I lay paralyzed against the iron rack, my chest heaving against the cold metal clamps as muffled voices filtered through the heavy ringing in my ears.
A few yards away, my father stood rigidly beside the Alpha triplets.
They were huddled in a tight circle near the edge of the stone courtyard, speaking in hushed, dangerous tones.
I couldn’t make out the words, but every flicker of their eyes, every harsh shift in their posture, was centered entirely on me.
My fate was being weighed, bargained, and sealed in whispering shadows I could never reach.
My heart hammered frantically against my fractured ribs like a trapped bird.
What are they deciding?
Were they debating whether to throw me into the dungeons?
Were they ordering an immediate execution to scrub my existence from the pack?
Or…
were they actually going to put an end to this nightmare?
I prayed with every fractured piece of my soul just to be unchained.
The iron frame was digging into my broken back, every shuddering breath pulling like a blade through my lungs.
I wanted the agony to stop.
I wanted air.
I wanted a single soul in this cruel world to say that my blood had paid the debt for a crime I never committed.
But no one stepped toward the rack to release me.
No one spoke a word of mercy.
When the huddle broke, the three Alphas glided back across the courtyard, their expressions completely devoid of warmth, their steps slow and deliberate as predators closing in on wounded prey.
As they reached the foot of the iron rack, the ambient temperature seemed to plummet, turning the air suffocating and thick.
Then came the declaration.
“My brothers and I will administer the remaining punishment,” Ronan announced, his deep voice carrying across the courtyard like a death sentence.
The words didn’t just hurt—they stopped my pulse dead in its tracks.
Cold terror rushed through my veins, freezing the blood in my heart.
No.
No, no, Goddess, please…
no.
Not them.
I would have begged for Derick to take the whip back.
I would have gladly swallowed thirty more lashes from my brother’s hateful hand rather than endure a single stroke from the men fate had assigned as my soulmates—the men I had quietly pined for from the shadows, hoping against hope that they might one day look at me with something resembling tenderness.
Bitter tears flooded my eyes, scalding against my bruised cheeks in the biting wind.
Ronan looked down at my bound, bleeding form with pure, unadulterated disdain.
“You bring shame to this territory, Lyra,” Lucien added, his tone dripping with harsh contempt as he stepped forward, extending a gloved hand toward Derick.
“Stealing from our betrothed will not go unpunished.”
Derick paused for a fraction of a second, a dark, wicked glee flashing across his face before he eagerly handed over the leather scourge.
He was more than happy to pass the cruelty to higher hands.
Lucien ran his fingers slowly along the braided leather, straightening the heavy lash with terrifying precision.
The dark hide glinted under the cold sunlight, heavy and wet with my blood.
He raised his arm once, testing its weight with a sharp flick.
WHOOSH.
The air whistled.
A violent shudder ripped through my spine, my throat locking up so tight I began to choke on my own breath.
“How many strokes remain on the ledger?” Kael asked, stepping up to the edge of the iron frame.
His face was a mask of absolute detachment—no rage, no disgust, no pity.
Just cold, mechanical duty.
“Twenty-five, Alpha Kael,” Derick answered instantly, his voice brimming with twisted satisfaction.
He didn’t even bother hiding the sickening grin spreading across his lips.
He was thoroughly enjoying my destruction.
Ronan let out a low, slow breath, crossing his massive arms over his chest as he tilted his head with deliberate, theatrical thought.
“Twenty-five cannot be divided equally among three, Kael,” Ronan pointed out casually, as if he were balancing a ledger of grain rather than deciding how many times leather would tear through my flesh.
There was a dark, unspoken suggestion in his voice—a cruel desire to see how much more I could break.
Kael didn’t hesitate.
He gave a single, solemn nod.
“Two additional strokes will be added to balance the count.”
The absolute finality in his voice hit me harder than any iron whip could.
Twenty-seven strokes.
Delivered by the three men destined to be my mates.
My vision blurred into a smear of grey stone and cold sky—not from losing consciousness, but from a heartbreak so profound it hollowed out my chest until nothing remained inside.
There was no salvation coming.
Only endless fire.
Through the mist in my eyes, I caught a soft movement at the edge of the courtyard.
Selene glided forward, her silk dress rustling gently around her ankles.
Even in the middle of a brutal torture scene, she moved like a saint in a holy painting—untouched, pristine, and deadly.
She wore her beauty like a polished blade.
Without a second thought, she slipped her delicate arm through Kael’s, pressing her soft body into his side as if she had belonged there for an eternity.
