Chapter 100
Chapter 100
Hours later, we’re standing aboveground again, and the world feels too bright after the darkness of the caves.
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The pack grounds are chaos incarnate–wolves shifting, supplies being loaded onto carts, warriors performing last–minute weapons checks. The air vibrates with anticipation and barely restrained violence, the kind of energy that precedes war.
Alaric’s entire primitive army is assembled, along with what looks like half the Imperial Pack’s regular forces. Cassian is barking orders, coordinating the departure with military precision.
I stand to the side, wrapped in that robe again because apparently walking around in a dress that’s basically strategic nudity isn’t appropriate for public sendoffs.
Who knew.
The primitives are shifting one by one, their bodies rippling and reforming into massive wolves that make regular pack wolves look like fucking house pets. They’re beautiful in the way that natural disasters are beautiful–powerful, unstoppable, fundamentally dangerous.
Alaric is beside me, still in human form, and I can feel him watching me with that intense focus that makes me want to simultaneously kiss him and run away screaming.
Actually, I’m doing the second one. Just… later.
“You should shift,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice steady. “Everyone’s waiting.”
“Let them wait.”
“Alaric-”
“Come here.”
It’s not a request.
Before I can process what’s happening, his arm snakes around my waist and he pulls me against him with enough force that
I actually gasp. His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back, and then his mouth is on mine.
Right there.
In front of the maids.
The Omegas.
The warriors.
The entire fucking pack.
The kiss is deep and possessive and absolutely filthy, his tongue claiming my mouth like he’s staking ownership in front of witnesses. His hand tightens in my hair almost painfully, and I can feel every hard line of his body pressed against mine.
When he finally pulls back–after what feels like both an eternity and not nearly long enough–his eyes are dark and dangerous.
“When I come back,” he murmurs against my lips, low enough that only I can hear, “you better be here. In our bed. Wearing absolutely nothing. Understand?”
My heart cracks a little more.
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“Alaric-”
“Promise me.” His grip tightens. “Promise me you’ll be here when I get back. That you’ll wait for me.”
I can’t. I can’t promise that. I won’t be here. I’ll be gone. I’ll be dead as far as you know. I’ll be-
“I promise,” I lie, and the words taste like ash.
His expression shifts into something that looks almost vulnerable, almost afraid, before the mask of the Alpha King slides back into place.
“Good.” He kisses me again, quick and hard. “Because if you’re not, I will burn down this entire territory looking for you. I will raze every pack, every city, every fucking country until I find you again. You’re mine, Sorin. Mine. And I don’t share.”
It’s supposed to be romantic, probably.
It just makes me want to cry.
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“I know,” I whisper, and I let myself touch his face one last time. Memorize the feel of his skin, the sharp angle of his jaw, the way he leans into my palm like he’s starving for contact.
This is the last time.
The last time I’ll see him like this–powerful and mine and completely unaware that I’m about to shatter everything.
“I love you,” he says, and it sounds like a threat and a prayer all at once.
“I know,” I say again, because I can’t say it back. Can’t give him those words when I’m about to take everything else away.
He studies my face for a long moment, and I wonder if he can see it–the goodbye hiding behind my smile, the grief lurking in my eyes.
But then he steps back, and his body begins to shift.
Bones cracking, reforming. Fur erupting across skin. Within seconds, the man I love is gone, replaced by a massive black wolf with eyes like molten gold.
He’s magnificent.
He’s terrifying.
He’s leaving.
The entire war party shifts into formation, and with one final look back at me–one final moment where those golden eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath–they run
The ground shakes as hundreds of wolves surge forward as one, disappearing into the forest in a wave of fur and fangs and raw power.
And then they’re gone.
Silence crashes down like a physical weight.
I stand there, hand still raised in a wave that nobody’s around to see anymore, and I feel the carefully constructed mask begin to crack.
That’s when I see her.
Camilla.
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Standing in the crowd of maids and Omegas, staring directly at the with eyes that cut straight through every lie I’ve told myself.
She knows.
Maybe not the specifics of my plan, but she knows I’m not the loyal, loving mate everyone thinks I am. She knows I’m poison wearing a crown. She knows that Alaric killed my father, and that no amount of mating bonds or passionate declarations can erase that truth.
