Content Warning: This story contains scenes of violence, including physical and emotional abuse. It explores themes of trauma, mental illness, Physical abusive, verbal abuse and self-harm. Reader discretion is advised. If you are sensitive to these topics or have experienced similar challenges, please proceed with caution.
Colton's POV
My hands clenched into fists at Uncle Khalil’s words, my nails digging into my palms. The air in the room felt heavier, pressing down on me like a storm waiting to break.
"I don't need your damn accusations, Uncle," I spat, my jaw tightening. "I know he's mine. I made sure of it."
Uncle Khalil chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "You think locking him up guarantees that? You’re a fool, Colton. A desperate fool. That omega has been slipping through your fingers, and you didn’t even notice."
My blood ran cold. "What are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying," he leaned in, voice dripping with venom, "that your so-called mate has been spending an awful lot of time with your little brother. And tell me, do you really think he sees you as anything but his captor?"
I slammed my fist against the table, rattling the empty glasses. "Shut up!" My breathing was uneven, my wolf clawing at the surface. The thought of Mikhail with someone else—my own brother—made something dark coil in my gut.
Uncle Khalil smirked, clearly pleased by my reaction. "You’re losing control, Colton. And you know what happens to alphas who lose control, don’t you?"
I took a deep breath, forcing my anger down. "It doesn't matter," I said through gritted teeth. "Mikhail is mine. That child is mine. No one is taking them from me."
Uncle Khalil shrugged, standing up. "Then prove it. Before it's too late."
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. Because in the pit of my stomach, I knew—if what he said was true, if Mikhail had been anywhere near my brother—then I’d have to remind him exactly who he belonged to.
Uncle Khalil let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back against the desk. "Colton, wake up. You’re so damn desperate to keep that omega by your side, but open your damn eyes—he doesn’t love you. He can’t even stand your scent. He rejects your pheromones like they’re poison."
I clenched my jaw, the words stinging more than I wanted to admit. "That’s not true," I snapped, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "Mikhail is mine. He’s carrying my child. He wouldn’t—he wouldn’t betray me like that."
Uncle scoffed, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. "Yeah? Then why does he flinch when you touch him? Why does he look at you like you’re the villain in his story?" He pushed off the desk, taking a slow step toward me. "You think locking him up made him yours? That just made him your prisoner, Colton. Not your mate."
His words dug under my skin like claws, but I refused to let him see how much they affected me. "Shut up," I growled. "You don’t know anything."
"Don’t I?" Uncle Khalil raised a brow, crossing his arms. "Tell me then, does he lean into your touch? Does he crave your scent? Does he even look at you with an ounce of love in his eyes? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is an omega who’s just waiting for a chance to run."
My breathing was heavy, my wolf snarling inside me, but I couldn’t deny the truth laced within his words. Mikhail had never once looked at me the way I wanted him to. Never once reached for me on his own.
"You’re lying," I forced out, voice lower, weaker.
Uncle Khalil scoffed, shaking his head as he turned toward the door. "Believe whatever you want, kid. But one day, you’ll have to face reality. And when that day comes, don’t say I didn’t warn you."
He left without another word, leaving me alone with the unbearable weight of his accusations.
"I'll give you some evidence, my sweet nephew," Uncle Khalil said with a smug smirk, pulling out a thin, enchanted film. The moment he unrolled it, the images began moving—clear as day, undeniable.
Mikhail.
Ivan.
Kissing.
My entire body went rigid as I watched Ivan’s hands gripping Mikhail’s waist, their lips pressed together, Mikhail’s eyes closed as if he—No! No, this couldn’t be real. This had to be a trick.
"What the—No!" I roared, my anger surging so violently that the wooden desk beside me cracked under the pressure of my grip. My vision blurred at the edges, red-hot rage consuming every ounce of logic I had left. My wolf howled inside me, demanding I tear something apart—someone apart.
Uncle Khalil only chuckled, tilting his head as he watched me unravel. "Tsk, tsk, Colton. I tried to warn you, didn’t I? But you were so blinded by your obsession that you refused to see the truth right in front of you. Your little omega? The one you locked away, thinking he’d stay loyal? He’s been playing you for a fool all along."
"Lies!" I spat, snatching the film from his hands and gripping it so tightly my nails nearly tore through it. "This—this has to be fake! A trick! Mikhail would never—he wouldn’t—" My voice broke despite myself.
Khalil let out a low hum, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Wouldn’t he? Think about it, Colton. He’s always kept his distance from you, always rejected your touch. And yet here he is, in the arms of another alpha, willingly. What does that tell you?"
I sucked in a sharp breath, my entire frame shaking with barely contained fury. "Shut up," I growled, but the words sounded weak, even to my own ears.
"Face it, nephew," Khalil continued, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Mikhail was never truly yours. He never wanted you. He’s just been waiting for the right moment to betray you completely. And if you don’t do something about it soon, you’ll lose everything—including that child he’s carrying."
My head snapped up at that, my pulse thundering in my ears. "What the hell are you saying?" I hissed, my hands itching to wrap around his throat.
Khalil’s smirk deepened, his tone turning almost singsong. "Oh, nothing. Just that if Mikhail really doesn’t love you, what’s stopping him from running away with that child? With Ivan?"
A vicious snarl ripped from my throat, my control snapping like a fragile thread. If Mikhail thought he could betray me—if he thought he could take my child and leave—then he had another thing coming.
"Colton. Stop waiting your time for that Omega. He's just an Omega. You don't need one." Khalil tapped my shoulder and released his pheromones. But I didn't bulge and didn't flinched I know what is he trying to do and it's not working on me.
"Stop releasing your scent, If you planning to control by your pheromones, You can't and you won't. I will do whatever I what with my omega and you—stay the fuck out it. Mind your own business."
"You're so full of yourself," Khalil spat, his words sharp like daggers. "Don't act like you're untouchable, because you’re not. You're nothing without your father, and you know it. If your father finds out about this mess you made, he will f-cking kill you." His voice was low, seething with fury, every word weighed down by anger and resentment.
