Chapter 2

The pain struck hard, sharper than any blade. My chest felt like it was being peeled open, the searing ache cutting deep. Tears blurred my vision, slipping down my cheeks no matter how hard I tried to hold them back. Lisa noticed my distress and laughed, her amusement like salt in a wound. I tried to wipe the tears away, but they kept spilling over, relentlessly.

“I-,” I managed to rasp, voice cracking with the weight of the moment. “I accept your rejection.”

The bond snapped almost instantly. I saw Tyson’s face twist in pain—just for a second. He hid it quickly, but that flash was enough. Knowing I wasn’t the only one feeling the effects gave me a grim sense of satisfaction.

Without another glance, I turned on my heels and ran out of the room, the need to escape overpowering. I didn’t stop until I reached the pack house and slipped into the narrow confines of my small, hidden room—a forgotten storage closet that I had quietly claimed for myself.

It was a cramped space, so small that three people couldn’t stand comfortably side by side, but it was a place to hide, to be alone. The old bed had once been thrown away by a pack member. I’d pulled it from the trash, cleaned it up, and made it mine. I lay down on the bed, curling in on myself as tears I’d tried so hard to keep in check finally broke free. Emotions I couldn’t control crashed over me, wave after wave, and I felt myself unraveling.

For so long, I’d held on to the hope that finding my mate would offer a way out, an escape from the cruelty and hardship I faced being an omega. But I’d been wrong, so wrong. Finding my mate had only brought on a new kind of torment, one that made me wish for death.

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I stayed locked in my room, curled up and fighting against the emptiness I felt in my chest, only leaving to grab something to eat later in the afternoon. Since I wasn’t allowed to use the kitchen, I had to buy my food or hope for leftovers, whatever scraps might be available.

On my way back, I spotted Chris. He winked at me as if we shared some private, twisted joke. I ducked my head and rushed back to my room. Chris’s idea of “fun” usually meant trouble, his pranks bringing only humiliation and hurt. Back in my room, dread settled in. Tyson had rejected me—his mate. Word would get around fast, I knew, and it would give people even more reason to look down on me. As the reality of my situation sank in, so did the hopelessness.

While I sat there, numb and exhausted, I heard the doorknob jiggle. I froze. No one usually came down here, not this late, and no one ever visited me. Heart pounding, I backed up against the wall as the door swung open.

Tyson stepped inside, filling the room with his presence. His scent hit me, a bitter reminder of what we had shared. Even though the bond had broken, the lingering feelings still clung, refusing to fade away. He examined the small room with a look of disdain before his gaze settled on me. Beneath the familiar hatred in his eyes was something different, something I couldn’t quite wrap my mind around.

“All day,” he sneered, “my friends have been mocking me because of you. Because 'you' were my mate.” He spat out the word “you” as if it was something detestable.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. His laughter was cold and humorless, and it sent a chill down my spine.

“All day,” he continued, “I kept thinking about how I could have been cursed with a 'slut' for a mate.” His words struck me like a slap, and I stumbled back, unable to keep the pain from showing on my face. “But then I remembered last night at the club and realized… sluts are good for one thing.”

Horror washed over me as I realized his intent. I tried to turn, to run, but his hand clamped down on the back of my shirt, yanking me back. I hit the wall, his grip firm.

“Please, don’t do this,” I begged, voice trembling as I caught the irritating scent of alcohol and wolfsbane on his breath. I knew what that meant. He must have drunk so much and mixed it with wolfsbane to reach this state—something it takes a lot to affect a werewolf like him.

I fought with everything I had, but he was too strong, even in his intoxicated state. I screamed and yelled until my throat was raw, but it was no use. The walls seemed to swallow my voice, my pleas going unanswered. If anyone heard, they didn’t care.

My heart broke as he forced himself on me, against the cold, unyielding wall. Pain tore through me, shattering what was left of my spirit. I had always pictured losing my innocence with a mate who cared for me, someone who would cherish me. But reality twisted that hope into something dark, something that hurt more deeply than I could have imagined.

When he finished, he pulled away, looking down at me with a sneer before shoving me aside. I collapsed to the floor, too broken to move, tears streaming freely down my face. Pain radiated through me, raw and all-consuming, and I didn’t know which hurt more—the physical ache or the betrayal that felt like it had pierced right through my heart.

“How could you?” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “You rejected me. Wasn’t that enough? Why did you have to do this too?”

He stopped at the doorway, pausing to look back at me. The hatred in his eyes was like a blow, his expression twisted with disgust. It was clear he felt nothing for me, not even the smallest shred of regret.

“You’re still my mate, and you’re a whore,” he replied, his tone cruel and cutting. “Your body is mine whether you like it or not.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving me alone in the small, dark room, my broken heart and shattered soul laid bare on the cold, unforgiving floor.