The strikes are painful.
The weight of the boulder is hell.
But nothing—nothing—hurts like Lenora’s screams.
Every time she yells my name, it carves through me deeper than any lash. Her voice, usually sharp with wit and fire, is cracking now. Raw. Desperate.
I don’t lift my head—I can’t. The boulder across my back is like a living beast, crushing the breath from my lungs, grinding my spine downward inch by inch. My knees burn against the stone floor. The chains bite into my wrists, the metal slick with sweat and blood. But it’s her voice that undoes me.
"Let him go! LET HIM GO!"
The stone cracks beneath me from the impact of my weight and the boulder’s crushing presence. Pain floods through every inch of me—my shoulders, my ribs, my wrists—but I bite down hard on it.
I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
Not because I’m weak. But because her voice—Lenora’s—it’s breaking.
"Father, please! Please stop them, that’s enough! He’s proven himself, hasn’t he?!"
Her voice shatters something in me. Not my resolve. Not my body. But something softer, more fragile. The part of me I usually keep buried deep. The part that aches for comfort. For someone to care.
And for the first time in my life, I realize—I’m not alone.
Someone’s crying for me. Screaming for me. Fighting for me.
And gods help me, I feel it.
The pain that rips through her—it echoes inside my chest like it’s my own. I don’t know how that’s possible, how I can feel her grief in my marrow, but it’s there. Wild and sharp, like our bond is screaming through the air between us, louder than the crowd.
The voice booms like thunder through the square.
I flinch—not from pain, but from the shift in energy.
Eamon Maen, the trueAlpha of White Stone, speaks.
The whips stop. The blows freeze mid-air. And for a second, there’s only silence.
Then the chains are released, and the weight of the boulder slides off my back like a mountain finally letting me go. I collapse forward, catching myself on trembling hands, panting as if I’ve crawled out of a war.
I smell smoke and sweat and roasted meat.
And beneath it all—I feel her.
Arms around me. Familiar. Fierce.
She doesn’t care that I’m drenched in blood. That my back is torn. That the crowd is watching.
She falls to her knees beside me, pulling me against her, wrapping me up in something warmer than a shield.
"You’re okay," she murmurs, brushing sweaty hair from my forehead. "You’re okay now. You did it."
I want to tell her I didn’t do it alone.
That without her voice, without her scream splitting through the haze of pain like light through fog—I would’ve let go.
My lips are cracked. My throat burns. Every breath is jagged and heavy, my chest rising and falling in uneven stutters.
So I fall into her arms.
"It’s okay. It’s okay."
She murmurs it over and over, and I don’t know whether it’s to me or to herself.
Her fingers grip my shoulders like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. Her cheek presses against mine. And even though my muscles scream and my body is broken, I swear—I’ve never felt more safe.
I look at Cameron’s body—bruised, blistered, barely healed—and I feel the rage building again. Even with the healer’s salves, even with the way shifter bodies regenerate, it’s still there. The faint purple bruising on his ribs, the angry lash marks across his shoulders, the swollen skin around his wrists from where he held the boulder.
He’s sleeping, thank the goddess. His breath is shallow, but steady.
"How is he?" my father asks behind me, his voice too soft. Like he knows what he did.
"How the fuck do you think he is? After they tortured him."
"I’m sorry," he says. "It had to happen."
That’s when I do spin around, eyes blazing. "For what fucking reason, huh? So some bitter old men could feel powerful again? So they could pretend tradition means something while beating the shit out of my mate?"
"If my mate was going to be in that much pain, I would’ve rather we fucking left. Do you get that? I would’ve rather turned my back on this entire pack than watched him suffer like that for your approval."
Then—"I didn’t know it would go that far," he says, quieter now. "I thought... I thought they’d only test his strength. Not—"
I shake my head, jaw clenched. "You stood there and held me back while they whipped him like a fucking criminal. Like he was nothing."
"He had to endure it. To show the others—"
"To show them what?" I bark. "That you can break an alpha man down to nothing and still call it leadership? That brutality somehow proves loyalty?!"
I hear my voice rising, cracking. I breathe hard.
My father runs a hand over his face, worn and weary. "It was the only way they’d accept him. You know how divided things are. If he walked in soft, if he was seen as the pretty outsider with wealth and no pain, they would’ve eaten him alive."
This is probably the first time I’ve ever argued with my father. All my life, I’ve looked up to him—respected his decisions, followed his lead. But right now? I’m so angry I can barely see straight.
"Leave," I say, voice tight. "Please."
His eyes search mine, like he wants to say something more—justify, explain, maybe even apologize. But I can’t take it. I’m afraid if I keep standing here, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Something that won’t just bruise our relationship, but break it completely.
He hesitates for a beat too long. I don’t look at him again.
"I’m asking you," I murmur. "As your daughter. Just... leave."
There’s a heavy pause, and then I hear his quiet footsteps backing away. The soft click of the door closing behind him feels louder than any scream.
I exhale shakily, gripping the edge of Cameron’s bed.
He’s still asleep—breathing steadily now, thank the goddess—but his body is a patchwork of fading bruises and healing scrapes. They’re fading quickly, faster than I expected, but the sight of them still makes my throat burn.
"You idiot," I whisper, brushing my fingers through his damp hair. "You didn’t have to prove anything. You already had me. You already had us."
He doesn’t respond, of course. But I feel him breathe. That’s okay, he’s alive. In pain but alive.