I stood there, frozen for a moment, the weight of his words sinking into me. His eyes burned with hatred, and I could see the fury in every muscle of his body, ready to strike. But despite his threats, despite the venom dripping from his voice, something inside me refused to break. Khalil could shout, could threaten, could remind me of the terrible consequences that awaited me, but deep down, I knew that my father’s wrath wasn’t something I could outrun—not anymore. I wasn’t just his son; I was someone else now—someone who had to take responsibility for his own choices, no matter how tangled they had become.
Still, I couldn't ignore the sick feeling in my stomach, the one that told me Khalil wasn’t entirely wrong.
It's not my order," Khalil said, his voice cold and unyielding. "It's your father's order. If you disobey him, we both know what he will do." He added the final part like a bitter afterthought, his words dripping with the weight of past consequences. "I'm just doing my job, and if you don’t want to be f-cked over, you’ll do what he wants you to do."
I clenched my fists, the anger building up inside me, threatening to spill over. "He wants me to do what? Get rid of my own mate?" I shot back, my voice rising with every word. "You know how rare it is to find a mate, right? And you just want me to discard him like he's some disposable thing?" I couldn’t keep the rage from slipping into my tone, the injustice of it all clawing at me.
I knew what I’d done to Mikhail—locking him out, harassing him. I was an asshole for it. But abandoning him, leaving him behind just to please my father? That wasn’t something I could do, no matter how much my father’s orders loomed over me. He was my mate. I couldn’t just turn my back on him.
I took a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm inside of me. I could still make things right. I could find a way to ask for his forgiveness, somehow undo the mess I’d made. But the question gnawed at me: would Mikhail even let me fix it? Would he ever trust me again after what I’d done?
"Fine," Khalil said, his voice dripping with malice. "Then let your own father do your job instead. And don’t get angry when you find your mate, lifeless and drowning in his own bl-od."
His words hit me like a physical blow, the weight of them crashing into my chest. For a moment, everything went still—frozen, as if time had decided to hold its breath. The image of Mikhail, lifeless, was too much to even process. I felt my stomach twist, a mix of fury, fear, and guilt flooding through me all at once.
I knew what Khalil was trying to do—push me, make me fear the consequences of defying my father. But what he didn’t understand was that this wasn’t just about following orders anymore. This was my life, my choice, my mate. No matter how much my father’s shadow loomed over me, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to Mikhail.
I swallowed hard, trying to steady my voice, but it cracked as I spoke. "You think that’ll scare me?" I spat back, my jaw clenched. "I’m not just going to stand by and watch my mate die, especially not because of some twisted game my father wants to play." I knew I was pushing my limits with every word, but I couldn’t hold back anymore. "I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. And if I have to go against my father to save Mikhail, so be it."
Khalil’s eyes narrowed, but I wasn’t backing down. Not this time.
Here’s the continuation with the same intensity:
---
"You're so stubborn," Khalil muttered, his tone venomous. "Do it, or I’ll tell your father. Don’t make me do it, nephew. Now that your father met your mate earlier, get rid of him—or he will d-e in front of you!"
The threat hung in the air like a toxic cloud, suffocating everything around me. His words struck at my core, twisting something deep inside me. I could feel the blood draining from my face as the image of Mikhail’s lifeless body flashed in my mind, the very thought of it enough to make my heart race.
But I refused to let Khalil see my fear. I couldn’t let him win. I couldn’t let him manipulate me into believing that Mikhail’s life was nothing more than a pawn in my father’s cruel game.
"You think I don’t know what he’s capable of?" I shot back, my voice low, barely containing the rage boiling up inside me. "I know exactly what my father is capable of. But this—this isn’t just about me or him. It’s about Mikhail. My mate. And I won’t let anyone take that away from me."
Khalil’s lips curled into a cruel smile. "Then you're a fool." He stepped closer, his eyes hard, like he could see right through me. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ll be the one to regret it, watching him suffer for your stubbornness."
I swallowed, every word cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. But I wasn’t backing down. No matter what happened next, I couldn’t let Mikhail pay the price for my mistakes.
Here’s the continuation with the first-person perspective and the tense atmosphere:
---
After that argument, Uncle Khalil didn’t bother me anymore, which only made me feel more uneasy. His silence, the way he left me alone, was almost worse than his threats. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to break, and when it did, I wouldn’t be able to stop it.
I knew I couldn’t go near Mikhail—not after everything that had happened. If I did, I’d see it in his eyes, that fear, that tremor in his body. His fear of me. I wasn’t the perfect mate for him. I could see it. The way he pulled away from me, the way his trust was shattered. But still, I couldn't give up. I’d try my best. I had to.
Then, just as I was lost in my thoughts, Mikhail signed softly, his fingers dancing in the air. “I want some screaming meatballs.”
I blinked, taken aback for a moment. “Screaming meatballs?” I repeated, frowning. What a weird food request. But I didn’t say anything more, just nodded, deciding to give him what he wanted. I’d do anything to make him happy, even if I had no idea what kind of food he was talking about.
Once the dish was served, Mikhail immediately dug in, his focus solely on the food in front of him. He looked so... beautiful. He was wearing that tuxedo again, the black fabric fitting him like it was made for him, and his long black hair cascading down his back, nearly reaching his waist. He was effortlessly beautiful, and for a second, everything else faded away.
I just wanted this night to be perfect. I had envisioned it so many times in my mind—Mikhail sitting across from me, his presence a steady force that I could bask in, the flickering candlelight casting golden hues along the sharp planes of his face, his every movement something to be memorized and cherished. I wanted the air between us to be thick with something unspoken but understood, something electric, something that tethered him to me in a way that could never be undone.
I wanted him close. I wanted to breathe him in, to take in every little detail—the way his lashes framed those cold yet devastatingly beautiful eyes, the way his fingers curled around the stem of his glass, the way his lips moved as he ate, completely unaware of the way he had me utterly enthralled.
And for a brief moment, everything was exactly as I had imagined.
Until it wasn’t.
Because then, something impossible happened.
The sound tore through the air without warning—a high-pitched, ear-splitting shriek that rattled my skull and sent a violent shiver down my spine. It took me a fraction of a second to realize where it had come from, but when I did, my breath hitched, my stomach twisting into a tight, nauseating knot of confusion.
