn't about the cost, Nyx. It's about defiance!"
"Enough!" Karl roared, his Alpha essence surging through the room like a tsunami, making us all instinctively lower our heads. "Your pleas only make me angrier. Thirty lashes? Now it's fifty lashes! Do you have anything else to say?"
The room fell silent, even our breathing barely audible.
"Get out," my father commanded. "Dawn tomorrow, at the training grounds. I expect everyone to attend punctually."
The first rays of sunlight had barely crested the horizon when a small group gathered at the training grounds. My father stood in the center, expression impassive. Tristan stood beside him, poorly concealing his satisfaction. Several Gamma warriors held specialized whips—designed to cause pain without permanent damage.
Lysander walked into the clearing, shirtless, displaying a torso already marked with battle scars. He knelt on one knee, his bearing dignified, as if this were a ceremony rather than a punishment.
"Gamma Captain Lysander Crowley," Karl announced solemnly, "for disobeying direct orders and removing an unbonded bride from her wedding, disrupting a sacred ceremony, you are sentenced to fifty lashes. Begin."
The first lash fell, and Lysander made no sound. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if he'd separated himself from his body's pain.
At the edge of the grounds, hidden in shadow, I stood watching. I wasn't supposed to be there—I was confined to the West Wing—but I had to witness this. After all, this pain was partly endured for me.
By the thirtieth lash, I saw the first drop of blood slide down Lysander's back. Something primal howled in anguish inside me, a desperate urge to rush forward and protect him overwhelming my senses.
He's ours, Sylva whimpered in my mind. They're hurting what's ours.
From across the grounds, I noticed Lilith silently weeping, her eyes never leaving Lysander. The sight stirred a strange possessiveness in me—no, protectiveness. I realized with startling clarity that in just a few days, Lysander had become important to me in ways I hadn't anticipated.
When the fiftieth lash finally fell, Lysander slowly rose to his feet, bowed to Karl, and walked away. His back was streaked with blood, but his steps were steady, his gaze unwavering. There was no humiliation, no resentment, only a dignity that bordered on the sublime.
I slipped away quickly through the side entrance to the West Wing. I needed to prepare, to be ready when my husband returned.
---
When Lysander pushed open the master bedroom door in the West Wing, surprise crossed his face at the scene awaiting him: the bed covered with soft white sheets, the nightstand arranged with medicines and bandages, the air fragrant with healing herbs.
I stood by the window, turning to face him. The morning light caught in my silver hair, outlining my silhouette. "You're stubborn," I said, my tone belying the concern I felt. "You could have blamed me. Karl wouldn't have punished me like this—I'm his daughter. He'd just extend my confinement. You didn't need to take this all on yourself."
"It wouldn't have mattered," he replied, wincing slightly as he moved. "Karl would never punish you this way—you're his daughter. At worst, you'd have been confined to your quarters longer. But me?" He shook his head. "We embarrassed him in front of the entire wolf society. He needed someone to make an example of."
"Sit down," I commanded, pointing to the edge of the bed. My tone left no room for argument.
Lysander approached slowly, a hint of amusement in his eyes despite his pain. "Don't be sad, little warrior. This was inevitable."
"I'm not sad," I lied, gesturing again to the bed. "I'm practical. Now sit before you bleed all over the carpet."
He sat obediently, his back to me. As I approached, I finally saw the full extent of his injuries: fifty lash marks crisscrossing his skin, some already scabbing, others still seeping blood, forming a horrific grid pattern.