Chapter 2: The Scar and the Threat

The pack doctor finished bandaging Sarah’s forehead, advising her to keep the wound dry. Sarah sat curled against Wesley’s side on the large sectional sofa, her voice a delicate whimper. “Wesley, will it scar?” she asked, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the white gauze. He pulled her closer, his scent wrapping around her in a protective, comforting cloud. “It won’t,” he murmured, his voice a low, sure rumble. “And even if it does, I will scour the earth for the finest healers and poultices to erase it for you.” The words struck a chord deep within Emilia, a dissonant, painful echo. Her fingers drifted unconsciously to the jagged, silvery scar that wrapped around her own wrist. A permanent reminder. That scar was from the rogue attack, the one that had nearly claimed Wesley’s life and activated the seer’s curse. As the enforcers fought off the beasts, she had seen Wesley’s car—a sleek, powerful machine—overturned and leaking fuel, him trapped inside. The scent of his blood had driven her into a frenzy. She hadn’t hesitated. She’d used her own strength to pry the mangled door open, her forearm grinding against the shattered window frame, the jagged glass slicing deep, severing tendons. She’d felt the tear, the blinding white-hot pain, but she hadn’t let go. She’d dragged him out, her own blood mingling with his, just seconds before the vehicle exploded. She, an artist who once expressed her soul through sketches of the moonlit forests, could no longer hold a pencil steady. But back then, she hadn’t regretted it. She had saved her mate. Wesley, upon learning the extent of her sacrifice, had been consumed by guilt. He’d held her maimed hand, his forehead pressed to her knuckles, his vow a sacred oath in the quiet of their room. “I will never fail you, Emilia. This scar will forever remind me that a woman loved me enough to trade her gift for my life.” Now, it seemed, vows were as permanent as smoke. The sight of their intimacy was a physical weight on her chest. She tried to slip away, but the elderly housekeeper, a loyal Beta named Martha, subtly blocked the doorway. Sarah chose that moment to speak, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Wesley, please don’t be angry with Emilia. I’m sure she didn’t mean to push me. We used to… roughhouse like that when we were younger…” It wasn’t an explanation. It was fuel poured on embers. “Emilia,” Wesley’s voice was hard, the Alpha tone brooking no argument. “Apologize to Sarah. Now. Let this be the end of it.” The command hung in the air. Emilia, who had sacrificed her art, her peace, and nearly her life for this man, felt a cold, sharp clarity cut through the pain. “No,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, her chin lifting. “I won’t. I did nothing wrong.” She turned and shouldered past a stunned Martha, striding out of the room and down the hall without a backward glance. She held the tears at bay, a storm contained within. But no footsteps followed her. No deep voice called her back. Only Wesley’s cold, flat words chased her, slithering into her ears like a serpent: “Emilia, don’t test me. Remember your mother.” Her mother. Living in a specialized, pack-funded sanatorium, reliant on experimental treatments developed by their best healers to manage a rare, degenerative illness. He was using her mother as a leash. Emilia stopped dead, her body rigid. She turned slowly, her gaze searching his face, trying to find any trace of the man who had once vowed her mother was his own. His expression was unyielding. A transaction. Her obedience for her mother’s safety. Fine, she thought, the word tasting like ash. If this is what you want, Wesley. She walked back, each step heavy, each one a fracture in her soul. She stopped before the sofa where Sarah sat, looking fragile and victorious. “I’m sorry,” the words were wrenched from her, torn and bloody. Sarah immediately waved her hands, a picture of flustered grace. “Oh, Emilia, it’s really not necessary!” “It is,” Wesley stated, finality in his tone as he gently pressed Sarah back against the cushions. “One should always apologize for their mistakes. You rest. I’ll check on you later.” He then stood and gripped Emilia’s upper arm, his fingers like iron. He didn’t lead her; he pulled her, his grip unforgiving, the promised “spark” of their mate-bond now feeling like a mockery. It hurt. He dragged her into their—his—bedroom and finally released her, running a hand over his face in a gesture of pure exasperation. “Emilia,” he began, his voice weary. “I thought you understood me. What was the point of that scene tonight?” Scene? He thought her heartbreak was a performance? He couldn’t see her shattered pieces, couldn’t smell her despair. He only wanted the peaceful coexistence of his two women, no longer even bothering to keep one in the shadows. He truly was like some ancient Alpha, collecting mates for his den. “What do you want from me?” Emilia asked, her voice hollow. “Just be like you were before! Weren’t we happy?” he asked, genuine confusion in his scent. “Even with Sarah here now, she’s so biddable. She won’t disrupt your life. What I feel for her is a duty, a pity. What I have with you is real. I’ll keep all my promises to you.” He was always turning things into questions, as if that proved his logic. But Emilia knew him too well. If she fought now, if she tried to leave, he would use any means to stop her. Her mother was still his captive. After a long, suffocating silence, she let her shoulders slump in a show of defeat. “Fine. As long as she stays out of my way, I… I can tolerate it.” The words were surrender. They felt like swallowing glass. “Good girl.” A smile finally touched his lips. He leaned in and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. Emilia clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms, to keep from shoving him away. He seemed like he wanted to say more, but Martha’s voice called from the hallway, saying Sarah was having a nightmare, crying and calling for him. It was so transparent. A game of dominance and submission, and it sickened her. Wesley didn’t hesitate. He turned and left.