AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter contains sensitive content, including depictions of non-consensual sexual violence and domestic abuse. It may be deeply triggering for some readers, particularly survivors of sexual assault and domestic violence. Please proceed with caution.
•Ace's Office•
[Ace's POV]
I had spent the entire morning traveling to Timberline Village searching for my mate, and now I was paying the price—rushing to complete the work I had neglected. The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly, each second a reminder of how little time I had left.
The door burst open without warning, the sharp sound cutting through the silence like a knife. I looked up, startled, to see my father standing in the doorway. His broad shoulders filled the frame, his presence commanding and suffocating all at once.
"Why are you still in your office?!" His voice boomed, sharp and accusatory, making me flinch. His words were like a whip, snapping through the air and leaving no room for excuses.
I straightened in my chair, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "What do you mean, Father? I'm working," I replied, my voice steady despite the knot of anxiety tightening in my chest. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, the cool metal biting into my skin.
He stopped in front of my desk, his towering figure casting a shadow over me. "Your mate—Ovelia—will be your wife by tomorrow evening. You should be spending time with her tonight, not buried in paperwork. Mark her already and fulfill your duty." His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "But Father, you know I still have my girlfriend, Eliana. It's my wolf who chose Ovelia, not me. I don't love her yet." The words tumbled out, laced with desperation.
My father's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. "That's exactly why I've told you repeatedly to break up with her. Eliana is not your mate; your wolf rejects her. And you—" he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, "—are destined to marry a human. That is your fate, Ace. Whether you like it or not."
Damn that fate! Anger burned inside me, hot and irrational.
"But Father—" I started, but he cut me off, extending his clawed hand, a warning glimmering in his gaze.
"You will do your duty as the next Alpha King of this kingdom," he snarled, his voice low and venomous. "I don't want to do this, but if you don't sleep with Ovelia tonight, I'll have no choice but to order someone to hurt Eliana. Do you understand me?"
The threat hung in the air, toxic and suffocating. Rage and helplessness warred within me. He never made empty threats.
Before I could form a response, he turned and strode out, the door slamming shut with a sound like a tomb sealing. The silence that followed was louder than his shouting.
I stood abruptly, the chair screeching in protest. I had to see Ovelia. The thought was a bitter pill. My mate. A chain forged by my wolf, binding me to a future I never wanted. Every step toward her room felt like a march to my own execution.
•Ovelia's Room•
[Ovelia's POV]
The click of the door as Ann left was the sweetest sound I'd heard all day. For a single, fragile moment, the air felt light. The constant, grinding pressure of my family's cruelty lifted. I sank into the bed, allowing myself one shaky breath.
It was shattered by a loud, imperious knock.
My heart leaped into my throat. I opened the door to find Ace. His eyes were a storm of conflict, his body rigid with tension. The premonition of dread that washed over me was so cold it felt like a physical blow.
He didn't speak. He just stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over me, and my fragile peace evaporated.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded, his voice hollow, as if the words were being forced from him.
Disbelief and terror locked my limbs. I could only stare, my mind screaming.
"Don't make me repeat myself," he snarled, but the anger seemed directed inward, a performance of cruelty that didn't quite reach his tormented eyes.
When I didn't move, his hands went to my clothes. There was no passion in the act, only a grim, mechanical efficiency as he tore the fabric away. He was methodical, detached. When my skin was laid bare, his eyes caught on the bruises marring my flesh. For a fleeting second, something like shock—or perhaps shame—flickered in his gaze before it was extinguished.
He pushed me onto the bed, his weight pinning my thighs. He gripped my wrists, not with brutal force, but with an inescapable, weary strength, pushing me into the mattress.
"You're so weak and fragile," he whispered, the words devoid of their earlier mockery, filled instead with a kind of bleak resignation.
"Why are you doing this to me?" My voice was a thin thread of sound.
"Because my father commands it," he said, his voice low and ragged. "And my wolf... my wolf is screaming at me for doing it this way." He sounded like a man torn in two.
He released my wrists. I braced for violence, but instead, he began to trace the bruises with a cold, clinical touch. There was no tenderness, only a bleak inspection of the damage others had done. It was more terrifying than a blow. He was a man disassembling a thing, not a lover exploring a partner.
His movements were rote, his focus lower. I squeezed my eyes shut.
Don't be here. Don't be here. I retreated inside myself, a place where the sounds and sensations couldn't reach me. I focused on the intricate pattern of the canopy above the bed, counting the threads, pretending I was anywhere but here. My body was his, for now, but my mind was my own. It was the only thing I had left.
A detached, analytical part of me registered a wetness between my legs—a stupid, traitorous physiological response that filled me with self-loathing. I didn't moan; I held my breath, trying to become smaller, to disappear entirely.
"Please stop," I whispered, the plea aimed more at my own body than at him.
