Chapter 3
The female changing rooms were thick with the scent of excitement and synthetic spandex. The pack was preparing for the ceremonial full moon run, a tradition that used to be the highlight of my month. Now, it felt like a funeral procession. I moved mechanically, opening my locker to retrieve my running gear, trying to make myself as small as possible.
"You're not actually running, are you?"
The voice was like syrup laced with arsenic. I didn't need to turn around to know it was Giana. The chatter in the room didn't die down—no one paid attention to the barren Luna anymore—but the air around us grew heavy.
I turned slowly. Giana stood just inches from me. She wasn't wearing her running gear yet. She wore a loose oversized shirt, and her eyes danced with a malicious secret.
"I am the Luna," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "I run with my pack."
Giana let out a soft, pitying laugh. She stepped closer, invading my personal space, forcing me to smell the cloying mixture of vanilla and... Jameson. His scent was all over her. It was stronger than it had ever been on me.
"You really don't get it, do you?" she whispered. With a slow, deliberate movement, she gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it down over one shoulder.
I gasped, the sound sucked out of the room by the sheer horror of what I saw. There, marring the smooth skin of her neck, was a bite mark. It was angry, red, and swollen. It wasn't just a love bite; it was a Claiming Mark.
Jameson’s mark.
My knees buckled, and I grabbed the locker door to stay upright. He hadn't just bred with her. He had claimed her. He had bonded with her while I slept in the guest room, shaking from his poison.
"He says you're too fragile to break," Giana hissed, leaning in until her lips brushed my ear. "But I'm strong enough to breed. You're just a pretty doll he keeps on a shelf, Juliet. A decoration. I am the reality."
She pulled her shirt back up, patting her slight baby bump with a smirk, and sauntered away. I stood frozen, the metal of the locker biting into my palms. I wasn't a wife. I wasn't a mate. I was a pet he was slowly euthanizing.
If I stayed, I would die. It was that simple. Once her pup was born, Jameson would have no use for his 'pretty doll.'
I didn't run that night. I feigned a migraine—a lie Jameson accepted with a dismissive wave of his hand—and retreated to the Pack House.
The weather forecast promised a torrential downpour by midnight. It was my only chance. The rain would wash away my scent, and the thunder would hide the sound of my escape. I moved with a frantic energy, ignoring the lingering aches in my joints.
I grabbed a nondescript backpack, stuffing it with cash I had squirreled away from the household budget, a first aid kit, and every pouch of scent-masking herbs I could find in the pantry. I didn't pack clothes. I didn't pack photos. I took nothing that belonged to the life of Luna Juliet.
My gaze fell on the ceremonial Luna robes hanging in the closet—heavy velvet embroidered with the Dark River crest. I had worn them on my mating day. I had worn them to every ceremony, standing proudly beside the man who was killing me.
I ripped them off the hanger. They felt heavy, like chains.
The fire in the hearth was dying, but I stoked it until the flames roared. With a sob that tore through my chest, I threw the robes into the fire. The velvet caught instantly. I watched the silver thread of the crest turn black and crumble into ash. The symbol of my enslavement, burning away. I wasn't Luna anymore. I was just Juliet.
Midnight came with a crack of thunder that shook the house. The rain hammered against the roof, a deafening drumbeat of freedom.
I walked into Jameson’s bedroom one last time. He was still out on the run, hunting with his mistress. The room smelled of him—cedar and rain—a scent I used to crave.
On his nightstand sat a vintage wooden box. It was where he used to keep the love letters I wrote him during our courtship. I opened it. The letters were gone, replaced by pack reports and receipts.
I pulled the folded document from my pocket. It wasn't a letter. It was a formal rejection paper, signed in my own blood, a ritualistic severance of ties. I placed it inside the box and snapped the lid shut.
*Goodbye, Jameson.*
I slipped out through the servant’s entrance at the back of the kitchen. The storm hit me like a physical blow. The wind howled, and the rain was freezing, soaking me to the bone in seconds. The mud in the garden was ankle-deep, sucking at my boots with every step.
I dropped to my knees near the garden’s edge, scooping up handfuls of the wet, dark earth. I smeared it over my arms, my neck, and my face, mixing it with the scent-masking herbs. It was cold and gritty, but it was necessary. I had to become part of the earth. I had to disappear.
My body screamed in protest. The withdrawal from the wolfsbane had left me weak, and my legs burned with exertion. But the image of Giana’s marked neck flashed in my mind, fueling a fire in my belly that the rain couldn't extinguish.
I forced myself up and ran. I ran into the dark, churning mouth of the storm, leaving the ashes of my past behind me.
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