After My Mate Tortured Me, the Lycan Claimed Me

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days of staring at damp stone walls, breathing in the metallic tang of silver and the rot of my own despair. I had counted every second in the dark, but when the heavy iron door of the asylum cell finally groaned open, the sound was deafening.

Two pack warriors stood there. Their faces were impassive, their noses wrinkled against the stench of the cell—the stench of me. I didn't recognize them. New recruits, probably. They didn't see Naomi Bishop, the Luna who had once led them. They only saw a feral, broken thing.

"Get up," one barked. "Alpha’s orders."

My legs trembled as I forced myself to stand. My muscles had atrophied from confinement, and my asylum rags hung off my skeletal frame like a shroud. I shuffled forward, wincing as the daylight from the hallway pierced my eyes.

Dr. Helena Cross was waiting just outside the threshold. She held a syringe, the liquid inside shimmering with a faint blue hue. I flinched. I knew that color. Wolfsbane suppressants.

"Please," I rasped, my voice sounding like grinding gravel. "No more."

Helena wouldn't meet my eyes. She stepped forward, her movements quick and clinical, jabbing the needle into my arm. But as she depressed the plunger, I heard her whisper, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation, "I'm so sorry, Naomi. Just survive."

The chemical burn spread through my veins, dulling the already silent void where my wolf, Luna, used to be. She had gone dormant a year ago, unable to withstand the torture. I was truly alone inside my own head.

The guards didn't drag me; they herded me, shoving my shoulders whenever I stumbled. We emerged from the underground facility into the blinding afternoon sun. I gasped, the fresh air overwhelming my senses.

There it was. The Pack House. The Obsidian Shadow estate.

It stood grand and imposing against the tree line, a mansion of dark stone and glass. Once, this place had been my sanctuary. Now, it looked like the mouth of a beast waiting to swallow me whole again.

The guards stopped at the edge of the lawn. "You're released to the grounds," one muttered. "Don't make us regret unchaining you."

They left me there. I stood shivering in the warm sun, clutching my rags. Instinct took over. My feet, bloody and bare, carried me up the familiar stone path toward the main entrance. I just wanted to wash the asylum off my skin. I wanted my room. I wanted to sleep in a bed that didn't smell of urine and rust.

I reached the heavy oak front doors and pushed them open. The foyer was exactly as I remembered—the grand staircase, the chandelier—but the smell hit me like a physical blow.

The scent of cedar and rain—Cole’s scent—was there, but it was buried under a thick, cloying layer of synthetic roses. It was suffocating. It was *her*.

I kept my head down, trying to make myself invisible as I