"Omega slut. Trash an Alpha left a mark on," Damian lounged in my chair, his boots propped up on the polished table. "Do you know what they call it in the barracks? 'Charity'."
I gripped my goblet so hard my knuckles turned white. The wine inside trembled, reflecting the flickers of the fireplace. The wolf inside me scratched at my ribs, demanding I tear out my brother's arrogant throat.
"Get out."
"The kitchens are whispering, Cale. The soldiers laugh when they think I'm not listening. You've marked a girl who belongs in the gutter. And now the pack is wondering: has the Alpha's taste gone sour, or is he just that desperate?"
"Damian." I turned slowly. "Get. Out."
He didn't even flinch. Instead, he reached for the decanter and splashed some into his glass.
"And what will you do? Order me to stand in a corner? We both know the problem isn't me. The problem is that grey shadow you drag behind you. There's a stench clinging to the pack, brother. The scent of weakness. They see the mark on her neck, and they see your shame."
A crunch. The thin glass shattered. Shards bit into my palm, and a dark red liquid—either wine or blood—flowed over my fingers, dripping onto the expensive rug.
"Are you finished?"
Damian raised his hands, a shadow of triumph gleaming in his eyes. He had gotten what he wanted. He had seen me lose control.
"Consider yourself warned. Soon the youngsters will start getting cocky. If the Alpha can eat carrion, why shouldn't they?"
The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud. I stood there, staring at my bloodied palm. The pain was dull and distant, but the rage—the rage was alive. It burned my lungs.
Come here. Now.
I hurled the summons through the bond, infusing it with all the weight of my position. I could feel her fear on the other side of the castle—a cold, clammy pulse that made my beast go silent for a moment, listening.
Five minutes passed. Ten. I stood by the table, wiping my hand with a silk handkerchief that was immediately soaked in crimson.
The creak of a door hinge. She entered as quietly as a ghost. A grey dress, bowed head, hands clasped in front of her.
"Closer."
Alina took two steps. She didn't raise her eyes. Her neck was tightly covered by her collar, but I could see the edge of the crimson stain—the brand that had become my curse.
"Pour the wine."
I pointed to a fresh goblet and the heavy silver pitcher.
"My lord… your hand…" her voice broke.
"Pour. The wine."
She approached the table. Her fingers touched the handle of the pitcher, and then I saw it. A fine, unrelenting tremor. Metal clinked against the rim of the goblet. Alina's breath was quick and shallow as she tried not to look at me.
The stream of wine hit the bottom. The pitcher in her hands shook violently.
"Have you heard what they're saying in the castle?" I stepped closer, sensing the scent of wildflowers and terror radiating from her.
"I… I don't listen to rumors…" she whispered.
"You're lying. You hear every word. You see how they look at you. How they look at me because of you."
She flinched, and the pitcher tilted too far. Dark liquid splashed over the rim, spreading across the light tablecloth in an ugly stain. Alina gasped, recoiling.
"Forgive me! I… I'll fix it…"
"Stay."
I grabbed her by the chin, jerking her head up. She was pale, almost translucent in the torchlight. In her eyes—wide and full of tears—I saw a monster. Myself.
And the worst part—my wolf went quiet. The moment I touched her skin, felt that damn scent, the storm inside subsided. I hated that silence. It made me dependent on a piece of trash currently trembling in my hands.
"Look at this," I pressed my fingers into her jaw, my other hand unceremoniously wrenching the collar of her dress down.
The mark was glowing. It looked inflamed, raw.
"Because of this filth, the pack thinks I'm weak. Because of you, Damian dares to snarl in my face."
"I didn't… I didn't ask for this…" the first tear escaped her eye, burning my fingers.
"You don't ask for anything. You simply exist and destroy everything you touch."
I ran my thumb over the mark. The skin there was hot. Alina sobbed, trying to turn away, but I held her firm.
"You are my tool. Do you understand? Nothing more than medicine for a rabid beast. That's all."
"It hurts…" she exhaled, closing her eyes tight.
"Pain is the only thing you deserve."
I shoved her away. She staggered, nearly hitting the table. The pitcher still stood there, surrounded by a pool of wine.
"Here," I pointed to the cold stone floor at the foot of my bed. "On your knees."
She froze, looking at me with a silent question.
"Until dawn, Alina. If I see you sit or fall asleep—I swear, tomorrow you'll be serving in the kennels."
Slowly, as if her legs were giving out, she sank onto the stones. The skirt of her grey dress fanned out around her. She folded her hands on her knees, her head bowed low.
"I don't want to hear a sound."
I walked to the bed, threw off my doublet, and lay down without extinguishing the fire. The room plunged into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackle of logs and her soft, barely audible sob.
That sound should have irritated me. But to its rhythm, I fell asleep faster than I had in the last six months. Her humiliation was the only thing that gave me a sense of control over this chaos.
A tear rolled down her cheek and fell onto the dirty floor. I closed my eyes, feeling my wolf curl up contentedly, warmed by another's suffering.