Chapter 3

Elara Thorne POV:

The bedroom I shared with Ryker felt like a tomb. Every object, every piece of furniture, was a monument to a love that was now dead and buried. The scent of him lingered on the pillows, a cruel reminder of what I had lost, or perhaps, what I had never truly had.

I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on my stomach. "Don't be afraid, little one," I whispered to the silent, cavernous room. "Mama will get you out of here. I promise."

*Break it, Elara!* Lyra snarled in my head, her voice a chorus of my own rage and revulsion. She clawed at the mental walls of our connection to Ryker, a bond that now felt like a poisoned chain. *Sever this cursed tether!*

She was right. To truly escape, I had to perform the rejection ritual. It was the only way to formally sever a mate bond. Otherwise, no matter how far I ran, he could track me, pull me back with the invisible leash that tied our souls together. But an Alpha's possessiveness was legendary. Getting Ryker to agree to a rejection was next to impossible. He would see it as the ultimate defiance.

I was lost in these desperate thoughts when the bedroom door opened late that night. Ryker walked in, and the scent that clung to him was not his own. It was a cloying mix of wildflowers and forest floor-Serena's scent.

Another spike of pain, sharp and familiar, pierced through me. I forced my expression to remain blank, turning my back to him as I lay down on the bed.

He moved around the room, the sounds of him undressing-the soft thud of his boots on the floor, the rustle of his shirt-grating on my raw nerves. I felt the bed dip as he lay down behind me. An arm, heavy with muscle, snaked around my waist, his hand coming to rest on my flat stomach.

My entire body went rigid. His touch, which had once been my greatest comfort, now felt like a violation. It was a brand, marking me with the filth of his betrayal.

His breath was hot on the back of my neck. "Elara," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble. "It's been too long..."

His fingers began to trace idle patterns on my skin, his intentions clear. He wanted to fulfill his duties as a mate, to take what he believed was his.

*Get off!* Lyra's roar was deafening in my mind. *Don't you dare touch us with the hands that have held her!*

I was about to shove him away, to scream at him, when the shrill ring of his phone cut through the tense silence.

He grunted in annoyance, but I saw him glance at the screen. His expression shifted instantly. He untangled himself from me without a second thought and padded out to the balcony to take the call.

His voice was a low murmur, but I could still make out the words, dripping with concern. "Serena? What's wrong? Don't cry, just tell me what happened."

The last vestiges of my heart turned to solid ice. I knew what this was. A summons.

A few minutes later, he came back inside, already pulling his shirt back on. He didn't even look at me as he grabbed his jacket. "There's an urgent matter with the pack," he said, his tone flat and dismissive. "I have to go."

"A pack matter?" The words scraped my throat, laced with a bitterness that was corrosive. "Is her name Serena?"

He froze, his back to me. Slowly, he turned, and his eyes were chips of grey ice. "Don't start, Elara. You're the Luna. You should be more understanding."

Then, he was gone. The click of the door shutting was like a gunshot in the night. I sat up in bed, listening to the sound of his truck's engine roaring to life before fading into the distance.

He was going to her. His "urgent pack matter" was another woman's tears.

A single, hot tear finally escaped, tracing a path down my cold cheek. I cried not for him, but for my own foolishness, and for the innocent child in my womb who deserved so much more than a father like him.

I wiped the tear away with the back of my hand. My eyes, when I looked at my reflection in the dark window, were no longer filled with sorrow. They were hard, cold, and for the first time in a long time, they were clear.

This couldn't go on. I wouldn't let it.

I rose from the bed and walked to the antique writing desk in the corner. I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound book. The Pack Law.

My fingers, no longer trembling, flipped through the brittle pages until I found the chapter I was looking for. "The Ritual of Rejection."

The moonlight streamed through the window, casting my shadow long and stark against the wall. It was the shadow of a woman no longer willing to be a victim. It was the shadow of a warrior preparing for battle.