The meatballs.
The damn meatballs had screamed.
Not in the way food might hiss when it’s dropped into hot oil, not in the way a meal might sizzle as it cools—no, this was different. This was unnatural. This was a cry of pure, unfiltered terror, as if they had just witnessed something so unspeakably horrifying that even their very existence could not withstand it.
The room shifted. The warmth that had once wrapped around me like a comforting embrace dissipated in an instant, replaced by something frigid and suffocating, something that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise and my instincts flare with alarm.
I turned to Mikhail, my pulse pounding in my ears, my voice caught somewhere in my throat. But he remained as composed as ever, his expression unreadable, his movements unhurried as he continued eating, utterly unaffected by the sheer impossibility of what had just transpired.
The air between us grew heavier, thick with an eerie stillness that set my nerves on edge.
What kind of magic was this?
What kind of hell had I just invited into this perfect night?
And, more importantly, what had those damned meatballs seen that I hadn’t?
I'm only giving you one more chance. If you fail me again, there will be consequences—severe ones. And if you hesitate, then your father will take care of it himself. Get rid of that omega."
My uncle’s voice was cold, devoid of patience, each word sinking into my skin like a venomous brand, searing through whatever resistance I had left.
And then, before I could fully process the weight of his command, before I could even register the storm brewing in my own mind, it happened.
Mikhail was on the floor.
Bleeding.
The world around me slowed to an agonizing crawl, the sharp contrast between the suffocating silence and the distant, ringing noise in my ears making it impossible to think, impossible to breathe. My pulse pounded against my temples, my vision blurring for a moment as I tried—desperately—to make sense of what had just occurred.
The sickening realization struck me like a brutal wave, violent and unrelenting, crashing into my chest with enough force to steal the air from my lungs. My hands—my hands had done this. My own strength, my own reckless, rage-fueled movements had shoved him down the stairs, sent him sprawling to the ground, left him there—wounded, vulnerable, helpless.
And then—
"Help! My child! Please, someone—!"
The cry cut through the haze in my mind like a blade, sharp, desperate, filled with a terror that tightened its grip around my throat.
My child.
Our child.
Mikhail.
Shit.
The rush of panic hit me all at once, an unbearable weight pressing against my ribcage, making it impossible to move, impossible to think, impossible to do anything but stare at the horror unfolding before me.
"Mikhail!"
Ivan’s voice shattered through the chaos, urgent, filled with a level of worry that only fueled the fire clawing at my insides. He ran toward Mikhail, his hands reaching out, his concern spilling into every frantic movement—and for some reason, that only made the anger inside me burn hotter.
Because it should have been me.
It should have been me reaching for him.
I should have been the one panicking, the one pulling him into my arms, the one whispering reassurances that everything would be okay—even if I wasn’t sure it would be.
But instead, I stood there. Frozen. Staring.
And then, Mikhail’s eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes that had always seen straight through me—met mine.
And what I saw in them made my blood run cold.
Fear.
Not just pain, not just shock, but genuine, unmistakable fear.
He was afraid of me.
And that was when I truly understood the magnitude of what I had done.
The moment the doctor rushed in, the tension in the room thickened, suffocating, an invisible force pressing down on my chest, making it impossible to breathe. The sight of Mikhail lying there—pale, bleeding, vulnerable—was already carving into me like a blade, but it was the silence, the unbearable weight of unspoken words, that truly made my insides twist.
And then, Ivan moved.
He stood up with sharp, rigid movements, his breath unsteady, his hands trembling at his sides, barely containing the fury rippling beneath his skin. His dark eyes burned as they locked onto me, filled with an emotion so raw, so blistering, that for the first time in a long time, I felt something dangerously close to shame.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice was a furious snarl, venom dripping from every syllable, and before I could even brace myself, he was right in front of me. "You could have killed him!"
The words hit me harder than I expected, but before I could process them, before I could react, Khalil's voice sliced through the room like a blade.
"Silence!" His command was sharp, cold, laced with the authority of a man who had long since forgotten the meaning of compassion. "Don’t you dare stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Ivan! Stay out of this!" His gaze was cruel, his expression devoid of even a sliver of remorse as he sneered, "We don’t need a weak omega dragging us down. He deserves to get rid of that child!"
For a second, everything stilled.
The air between us crackled with an unspeakable tension, thick enough to suffocate. The doctor worked in silence, but even his movements felt careful, wary, as if he too could feel the weight of the storm brewing in the room.
Ivan's entire body went rigid. His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening so hard I thought it might shatter under the pressure. And then, slowly, he turned back to me.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, but no less deadly.
"You can't just do this to your own child, Brother." His words were like ice, each one laced with a quiet, seething fury that sent a shiver down my spine. "He's your son too."
He didn't yell this time. He didn’t need to.
Because there was something in his voice—something deeper, something raw, something that carried a weight far heavier than rage alone.
Disappointment.
Disgust.
Betrayal.
And yet, despite everything, he stood there. Unyielding. Defiant. Every muscle in his body screamed with tension, but he didn’t falter. He faced me with every ounce of strength he had left, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his fists still clenched at his sides, and in that moment, it wasn’t just anger in his eyes.
It was a warning.
A challenge.
A promise.
"Don't tell me what to do, Ivan. Don't test my patience and get the hell out of here. Leave Mikhail alone, he's mine!"
Ivan didn’t move.
If anything, his stance only hardened, his glare sharpening into something even more unyielding, even more defiant. His breath was slow, controlled, but I could see the way his fists trembled at his sides, how his jaw locked so tight it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure.
"You really think this is about you?" Ivan's voice was low, but every word cut through the air like a blade, cold and edged with something dangerous. "You think you can just claim him, control him, hurt him—and no one will say a damn thing?" He took a step closer, and for the first time in a long time, I saw no fear in his eyes. Only fury. "Mikhail isn’t some possession you can just own, Colton. He’s not a thing. He’s a person. And whether you like it or not, he’s carrying your child. Your blood. And still, you—"
"Shut up, Ivan." My patience was razor-thin, my hands curling into fists at my sides. The anger inside me, the possessiveness, the need to keep Mikhail mine, to keep everyone else away, clawed at my insides like a beast begging to be let loose. "I said, leave. Now. Before I do something we’ll both regret."