He paused, and for a wild moment, I thought he would listen. But then I felt the intrusion of his fingers. It wasn't passionate; it was functional, a cruel mimicry of intimacy designed to ready a body for an act it did not want. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, using the sharp, clean pain to anchor myself away from his violating touch.
He pulled his hand away and stood. I heard the rustle of his clothes. I kept my eyes fixed on the canopy, my sanctuary of thread and weave.
"Please, no," I said, my voice hollow. "Don't."
He didn't respond. I felt his weight on the bed again, his hands turning me onto my stomach with that same terrible, dispassionate strength. There was no kiss, no caress. Just pressure, and then a sharp, tearing pain as he pushed inside.
I cried out, a short, choked sound. The pain was a bright, searing line that tethered me to a reality I desperately wanted to escape.
"Oh," he said, his voice strangely flat. "So you're still a virgin."
"Of course! Please, pull out. It hurts," I begged, my face pressed into the pillow.
He didn't pull out. He began to move, a steady, rhythmic motion that was devoid of passion. It was just a task he was completing. The initial sharp pain subsided into a deep, aching throb. I clutched the sheets, my knuckles white.
"I'll give you a little strength. Kick him with all your might."
I heard her voice again.
In a moment, I felt a strength surging to my body, and I kicked Ace away with all my strength, sending him sprawling off the bed.
He stood up, without a word, his hand snapped out, grabbing my throat. It wasn't a crushing grip, but it was firm, undeniable. He yanked me from the bed and threw me against the wall. The impact jarred my teeth, sending a lightning bolt of pain through my back. I slid to the floor, biting my lip to keep from screaming, hot tears of shock and agony finally escaping.
He stood over me, his face a mask of self-loathing so profound it was more frightening than any anger. He drove his fist into the wall beside my head, the plaster cracking, his knuckles splitting open. He stared at the blood welling from his hand as if he deserved the pain.
"I can give you more strength if you release me," a female voice whispered in my head.
Before I could respond, another voice cut in, firm and urgent: "It's not the time to release her. Endure this. Stay alive."
Why can I hear another voices inside my mind? Am I going insane?
[Ace's POV]
What have I done?
The thought was a cleaver in my mind. My wolf was a frenzy of outrage and grief inside me. You hurt her! You defiled our mate!
"I had no choice!" I snarled back at it, the words tearing from my throat.
I looked at Ovelia, crumpled on the floor, sobbing silently. The sight was a physical blow. This wasn't the noble who had tormented me as a child. This was me, becoming the very thing I hated. I was the monster in this room.
A wave of nauseating guilt washed over me. I couldn't leave her like this. It was my mess. My failure.
I went to her. She flinched, curling into a tighter ball. The gesture shamed me more than any insult. Gently, I lifted her. She was light as a bird, trembling uncontrollably. I carried her back to the bed and laid her down.
"Ace, please… stop," she whispered, her voice broken.
"I'm not going to touch you," I said, the words thick in my throat. The guilt was a live wire under my skin. I turned her onto her stomach, my hands shaking. A dark, purpling bruise was already forming on her back where I'd thrown her against the wall. A wave of self-disgust so powerful it made me dizzy washed over me. In a pathetic, instinctive gesture, I leaned down and licked the wound, a wolf's apology for a human's unforgivable sin.
This was all my fault.
I pulled the sheets over her. She lay perfectly still, not looking at me.
"I'll take a shower," I muttered, needing to escape the evidence of my own brutality.
I walked into the bathroom and locked the door, leaning against it as if I could shut out what I had done. The image of her on the floor, the feel of her trembling in my arms—it was burned into me.
My wolf had gone silent. Not placated, but horrified. Disgusted with its host.
And Eliana… thinking of her now felt like a betrayal of a different, deeper kind. I had chosen to save her by destroying an innocent. What kind of man did that make me?
The answer was waiting for me in the silence, in the phantom scent of Ovelia's tears. A monster.
[Ovelia's POV]
The click of the bathroom lock was the only sound in the crushing silence. I lay frozen on the bed, the ghost of his weight still pressing me down. The opulent room—the silk, the gold, the crystal—felt like a grotesque joke. A gilded cage where I was the star attraction, the broken thing on display.
The loneliness was a physical ache, a cold void inside me that his violation had carved out. I felt hollowed. Used. A vessel for his anger and his duty.
I touched the spot on my back where he had licked the wound. The gesture was as confusing as it was unsettling. A moment of animal tenderness after an act of human cruelty.
A sob finally broke free, then another, tearing from a place so deep inside me I didn't know it existed. I cried for the pain, for the violation, for the terrifying voices in my head, and for the terrifying silence that followed.
"Do I really deserve this?" I whispered to the empty room.
The only answer was the sound of running water from the other side of the door, washing away one man's sin while leaving another's trauma to seep in and stain.