Chapter 7

Gemma POV

The harsh morning light pierced through the gap in the heavy curtains, stabbing at my eyelids. I woke up suffocating.

A heavy, muscular arm was clamped securely around my waist, pinning my back against a rock-solid chest. Dallas. The overwhelming scent of cedarwood and a raging snowstorm invaded my lungs with every shallow breath I took. For any normal Mate, this scent would trigger *The Soul's Peace*, a comforting blanket of absolute safety.

But my body was actively rejecting the bond.

The Bond-Rejection Sickness twisted my stomach into violent, agonizing knots. The Alpha scent wasn't comforting; it was pure, suffocating poison seeping into my organs. A wave of intense nausea hit me so hard my vision blurred.

I shoved his heavy arm off me with a desperate gasp. I scrambled off the king-size bed, my legs trembling so violently I barely kept my balance. I practically crawled into the adjoining master bathroom, collapsing onto the freezing black marble floor. I gripped the edge of the toilet bowl just as my stomach violently emptied itself.

I heaved until there was nothing left, my frail body shaking with cold sweats, the icy marble offering no comfort to my feverish skin.

A massive shadow fell over me, blocking the bathroom light.

I looked up through tear-blurred eyes. Dallas stood in the doorway, a towering statue of pure, unadulterated rage. His ice-blue eyes were devoid of the fleeting conflict I'd seen last night. He looked at my trembling form, at the evidence of my sickness, and his jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind.

He didn't see a dying Mate. His massive Alpha ego only saw a woman physically repulsed by his mere touch.

"Does my touch disgust you that much, *Mate*?" he spat, the word dripping with absolute venom.

He grabbed a plush towel from the rack and threw it at me. It hit my shivering shoulder and dropped to the floor.

*"Clean yourself up,"* his voice dropped into the terrifying, irresistible octave of an Alpha's Command. My inner wolf whimpered, forcing my head to bow against my will. "You will be ready for the alliance dinner tonight."

"Dallas, please," I rasped, clutching my burning stomach, tasting bile on my tongue. "I'm sick. I need to see the Pack Doctor."

He let out a dark, humorless laugh that echoed off the marble walls. "Still playing the dramatic victim. Listen to me very carefully, Gemma." He crouched down, his face inches from mine, his eyes cold enough to freeze my blood. "The Healer keeping your grandfather, Arthur Hart, breathing? The trust fund keeping your pathetic Pack afloat? I hold the final signature for both."

My breath hitched. The room started to spin.

"If you are not in my car by seven o'clock tonight, looking like the perfect Luna, I will cut it all off," Dallas whispered, his tone deadly serious. "And don't think for a second your traitor brother Clark can save you. He has no power here."

He stood up, his towering frame casting a long, dark shadow over my huddled body. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the suite, the heavy bedroom door slamming shut behind him.

I was left alone on the cold floor, the silence ringing in my ears.

He would actually do it. He would let my grandfather die just to keep me in line.

I pulled my aching body up, leaning heavily against the sink, and stared at my pale, hollow reflection in the mirror. The Pack Doctor was under Dallas's payroll; I couldn't trust anyone in this Pack House to tell me the truth about my failing body. If I wanted to survive this sickness, I had to find an outside human clinic today, far away from his watchful eyes.

I had to survive until seven o'clock. I had to play his twisted game just a little longer, until I could find a way to shatter this golden cage for good.