Ivan scoffed, shaking his head in disgust. "You already have."
His words struck something deep in me, something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge, something I refused to acknowledge.
But before I could react, before I could force him out, Ivan turned on his heel and walked away—leaving behind only the weight of his words and the suffocating silence that followed.
"I will let it slide this time, only because you’re my little brother," I said, my voice laced with irritation, though I tried to keep it steady. "But don’t push me any further, Ivan. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into."
But Ivan didn’t hesitate. He didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, didn’t even consider backing down. Instead, he turned to me with a look of pure defiance, his shoulders squared, his fists still clenched at his sides as though he were physically restraining himself from doing something reckless.
"I’d rather not," he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the tension in the room like a blade. "I’m done pretending, done standing in the shadows, done biting my tongue while this so-called family of ours continues to destroy everything in its path." His breathing was heavy, but his resolve didn’t crack. "I’m cutting ties with all of you. I don’t want to be associated with this anymore—this sickness, this cruelty, this complete lack of humanity. I can’t just stand by and watch someone suffer while you all act like it’s normal, like it’s right."
His words sent a shockwave through the room, the weight of them pressing down on us like an impending storm. The air grew thick, suffocating, as though something unseen was stirring, waiting, lurking just beneath the surface.
Then—
"Ivan!"
The voice boomed through the space like a thunderclap, powerful, commanding, an unmistakable force that sent a cold chill down my spine.
Before I could fully react, an overwhelming scent flooded the air, thick and suffocating, seeping into every corner of the room with an undeniable authority that left no room for defiance. It was intoxicating, almost too much to bear, forcing every single one of us to stiffen, to freeze in place, to instinctively submit as our bodies reacted before our minds could catch up.
My father.
He had arrived.
And in that moment, every ounce of rage, every bit of defiance, every last shred of control I thought I had, was crushed beneath the sheer weight of his presence.
"Cutting what? Ivan?" Father's voice was cold, sharp as a blade, slicing through the air with an authority that made my breath hitch. His presence alone was suffocating, his aura pressing down on us like a vice, demanding obedience, demanding submission.
Ivan, despite the weight of that presence, refused to bow. His body tensed, his jaw locked, and though I could see the way his hands trembled slightly at his sides, he stood his ground. His defiance burned like a flame against a storm, flickering but unyielding.
"I'm cutting ties with this family," Ivan said, his voice steady, though each word carried the weight of a lifetime of pain, of disappointment, of restrained fury finally let loose. "I refuse to be part of this anymore. I refuse to be like you."
Father's eyes darkened, his expression turning unreadable. The air around us seemed to drop in temperature, thick with an unspoken threat. His gaze flicked toward me, then to Mikhail, still bleeding on the floor, then back to Ivan.
"And what exactly do you mean by that?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface.
Ivan took a deep breath, his fists clenching, as if forcing himself not to break under the unbearable weight of our father’s scrutiny. "I mean I won't stand by and watch you all treat people like they’re disposable," he said, his voice gaining strength. "I won’t stand by while Colton pushes his mate down the stairs, while you all decide who lives and who dies based on convenience." His eyes burned with fury, but there was something else beneath it—something raw, something broken. "Mikhail is carrying Colton's child. And you want to kill them both just because it doesn’t fit into your twisted little vision of strength?"
Father’s silence stretched long enough to make the room feel even smaller, more suffocating. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable, calculating.
"So, you believe yourself to be the righteous one now?" he mused, his voice still eerily calm. "You think walking away makes you stronger? That defying me will make you better?" His lips curled into something almost resembling a smirk, though there was no humor in it. "Naïve boy. You will regret this choice."
Ivan's body was trembling now, but whether from fear or fury, I couldn't tell. Still, he refused to back down. "If leaving means keeping my conscience intact, then I’ll take that regret over living under your rule."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Father’s gaze remained locked onto Ivan’s, his expression as unreadable as ever. And then, finally, he turned his attention back to me, his stare boring into mine with an intensity that made my blood run cold.
"And you, Colton?" His voice was lower now, quieter, but somehow even more dangerous. "Where do you stand?"
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. The weight of the moment pressed down on me like a boulder, suffocating, crushing, making it impossible to speak. Instead, my gaze flickered toward Mikhail, lying on the floor, his breathing ragged, his face pale, his thigh soaked in crimson. My child—our child—was there, fragile and vulnerable, a life I had helped create, now hanging by a thread because of my own actions.
A part of me screamed to move, to go to him, to fix what I had done, to fight for him. But another part, the part that had been trained to obey, to follow, to be the son my father had molded me into, knew the truth—I wasn’t strong enough. Not yet. If I chose Mikhail now, if I turned against my father in this moment, it wouldn’t just be me who suffered. It would be him. It would be our child. And I couldn’t protect them. Not like this.
I exhaled slowly, forcing the turmoil inside me to quiet, even as it threatened to consume me whole. And then, without another word, I turned my back to Ivan.
The sharp inhale from behind me was like a knife to the gut.
"Brother!" Ivan’s voice cracked with emotion, disbelief and fury laced in every syllable. "What the hell are you doing?! Choose your mate! Choose your own child! You still have a chance—don’t let him control you!"
His words cut deeper than I wanted to admit, but I kept walking, each step heavier than the last, my heart pounding with a mix of regret, shame, and something far worse—dread.
Father’s voice rang out behind me, cold and commanding, the final judgment. "Drag that bastard out of this mansion," he ordered, and immediately, the guards stepped forward, seizing Ivan by the arms.
He struggled, his rage boiling over as he thrashed against their grip. "Colton, you coward! You think this makes you strong? You think following him will save you?!" His voice was raw now, desperate. "Mikhail needs you! Your child needs you! And one day—one day, when you realize what you’ve done, it’ll be too late!"