She rested her golden head against his shoulder, smiling sweetly up at him as if watching my flesh torn apart was merely a pleasant afternoon theater.
“Thank you for defending my honor, Kael,” she purred softly, her voice coated in sweet, artificial concern.
“But…
isn’t twenty-seven a bit too harsh for poor Lyra?”
A heavy silence fell over the courtyard.
Kael’s body went still under her touch.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned toward her, as if drawn by an irresistible gravitational pull.
He raised his hand, his long fingers cupping her chin with breathtaking gentleness, lifting her face to meet his gaze.
Their eyes locked in a silent vow.
“She earned every lash, Selene,” Kael said softly, his voice low and unshakable.
“You are our queen.
Anyone who dares touch what is yours will be crushed.”
A small, triumphant smile bloomed across Selene’s lips—a flash of pure, possessive victory hidden beneath her gentle posture.
She leaned into his touch, drinking in his absolute devotion like sweet nectar.
I stared at them from my iron rack—broken, bleeding, and bound—watching the man fate had tied to my soul claim my sister as his queen, his treasure, his life.
My heart withered into ash inside my chest.
And then…
CRACK!
Agony exploded across my back before my brain could even register that Lucien had stepped into swinging distance.
The scourge tore open the fresh wounds, biting deep into raw tissue.
A guttural, agonizing scream scraped straight out of my throat.
He gave me no mercy.
No pause.
No time to draw air.
His arm rose and fell with methodical, brutal rhythm.
The sickening thud of leather against open flesh echoed off the high stone walls, each strike shattering another layer of my mind.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
My vision turned blood-red.
I clamped my teeth together until my jaw creaked, desperately trying to swallow my screams, but failed as the agony overwhelmed me.
Five.
Six.
Every blow sent electric shocks of agony shooting through my spine, spreading through my arms and legs like burning acid.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
My fingers curled claw-like against the cold iron of the rack, my nails scraping uselessly against the metal.
My head fell sideways, tears and blood pooling together on the grey slate below.
My lungs rattled, completely unable to pull in a full breath.
Finally, Lucien let out a satisfied exhale.
He tossed the bloody scourge to his left hand, turning casually toward his brother.
He passed the leather to Ronan without a word.
Ronan took the whip eagerly, a dark, predatory smile spreading across his face.
He leaned down over the rack, bringing his face inches from mine so I was forced to look directly into his cruel golden eyes.
“You should have stayed in the shadows, little stray,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear, dripping with venom.
He straightened up, drew his arm back, and brought the scourge down with terrifying force.
My body jerked violently against the iron clamps, the metal digging deep into my wrists.
With every stroke, the pain transcended flesh—it tore straight into my spirit.
The world spun out of control, the courtyard tilting on its side as my internal wolf whimpered softly, curled into a ball, completely defeated.
I bit down on my lip to muffle the screams until the warm taste of iron filled my mouth.
By the eighth strike, I prayed for the black void to swallow me whole, but my body stubbornly refused to faint.
Finally, Ronan lowered the scourge, breathing heavily, as if the act of tearing me apart had been exhausting work.
He tossed the whip onto the stone floor.
Then Kael stepped forward.
He gently disengaged from Selene, stepping up to the rack with cold, absolute authority.
No emotion flickered across his regal features—no anger, no malice, no regret.
Just a man completing a cold, necessary task.
He didn’t view me as a person.
I was a chore to be checked off a list.
He lifted the scourge, and with the exact same terrifying precision as his brothers, he brought it down upon my back.
Each lash was calculated, efficient, and ruthless.
My body completely shut down under his hands.
My hearing faded into a dull, echoing hum, darkness tugging aggressively at the corners of my eyes, begging me to surrender to the void.
When the twenty-seventh stroke finally landed, Kael paused, his chest rising slightly with the effort.
He wiped a stray drop of blood off his forearm, his cold voice slicing through the ringing in my ears.
“Effective immediately, Lyra is assigned as the personal house servant to the Alpha quarters.”
He didn’t look down at my face again.
He turned, wrapped his arm possessively around Selene’s waist, and pulled her close to his side.
He walked away without a single backward glance, his brothers falling into step beside them—a golden, untouchable family leaving behind the mess they had created.
They left me pinned to the iron rack in the fading twilight—bleeding, breathless, utterly broken, and bound to the cold metal.
Dumbfounded.
Heart shattered into dust.
Drowning in a sea of physical pain and an agony far too deep for words.