The sting still lingered on her cheek, but Elira didn't flinch.
Her cheek burned—but beneath the skin, warmth gathered. Heal, urged the wolf. No, she thought. Let him see what he did. She held the mark like a weapon.
She met his gaze—steadily, defiantly.
Duke Malven stepped closer, the weight of his authority pressing down like a guillotine.
"Did you let it awaken?" he asked, voice low and sharp. "Did you stop taking the tonic?"
Elira didn't answer immediately. Her silence was enough.
His jaw tensed. "Foolish girl. You have no idea what you are tampering with."
"I am the one being tampered with," she muttered. "My entire life. Her voice trembled. "You knew about it all along but never said a single thing to me."
"You are Malven!" He roared, "Not some wild animal that screams at the moon," and slammed his palm down on the desk, making the inkpot rattle.
Her lips parted, breath catching. "Why? Because it doesn't fit your plans?"
"Because it is filth," he spat. "Because it stains our name. Your mother's mistake should have been buried with her—and you were supposed to be the correction. The perfect daughter. The controlled one."
His eyes narrowed, vicious.
"Whatever happened to my mother? Is she actually dead?" She wonders.
"She is dead!" Duke Malven's voice is laced with finality, and he does not want to leave any place for discussion concerning her mother. However, it makes Elira believe that her werewolf mother is still alive. Somewhere.
"You will not dishonor this family. You won't humiliate me by becoming one of them. You are to play your role as Lady Rennar, to serve where I have placed you, and to keep your cursed blood hidden under your ribs."
He threw the inkpot across her cheek and nearly hit her. But it just passed her and smacked the glass board behind her, shattering both.
Elira stood there, rigid, hands trembling at her sides. Her cheek still burned, but what stung more was the hollow place in her chest—where she had once held a sliver of hope that he might tell her something real.
Instead, she only heard what she had always known.
She was a pawn. A weapon. A shame made useful.
Duke Malven didn't say another word. Just a wave of his hand—sharp, dismissive, final.
Elira bowed her head slightly, the sting on her cheek still burning like a brand. She walked dignifiedly and quietly, but on the inside she was crumbling. The door closed behind her with a gentle click, ending the fury that had just torn through the room.
She believed she was at last able to breathe.
But just outside the study, a shadow waited. Leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with venomous delight—Alvero.
He straightened when he saw her. First, surprise flickered across his face. Then came the smirk. That hateful, condescending twist of his lips she had known all her life.
"Well, well... what a rare treat," he drawled, stepping into her path. "Our perfect little Lady Rennar—flushed, slapped, and sent out like a servant. I didn't catch much, sadly. Just some yelling and the sound of glass shattering. But that red mark on your cheek?" He let out a low chuckle. 
He laughed softly. "The highlight of my day, without a doubt."
Elira's hands clenched into fists and her nails carved crescent moons into her skin. Her ears throbbed with her pulse.
She didn't even give him a word of satisfaction.
Instead, she stepped past him—shoulder brushing his—and walked away.
But the pressure in her chest kept growing, thudding, threatening to burst. Rage. Grief. The hollow ache of betrayal. All tangled so tightly she could barely tell one from the other.
She needed to leave. Now.
Before she became something even she couldn't control.
"Run along, sister. Daddy’s waiting to chain his bitch again." Alvero's voice echoes from the distance.
Elira stormed out of the Malven estate, her carriage ride back to Rennar's territory consumed in silence. Not a single word passed her lips. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap, hidden beneath folds of her gown.
She was thankful—strangely thankful—that she'd thought to bring her veil. It hid the raw, red imprint of her father's palm. It saved her the final indignity of being seen broken.
She wore it proudly, even when she returned to Rennar estate. Walked through the halls veiled like a ghost. And once inside her chambers, she finally shut the door—locked it—longing for nothing but isolation.
But she wasn't alone.
Kael stood by the window, his arms crossed, eyes unreadable as he watched the rain paint lines down the glass. Kael watched rain slide down the glass like tears. He’d told himself he came to check her health—but truth was, he needed to see her alive. After last night’s howls...
When he heard her enter, he turned—and Elira, not expecting it, pulled off her veil at that exact moment.
His eyes widened the instant he saw the mark on her cheek. In a breath, he crossed the room, reaching out as though to touch her.
His hand stopped midair. Inches from her skin. The warmth of his palm lingered, and she flinched, instinctively pulling back.
Kael saw it—every inch of it. That recoil. That rejection.
And it hit harder than any words ever could.
Silently, He pulled his hand back, clenched it into a fist, and lowered it without a word. But his eyes stayed on her face. There was something in it. Not pity. Not anger.
Worry.
Elira couldn't stand it.
So she walked right past him.
With quiet, deliberate motion, Elira placed her veil on the edge of the bed—as if peeling off the last layer of composure she had left.
"I came to check on your condition," he said carefully. "The servants told me you didn't eat before you left" his eyes following her movement.
"I don't need your concern," she said, voice cold and clipped. "Just leave me alone."
Kael froze.
His jaw was clenched as he watched her, his shoulders tense enough to sever. But he remained silent. Then, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
The tiny bottle on her bedside table caught her attention.
The tonic.
The lie.
She was sure she made it clear she doesn't want to drink it. But Kael insist for her to take it__ just like her father.
With a sharp breath, she seized the bottle and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the mirror, glass shattering with a piercing crash. Shards rained down. Her reflection fractured.
She stared into it. The fury still boiling in her chest. Her breath came fast, uneven. Then—just for a moment—a flicker of gold passed through her eyes. Feral. Primal.
A part of her she had been forced to suppress her whole life.
The wolf inside.
And now?
She wasn't sure she wanted it buried anymore.
Glass exploded. Miles away, Thane’s head snapped up—her fury scorching his veins like acid
Outside, Kael still stood near the door, frozen.
He had heard it all—the crash, the rage.
A servant came running, eyes wide in alarm. But Kael held up a hand, his voice low and cold.
"Leave her alone. Don't let anyone enter. And don't prepare any meals."
The servant hesitated, then bowed quickly and backed away.
Kael remained still a moment longer, the echo of shattered glass hanging in the air between them.
Then he walked away, chest heavy with emotion he had no name for.