I closed my eyes as his voice faded, swallowed by the sounds of his fight against the guards, the distant echo of his footsteps being dragged away.
I didn’t turn around.
I couldn’t.
"You did well, my son," my father murmured, his voice dripping with approval as he placed a firm, deliberate hand on my shoulder. The weight of his touch was heavy, both in presence and in meaning, a silent assertion of control, of power, of expectations that had been drilled into me since childhood.
"If you continue to please me," he continued, his tone smooth yet laced with the unmistakable edge of warning, "if you prove your loyalty time and time again, I will reward you handsomely. I will grant you everything—power, status, wealth beyond your imagination." His fingers tightened slightly, just enough to remind me of the fine line I walked, of the invisible chains he had shackled around me long ago.
"But—"
The word hung in the air like a loaded gun, thick with an unspoken threat, heavy with the promise of consequences I dared not test.
I stilled, my body instinctively tensing as my gaze flickered to meet his.
His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into mine, searching, assessing, ensuring that I understood the gravity of what he was about to say.
"—Do not betray me."
His voice, though barely above a whisper, sent a shiver down my spine, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface of his calm façade. It wasn’t just a warning. It was a declaration. A promise of what awaited me if I ever so much as thought of turning against him.
And in that moment, as the suffocating weight of his expectations settled over me like a noose tightening around my throat, I realized something terrifying.
No matter how much I had convinced myself that this was the only choice, that walking away from Mikhail and our child was a necessary sacrifice—
I had never felt more trapped.
"Young Master, Sir Ivan is leaving," one of the men informed me, his voice steady yet cautious, as if gauging my reaction before daring to speak further.
I didn’t respond immediately. My gaze remained fixed on the bed before me—the same bed where Mikhail and I had once laid together, where his warmth had lulled me into a peace I had never known elsewhere, where his warmth had once filled the silence that now felt unbearable. The sheets were different now, untouched and cold, a stark contrast to the memories that still lingered in every corner of this room.
Slowly, I lifted the glass of rum to my lips, taking a long sip, letting the burn settle deep in my throat before exhaling a weary sigh. "With Lucia, the messenger, and Elliot, your healer," the man added hesitantly, as if unsure whether he should continue.
That was expected. Ivan wouldn't leave alone. He was stubborn—reckless, even—but he wasn’t a fool. He knew he would need allies if he intended to survive outside of our father’s grasp. Still, none of this was enough to pull me from my seat, to shake the weight pressing against my chest.
Until—
The guard hesitated, then finally spoke the words that made my grip tighten around the glass.
"With Mikhail, sir."
I froze.
The air in the room suddenly felt heavier, pressing down on me like a storm ready to break. My fingers clenched involuntarily around the glass, the faint creak of my grip tightening betraying the turmoil that surged beneath my carefully controlled exterior.
Mikhail.
Mikhail was leaving.
Leaving me.
A sharp, unfamiliar ache bloomed in my chest, something ugly and suffocating, something dangerously close to fear. Not fear of losing him—no, I had already convinced myself that I had let him go. That I had chosen this path.
But the thought of him truly gone, away from my reach, away from my world entirely—
That was something I wasn’t prepared for.
I set the glass down with deliberate slowness, my movements careful, calculated, betraying none of the storm brewing inside me. I turned my gaze to the guard, my expression unreadable, my voice a low, quiet whisper of a threat.
"Where are they now?"
"Outside, sir. They're preparing to leave as we speak," the guard reported, his voice steady but cautious, as if anticipating my reaction before I even had the chance to respond.
A sharp breath left my lips, my fingers flexing slightly before curling into a fist. The thought of Mikhail stepping beyond these walls, leaving me behind, abandoning the last fragile thread that still connected us—it sent a surge of something dangerous through me, something I couldn't quite contain.
"Stop them," I ordered, my voice cold, unwavering, leaving no room for argument.
The guard hesitated, his expression shifting, as though he had been expecting this but still dreaded the words all the same. "I can't, sir," he finally admitted, and for the first time, there was something almost hesitant in his tone. "Your father has personally ordered their departure. He made it clear that anyone who dares interfere will face the consequences." He swallowed hard, his voice dropping lower, as if speaking too loudly might seal his fate. "He will kill anyone who attempts to stop them from leaving the house."
A cold, suffocating silence stretched between us, the weight of his words settling heavily on my chest.
So this was his doing.
My father—controlling, calculating, merciless—had orchestrated everything. He had allowed them to leave, but not as an act of mercy. No, this was punishment. A lesson. A reminder of the power he held over me, of the strings he could pull to remind me that my choices were never truly my own.
I clenched my jaw, exhaling slowly, forcing my rage into something quieter, something more contained. I couldn’t afford to act recklessly, not now—not when the slightest misstep would cost me everything. But the thought of Mikhail walking away, believing I had truly let him go, believing there was nothing left between us—
That was something I could not accept.
With measured precision, I pushed my chair back, rising to my feet. My voice, though quiet, carried an unmistakable edge of finality as I spoke.
"Then tell me," I said, my eyes locking onto the guard with a piercing intensity, "who is going to stop me?"
"Me."
A smooth, honeyed voice cut through the thick tension in the room, drawing my attention toward the doorway. I barely had to look to recognize the presence, the sheer arrogance in his tone giving him away before my eyes could confirm it. Rai.
He stepped forward with an effortless grace, his movements slow, deliberate, like a predator toying with its prey. His lips curled into a smirk, one that was meant to be enticing, but all it did was ignite a deeper irritation within me.
His scent, disgustingly sweet, clung to the air like an unwanted fog, suffocating and overwhelming, trying to smother the last lingering traces of Mikhail’s presence in my room. It sickened me. Mikhail’s scent was intoxicating, warm, real— but now, it was being tainted by something artificial, something meaningless.
"Get out," I commanded, my voice sharp, devoid of patience or interest.
But Rai, predictably, didn’t move. Instead, his smirk deepened, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as he reached for the delicate fabric of his nightgown. With a slow, practiced motion, he let it slip from his shoulders, revealing smooth skin and the barest hint of temptation beneath.
