Chapter 3: The Storm and the Submission

The silence of the night was a lie. Emilia’s mind echoed with the memories of past tenderness and present humiliation. Nothing, it seemed, was permanent. Not love, not promises. Inside her, a tempest raged, mirroring the one beginning to brew outside her window. Her wolf, Alicia, paced restlessly in the confines of her mind, a caged and furious spirit. 「He doesn’t scent your pain,」 Alicia growled, her voice a raw scrape against Emilia’s consciousness. 「He only smells submission.」 She curled into herself on the large, cold bed, trying to shrink into the memory of a time when hiding meant someone would always come looking—first her brother, then Wesley. No one came for her now. As the first grey light of dawn bled through the curtains, her phone vibrated on the nightstand. An unknown number. She answered, her throat tight. “I waited for you all night,” a man’s voice, deep and steady, filled the silence. “It seems I must be the one to make the first move.” Emilia held her breath, her knuckles white around the phone. “One month. I’ll take you both away then.” The statement was absolute, leaving no room for argument. The line went dead. One month. It was enough. It had to be. When she came downstairs, Sarah was already in the kitchen, the air thick with the greasy scent of fried food. She stood by demurely, a picture of domestic servitude. Seeing Emilia, she brightened. “Emilia! I made your favorite—the egg and shrimp cakes,” she said, gesturing to a plate. Wesley entered, his presence immediately dominating the room. Hearing Sarah, he frowned. “You don’t need to call her ‘miss’. You’re not a servant here. You’re part of this pack.” Sarah offered a shy smile, her eyes flicking to Emilia. “Is that… alright?” Emilia ignored her, grabbing her bag to leave. She was no longer part of this den. Her opinion was irrelevant. Sarah, however, was relentless. “Emilia, you can be mad at me, but don’t take it out on your health. You have to eat.” She thrust the oily plate toward Emilia. Martha, the housekeeper, chimed in. “The Luna worked hard on these. She burned her hands with the hot oil. Her intentions are true.” Emilia didn’t move. Sarah’s eyes welled with instant tears. “Does Emilia still think I’m just the cook’s daughter, unworthy of being her family?” The accusation was absurd. But Wesley took the bait. “Emilia,” his voice held a command, the Alpha tone she knew too well. “Eat it. Show me you’re willing to make this work.” Willing. The word was a mockery. Willing to share her mate? Willing to pretend? And he had forgotten. He, who had once fired a chef for accidentally using shrimp stock, who had vowed, “In matters concerning you, Emilia, I allow no mistakes. No one hurts you, not even me.” He had forgotten she was deathly allergic to shellfish. The memory, once a testament to his devotion, now felt like a brand of her own foolishness. She stared at him, disbelieving, but his attention was fixed on the small, red burns dotting Sarah’s wrists. “Emilia, it’s delicious,” Sarah coaxed, pushing the plate closer. The pungent, oily smell hit her senses, triggering a wave of nausea. She brought a hand to her nose, and in that reflexive movement, her elbow brushed the plate. It clattered to the floor, the greasy cake rolling under the table. Sarah’s tears fell in earnest. Wesley’s expression darkened further. “Emilia. That was too far.” “I didn’t mean to—” she began, her voice weak. “Why do you hate me so much?” Sarah sobbed, a masterpiece of wounded fragility. Wesley’s gaze turned icy. A silent command passed to Martha, who moved with surprising speed, pinning Emilia’s arms behind her back. “Eat it,” Wesley commanded, picking up the dirty, greasy cake from the floor. He advanced on her, his eyes holding none of the love she remembered, only cold authority. “Swallow it, and this ends.” He wasn’t treating his mate. He wasn’t even treating a stray dog. A dog would have been shown more mercy. Emilia struggled, but Martha’s Beta strength was unyielding. Wesley forced the cake into her mouth, piece by disgusting piece, his actions brutal and efficient. She choked, gagging, her vision spotting. She was drowning, not in water, but in betrayal and filth. “Swallow it,” he repeated, a cold finality in his voice. “Or else…” Or else her mother would suffer. The unspoken threat was the final shove. She swallowed, the act feeling like swallowing shards of her own soul. Only when the last bit was gone did Martha release her. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed to the floor. No one looked at her. Wesley was already leading a weeping Sarah out of the room, his arm a protective shield around her. Emilia crawled, then stumbled to the nearest bathroom, falling to her knees before the toilet. She vomited until there was nothing left, until her stomach cramped and her throat was raw with bile.