Her gaze is a reminder of everything I’m trying to honor by leaving.
Justice. Truth. My father’s memory.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I don’t bother wiping it away.
I turn to one of the nearby maids–a girl whose name I don’t even know–and force my voice to work.
“No one comes to my quarters today,” I say quietly. “Except Marg and Tully. Understood?”
She nods quickly, curtsying. “Yes, Luna.”
Luna.
Queen.
Titles I’ll never actually earn.
I walk back toward the estate, my steps steady despite the way my entire world is crumbling inside my chest.
The art studio welcomes me back like an old friend.
Sunlight still pours through those massive windows, warm and golden, turning everything it touches into something precious. The paint–stained couch sits exactly where we left it. The overturned desk is still overturned, evidence of our final night together scattered across the floor like ruins.
I run my fingers along the canvases lined against the wall–the paintings I made back in Woodridge, when life was simpler and the worst thing I had to deal with was Wade’s emotional manipulation.
God, I thought leaving Wade was hard.
I’d cried for weeks. Had mourned that relationship like it was something worth saving. Had convinced myself that walking away from him was the bravest thing I’d ever done.
What a fucking joke.
Leaving Wade was nothing compared to this.
Leaving Alaric–my mate, my King, the man who built me an entire art studio and looked at me like I hung the moon- while knowing that he killed my father?
That’s not bravery.
That’s survival wrapped in grief and tied together with a suicide note.
I sink down onto the floor in front of the window, staring out at the late afternoon sun, and something clicks into place.
Alaric is like the sun.
Powerful, impossible to ignore, burning so brightly that everything else fades in comparison. Warm and life–giving when he
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loves you. Capable of destroying everything when he doesn’t.
Beautiful. Dangerous. Absolutely essential.
I reach for a fresh canvas, the largest one in the room, and pull it toward me with shaking hands.
One last painting.
One last piece of me left behind.
I grab my brushes and begin to work.
Three days later, I finish.
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I haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten much. Have barely moved except to mix colors and layer paint and pour every complicated feeling I can’t voice into the canvas in front of me.
My phone–the burner Tessa gave me–buzzes with a message.
Everything’s set. Waiting for your signal.
I stare at the text for a long moment, then set the phone down and look at what I’ve created.
It’s Alaric.
Or at least, it’s how I see him.
I’ve painted him standing by the very window I’m sitting under now, sunlight streaming through and setting him ablaze with color. His profile is sharp and regal, head tilted slightly as if he’s looking toward something in the distance. There’s power in every line of him–in the set of his shoulders, the commanding angle of his jaw, the way the light catches in his dark hair.
But there’s something else too.
Loneliness.
Like even surrounded by all that power and light, he’s standing alone.
Because he will be alone. After this. When he finds my body–or what he thinks is my body–and realizes I chose death over
him.
“Sorin?”
I turn to find Marg standing in the doorway, and the expression on her face when she sees the painting is gutting.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“It’s a goodbye.”
She crosses the room and kneels beside me, her eyes still fixed on the portrait. “He’s going to destroy himself when he finds
this.”
“I know.”
“You could still change your mind. Stay. Talk to him. Maybe”
“He killed my father, Marg.” My voice cracks. “He sent him to w knowing he’d die. And I… I love him anyway. I love him so fucking much it’s killing me. But I can’t-” I press my hands to my face, trying to hold back the tears. “I can’t live with him. I can’t look at his face every day and not see my father’s blood on his hands. I just can’t.”
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Marg pulls me into a hug, and I let myself break down properly for the first time since learning the truth.
When I finally pull away, eyes swollen and throat raw, she’s holding a bag.
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“Everything you asked for,” she says quietly. “New clothes, cash, fake ID. The corpse is already in place at the cliff. Tessa said she… made sure it would be unrecognizable. Face destroyed in the fall.”
The clinical efficiency of it all makes me want to vomit.
“There’s one more thing I need to do.”
I turn back to the painting and carefully pull it down from the casel. Behind the canvas, I’ve taped an envelope.
My hands shake as I pull out the letter inside–words I’ve written and rewritten a hundred times over the past three days.
Alaric.
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.