The guard standing by the door cleared his throat uncomfortably, immediately averting his gaze, but Rai remained unfazed. If anything, he seemed pleased with himself, reveling in the attention—even if it wasn’t the kind he desired.
"Make me," he murmured, his voice dripping with challenge, with seduction, with the same shameless arrogance that had always made him insufferable.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t take a step forward, nor did I acknowledge his pathetic attempt to distract me from what truly mattered. Instead, I merely exhaled, slow and controlled, my expression unreadable as I regarded him with something closer to disgust than intrigue.
"You misunderstand something, Rai," I said, my voice dangerously calm, each syllable laced with a cold detachment that made his smirk falter just slightly. "You were never more than a fleeting amusement to me—a toy that could be discarded the moment it lost its charm."
His lips parted, as if to respond, but I didn’t give him the chance. I took a single step forward, my presence looming over him, and for the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
"And right now," I continued, my voice dipping into something darker, something sharp enough to cut, "you are in my way."
"Why?" Rai purred, his voice dripping with mockery as he tilted his head, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "Are you still clinging to hope? Hoping for another chance? A chance to gather all the shattered pieces of Mikhail and glue them back together?" He let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, his bare chest brushing against mine as he whispered, "You're delusional, Colton."
My jaw clenched, but I remained silent, my fingers twitching at my sides.
"He’ll never forgive you," Rai continued, his voice almost pitying now, though I knew better. "No one would. You killed your own child, and for what? Power? Ambition?" His smirk widened, his tone laced with venom. "How pathetic."
I felt it then—that suffocating rage crawling up my spine, wrapping around my throat like a vice. The air around us thickened, charged with something dangerous, something raw.
"Shut up." My voice was low, deadly. A warning.
But Rai, as always, pushed further.
"So cruel," he mused, circling me like a vulture savoring the scent of decay. "So heartless. You didn't just lose Mikhail, Colton. You destroyed him. You crushed him beneath your selfishness, stripped him of everything, and left him with nothing but grief." He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment. "And now, you think you can chase after him? That you still have the right?"
I exhaled sharply through my nose, fighting the storm brewing beneath my skin.
"You don’t deserve him," Rai whispered, his breath ghosting over my ear, his next words a dagger aimed straight at my chest. "And you damn well didn’t deserve that child."
The room seemed to blur for a split second, my vision clouded by red, by something primal, something violent. Before I could think, before I could stop myself, my hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his throat.
Rai barely had time to gasp before I slammed him against the wall.
"You talk too much!" I snarled, slamming Rai against the cold wall, my grip tightening around his throat. His breath hitched, but even now, even when I could feel his pulse quickening beneath my fingers, he had the audacity to smirk.
"You’re just a coward," he rasped, his voice strained but taunting. "A coward who can't face the truth." His fingers curled around my wrist, not to fight me off but to hold on, as if relishing the pain. "Don’t chase after someone who won’t even look you in the eye, Colton."
My grip tightened, the air between us thick with something suffocating, something dangerous.
Rai’s lips parted, a breathy chuckle escaping as he tilted his head ever so slightly, pressing closer instead of pulling away. "Love me instead," he whispered, his voice low, dripping with something wicked. "I can give you what he never will. I can be yours in ways he refuses to be."
My stomach churned at his words, at the sheer mockery of them. As if he could replace Mikhail. As if he could fill the gaping void inside me, the one I carved into myself with my own damn hands.
I leaned in, my breath hot against his skin, my voice barely more than a growl. "You?" I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You could never be him."
Something flickered in Rai’s eyes—something unreadable, something dark. But before he could say another word, I shoved him away, letting him stumble forward as he gasped for air.
"Get out." My voice was cold, final.
Rai wiped his lips, his smirk returning, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "One day, Colton," he murmured, adjusting his nightgown with practiced ease. "You’ll realize you’re chasing a ghost."
I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to.
Because I already knew—I had been haunting myself long before Mikhail ever did.
"Heya!" A sharp voice from outside broke through the heavy silence suffocating my room. My head snapped toward the window, and through the dim glow of the lanterns flickering in the courtyard, I saw it—a carriage, its wheels groaning against the gravel as it started to move away from the estate.
And then, through the haze of night and distance, I saw him.
Mikhail.
His delicate frame was pressed against the carriage seat, his face pale, his expression unreadable. But even from here, even with only fleeting glimpses through the window's glass, I could see the pain in his eyes, the exhaustion weighing down his body. He looked fragile, too fragile—like a candle on the verge of burning out.
Something inside me clenched, twisted, ached.
No.
I took a step back, my mind racing. This was wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to protect him, keep him. He was mine—my mate, my bond, my everything.
And yet, I had let him go. No—I had driven him away.
My breath came in ragged, uneven bursts as I turned to the guard standing by the door. "Stop that carriage," I ordered, my voice sharp, desperate.
The man hesitated, his gaze flickering with uncertainty. "Sir, your father—"
"I don't give a damn about what my father ordered!" I snarled, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him against the doorframe. "I said, stop that carriage!"
The guard swallowed hard, nodding quickly before rushing out of the room.
I turned back to the window, my fingers curling into fists. The carriage was already pulling further away, each second stretching the distance between us, threatening to sever what little remained of the bond we once had.
Mikhail was leaving.
And if I didn't act now, he might never return.
"Young master, your father wishes to speak with you," one of the butlers announced, his voice steady but cautious, as if he already sensed the storm brewing inside me.
I didn't turn away from the window, my eyes still locked on the carriage that was slipping further and further into the darkness. My chest tightened with every second that passed, with every inch of distance growing between us.
Not now.
Not when he was leaving. Not when I was already losing everything.
"I don’t have time for this," I muttered, my voice barely more than a growl. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms as I forced myself to breathe, to think.
The butler hesitated for a moment, shifting uncomfortably before lowering his gaze. "Sir," he continued carefully, "the master was very clear. He expects you in his study immediately."
Of course, he did.
Of course, my father would summon me now—when I was teetering on the edge, when I was already drowning in the consequences of my own actions. It was just like him.
My jaw tightened as I turned away from the window, the image of Mikhail’s fading silhouette burned into my mind.
