Chapter 7 Chapter 7 Will Make Her Pay

Damon pressed the phone harder to his ear, jaw tightening as the automated voice echoed back at him: The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.

He lowered the phone slowly, eyes narrowing, the silence in the room thick with his rage.

"So, that's how it is?" he muttered under his breath, voice low and dangerous. His knuckles whitened around the device. "One fight, and now she thinks she can play games with me? She pulls that ridiculous bond-dissolution stunt, and now-what? Vanishes? Won't even pick up her damn phone?"

I am an Alpha, he smirked.

The bitterness in his tone was sharp enough to cut glass. He let out a dark, humorless laugh. "Fine. Let her. When she comes crawling back, and she will. And then I'll make sure she regrets every second of it."

His thoughts were interrupted by Caleb's cries, high-pitched and raw. He couldn't believe he was his son. The sound drilled into his skull, worsening the pounding hangover already tearing through him. Damon pinched the bridge of his nose and barked out, "Enough!" before dialing the pack doctor.

The man answered quickly, voice calm, too calm for Damon's liking. After a few questions, the doctor's verdict was clear: "He'll be fine, Alpha. Just bruises. With his wolf blood, he'll heal in less than a day."

Damon's irritation only deepened. His lip curled, and he exhaled a sharp breath through his nose. "Then stop wasting my time with noise," he snapped, his voice like the crack of a whip.

He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned on the others lingering in the room. "All of you, out." His glare silenced any protest. "Take Caleb to school. Now."

The order rang absolute, cold as steel.

No one dared argue.

Caleb's cries only grew louder when the attendants tried to tug him toward the door. He clutched his sore arm to his chest, tears streaking his face as he turned to his father.

"Dad, please! I'm not feeling well. I can't go to school like this!" His voice cracked with desperation.

Damon's head lifted slowly, his dark gaze pinning the boy in place. The room went deathly still, everyone sensing the storm about to break.

"So what if you're not well?" Damon's tone was ice, threaded with disdain. He rose to his feet, towering over his son. "You will be well. That's how it works. You are supposed to heal, to endure. Consider this your test as the next Alpha."

Caleb's sobs shook his small frame. "But it hurts," he whispered, clutching tighter at his arm.

The sound grated against Damon's ears. His expression hardened, cruelty slipping through like cracks in stone.

"Pathetic," he bit out. His voice was low, but the sting of it was sharper than any slap. "Crying over bruises? You call yourself my son? You're a waste of Alpha blood."

The words cut through the boy like a blade. Caleb's face crumpled, his sobs turning ragged, but he didn't argue. He couldn't.

The others in the room lowered their gazes, fear and unease pooling in the silence. No one dared speak for the boy. Not when Damon Blackthorn had spoken.

The pack doctor lingered, shifting on his feet, then finally cleared his throat. "Alpha. forgive me for asking, but. are you well? Do you need anything for the pain? Medicine, perhaps?"

Damon's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing into a lethal glare. The cold edge in his voice froze the room. "I said everything is fine. Do I look like I need your pity?"

The doctor lowered his gaze instantly. "Of course not, Alpha." With that, silence swallowed the room again.

An hour dragged by, thick with Damon's brooding presence. He sat back in the chair, one leg crossed, fingers drumming against the armrest as his thoughts circled back to Sloane. Her absence, her silence, it clawed at him, but in a twisted way, it only fed his pride.

Then, a knock broke the quiet. Soft at first, then louder.

A smirk curved across Damon's lips. Finally.

"She's ready to crawl back," he murmured, standing. His phone buzzed at the same time, vibrating against the table. He didn't bother to look, certain it was her. Certain she couldn't stay away.

The phone buzzed again, insistently. His anticipation rose like fire in his veins, a heady mix of triumph and satisfaction. He answered without hesitation, his voice cool, mocking. "Couldn't stay away, could you?"

But the reply wasn't Sloane's.

"Good afternoon, Alpha," a polite voice said. "We've arrived to begin redecorating young Master Caleb's room. May we come in?"

Damon froze. The smirk vanished, replaced with a blank stare. For the first time in hours, he said nothing, just silence, heavy and sharp.

The high he'd been riding crashed instantly, leaving only the bitter taste of disappointment in its place.

"Come another day." He didn't wait for a response, shoving the phone aside before sinking deeper into the leather chair, irritation clawing at his chest.

By evening, he sat at the long dining table, its polished surface gleaming under the warm lights. The staff moved silently around him, setting dish after dish, each detail perfect, just as it always had been. Damon picked up his fork, tasting the first bite. Familiar flavors. Order. Control. Nothing had changed.

For a moment, he let the food anchor him, ease the pounding in his temples. Good. Stable. Predictable.

But then he asked, almost absently, "Where are the mashed potatoes?"

The dish was placed before him quickly. Damon scooped a spoonful, brought it to his mouth.

And froze.

His expression darkened instantly. He set the spoon down with a sharp clink, the air around him crackling with tension. "What the hell is this?" His voice cut through the room like a blade. "I've never tasted something like this. Who let this leave the kitchen?"

The head chef stepped forward nervously, bowing his head. "Alpha, forgive me. I. I tried to replicate Luna's recipe. The staff have grown used to serving it her way. But-" He faltered, swallowing. "We ran out of her special sauce. That may be why it tastes different."

The name hit Damon like a slap. His grip on the fork tightened until the metal groaned.

Luna. Sloane. Always Sloane.

Even here, in his house, in his meals, she lingered like a shadow he couldn't shake.

He pushed the plate away, disgust and fury twisting in his gut. His jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed, sharp with promise.

"She thinks she can leave me behind. She thinks she can play her games and walk away untouched." His voice was low, almost a growl, meant only for himself.

Damon leaned back, a cruel smirk tugging at his mouth as his anger burned into resolve.

"She won't get far. I'll make her pay."