I had two choices.
Disobey my father and chase after Mikhail, knowing full well the consequences that would follow.
Or face the man who had controlled my life from the moment I took my first breath and pretend I hadn’t just shattered the only thing that ever mattered to me.
With a heavy exhale, I stepped forward, straightening my shoulders.
"Fine," I said, my voice cold and controlled, masking the chaos raging inside me. "Lead the way."
The butler led the way, his footsteps silent against the polished marble floors. The air grew heavier the closer we got to my father’s study, as if the very walls carried the weight of his expectations, his authority, his control.
The towering double doors loomed before me, dark oak carved with intricate patterns that seemed to twist and writhe in the flickering candlelight. The butler hesitated only for a moment before raising his hand and knocking twice—sharp, deliberate raps that echoed in the quiet corridor.
“Enter,” came the cold, measured voice from within.
The butler pushed the door open, stepping aside as he gestured for me to go in. I took a slow breath, my jaw tight, and stepped over the threshold.
The study was exactly as I remembered—vast, yet suffocating. The air smelled of aged parchment, leather, and the faintest trace of my father’s ever-present cigar smoke. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes of knowledge and power, yet the room itself was void of warmth.
At the center, behind a massive mahogany desk, sat him.
My father.
He looked up from the documents in front of him, his piercing eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a chill down my spine. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his disappointment—his expectation—hung in the air like a blade against my throat.
"Colton," he said smoothly, setting his pen down with deliberate precision. "I assume you know why you're here."
"I don't know. You tell me." I bravely said.
Father sighed and rummage his drawer and a strong and unfamiliar magic. "Do you know what is this?" He asked.
A crown made out of a moontears and a blessed by a nature spirit. The crown is familiar. "Is that, The lost crown of the ancient Syndril Kingdom?" I asked.
Father smirked and nodded. "It's from the former queen, We got it when she dethrone herself in exchange of her own heir's life. She saved her own child in exchange of her own power and life—pathetic isn't it?"
"Why do you have it? And what do you know about the past queen?" I asked.
Father leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing over the delicate, otherworldly crown as if savoring the weight of history it carried. The moontears embedded in the silver gleamed under the dim candlelight, pulsing faintly as if still alive with the remnants of ancient magic.
"Why do I have it?" he repeated, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Because power belongs in the hands of those strong enough to wield it. And as for the former queen..." He trailed off, tilting his head slightly, studying me. "I know enough to understand that her sacrifice was both admirable and foolish."
I clenched my fists at my sides, suppressing the unease curling in my gut. "What do you mean?"
Father exhaled slowly, drumming his fingers against the desk. "She was powerful, Colton. Too powerful. The blood of the first rulers ran through her veins, and with it, the ability to command nature itself. But she threw it all away for sentiment." His lip curled in distaste. "For a child."
His words sent a chill down my spine. A queen—strong enough to rule an entire kingdom—willing to give up everything for her heir?
Something about it felt… familiar.
"And?" I pressed, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. "What happened to the child?"
Father smirked, lifting the crown slightly, letting the light bounce off its gleaming surface. "That, my son, is where the story gets interesting." He set the crown down carefully, his gaze darkening. "Because that child survived. And whether they know it or not… their fate is intertwined with yours."
"What do you want, exactly." I asked coldly.
"I want to rule the Syndril Kingdom. I want to have the same power like the former Queen." He said and wears the crown but the crown release a hot and strong power making father, winced in pain as he puts down the crown.
"The crown itself knows who's the owner." I said sternly. "Yet you have the guts to claims what's not yours."
Father’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists as he glared down at the cursed artifact before him. The crown lay on the desk, its ethereal glow pulsing as if rejecting him entirely, its very essence repelling his greed.
His lips pressed into a thin line before he let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted, flexing his fingers as if shaking off the lingering pain. “The crown knows its true master. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take what should be mine.”
I narrowed my eyes, a bitter taste rising in my throat. “You can’t force yourself into a throne that was never meant for you,” I said coldly. “Power like this isn’t something you steal—it’s something you earn.”
Father scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t be naive, Colton. Power is always taken. The strong dominate, and the weak submit. That is the natural order of this world.” His gaze hardened, sharp as a blade. “And I will not submit to anyone.”
I studied him for a long moment, my mind racing. If he was so desperate to claim this kingdom—if he was willing to grasp at ancient, forbidden relics—then what else was he planning? How far would he go?
Then, a darker thought crept in.
If the crown rejected him… then who would it accept?
My chest tightened.
"You don't even know who the heir is," I said, testing him. "Yet you act as if the kingdom is yours to rule."
Father smirked, the glint in his eyes unsettling. “Oh, but I do know,” he said, voice dripping with satisfaction. He leaned forward, his next words sending an icy shock through my veins.
“The heir is someone very close to you, Colton.”
"What? You know who is the heir is?" I asked.
Father chuckles and shake his head. "I do, I know since the day I lay my owns on him. The same energy, Like the queen presence itself. They have the same authority that makes me want to strangle them to d-ath. No one can dominate our clan, we do the other way around."
"That Kingdom is long gone, Father. And the curse. If you harm the Syndril bloodline, There's —
"—there’s a price to pay," I finished, my voice unwavering despite the storm of unease surging inside me.
Father merely smirked, leaning back into his chair, completely unfazed. "A curse?" he mused, rolling the word around his tongue like it amused him. "Do you really believe in such fairytales, my son?"
I clenched my fists. "You saw what happened when you touched the crown. You felt it." I nodded toward the artifact still pulsing faintly with its strange, otherworldly glow. "The power of the Syndril bloodline is real, whether you accept it or not. And if you lay a hand on the true heir—"
A dark chuckle escaped him as he waved a dismissive hand. "Save your threats, Colton. I am well aware of the legends. But let me make one thing very clear." His gaze sharpened, the air around him heavy with authority. "I don’t fear curses. I don’t fear ghosts of the past. And I certainly don’t fear the heir—because once I get what I want, there won’t be an heir left to challenge me."
My blood ran cold.
His words were a declaration. A promise of destruction.
I took a step forward, my voice like steel. "If you even think about touching them—"
"Then what?" Father smirked, daring me to challenge him. "Would you betray me, my son? Would you throw away everything I have given you for the sake of some long-forgotten bloodline?"
My jaw tightened.
A sharp, suffocating silence filled the room as Father’s words settled over me like a death sentence. My fingers twitched at my sides, my entire body rigid with barely restrained rage. He was toying with me, dangling the one thing he knew I couldn’t ignore—Mikhail.
I took a slow, deliberate step forward, my voice dangerously low. “You’re telling me that the heir—the one tied to the Syndril Kingdom, the one this cursed crown belongs to—has already been harmed? And you expect me to just follow your orders without question?” My eyes burned into his, searching for even the slightest hint of a lie, but all I saw was cruel amusement dancing in his gaze.
Father chuckled, leaning back against his chair as if this entire conversation was nothing more than a game. “Yes, Colton. That’s exactly what I expect. You will find the heir and bring him to me alive.” He emphasized the last word as if granting me some twisted mercy. “I don’t care what condition he’s in when he gets here, as long as he’s breathing.”
I gritted my teeth, my mind racing through the possibilities, through the implications of what he was saying. There was only one reason he wouldn’t tell me the heir’s identity—because it was someone I already knew. Someone close. Someone he wanted me to turn against.
I inhaled sharply. “And what if I refuse?” My voice was steel, unyielding.
Father’s expression darkened in an instant, all traces of amusement wiped clean. He rose from his chair with deliberate slowness, closing the space between us with a presence so heavy it nearly suffocated me. “Then Mikhail,” he murmured, voice thick with menace, “will be permanently gone. I assure you of that.”
A slow, burning rage coiled in my chest, my wolf stirring beneath my skin, desperate to break free, to tear through the very walls of this suffocating house. My breaths came heavy, my nails digging into my palms as I forced myself to remain still.
I had to be careful. I had to think.
Because if what he said was true… then Mikhail wasn’t just someone I loved.
He was someone far more important. Far more dangerous to my father’s plans.
And if I didn’t move fast enough, I would lose him forever.
Father let out a low, humorless chuckle, his fingers trailing along the cursed crown’s jagged edges as if testing its power, daring it to bend to his will. “You really think a mere object holds the key to my reign?” He scoffed, shaking his head before fixing his piercing gaze on me. “The crown itself is nothing without its rightful owner. It is a conduit, a symbol—yes—but its true power lies within the bloodline it was forged for.”
He took a step closer, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something unsettling creep into my chest. A sense of unease, of something far more dangerous lurking beneath his words.
“The heir,” he continued, his voice dipping lower, “is the key to unlocking everything. The lost throne, the kingdom’s ancient power, the magic that has been dormant for centuries.” He smirked, tilting his head. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
I clenched my jaw, my pulse quickening. He was leading me into a trap, feeding me just enough information to reel me in, to ensure I had no choice but to act on his behalf. But the question that lingered—the one I couldn’t shake—was why he was so confident.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I demanded, my voice sharp. “If the heir’s blood is needed to activate the crown, then what happens once you have him?”
Father’s smirk widened, his fingers curling around the crown with an eerie sort of reverence. “Then, my dear son…” He leaned in, his breath ghosting against my ear. “I will take what is mine, one way or another.”
A cold dread coiled in my stomach.
He didn’t just need the heir alive.
He needed the heir’s blood.
"You're sick." I said, disdain.
"Talk about yourself, Tried to k-ll your own son? Tsk tsk, Awful."
My fists clenched at his words, but I refused to let him see how deeply they cut. His smirk was taunting, filled with amusement at my turmoil.
"Don't compare me to you," I spat, my voice sharp with disgust. "I made a mistake—"
"A mistake?" Father let out a cruel laugh, shaking his head. "You shoved your mate down the stairs, knowing he carried your child. That wasn't a mistake, Colton. That was a choice."
His words echoed in my head like a haunting refrain. My chest tightened, rage and guilt warring within me. I had told myself that it was my father’s manipulation, my own moment of blind anger—but deep down, I knew the truth. I had let my pride, my ambition, my desperation to please him cloud my judgment.
And now, Mikhail was gone. My child was gone.
"Tell me," Father mused, tilting his head, "do you ever wonder what might have happened if you had chosen differently? If you had protected him instead of destroying everything that was ever yours?"
"Enough," I snarled, stepping forward, but he remained unfazed, amused even.
"Ah, there it is." He chuckled darkly. "That rage. That hatred. You let it consume you, and yet you still think you're different from me? Pathetic."
I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to breathe through the fury boiling in my veins. I wanted to rip that smirk off his face, to make him suffer the way I had suffered. But I knew his game. He wanted to break me further, to mold me into something irredeemable.
And I refused to give him that satisfaction.
"You said you wanted the heir," I said coldly, suppressing my emotions. "Then tell me—who is it?"
His smirk widened, his eyes gleaming with something dark, something victorious.
"Now that's the son I raised."
"Ask your Uncle Khalil, He will lead the way." He said and sighed.
I stiffened at his words, my jaw tightening. Uncle Khalil. That conniving bastard. If there was anyone I trusted less than my father, it was him.
"I don’t need a damn guide," I said flatly. "Just tell me where to go."
Father let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Still so impatient. But no, Colton. This is not something you can do alone. Khalil will ensure you don’t stray from the path. Whether you like it or not."
I exhaled slowly, my hands curling into fists. I hated this. Hated being under his control, hated the way he played with my life like I was nothing more than a pawn on his board. But Mikhail's life was at stake.
And I had already lost too much.
"Fine," I muttered, my voice strained. "But if Khalil steps out of line—"
"You’ll do nothing," Father interrupted, his tone turning razor-sharp. "You are not in control here, boy. You follow orders, or you lose everything. Do you understand?"
My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to nod.
"Good." He leaned back, satisfied. "Then go. And don’t return until you bring me what I want."
I turned sharply on my heel, rage simmering beneath my skin. But as I walked out of that room, one thought echoed louder than all the rest.
Who was the heir?
And why the hell did my father think I had already harmed him?