To spare his omega mistress the agony of delivering pups, my alpha father had bound a witch's curse to my mother — a pain-transfer spell. The ninety-seventh transfer had just completed, and all of it had been dumped onto Mom. Inside the hospital room, she lay barely conscious, crumpled like a rag doll someone had wrung out and tossed aside. Out in the hallway, my father and his mistress were laughing — full-throated, shameless laughter — celebrating the birth of their child. My eyes burned red. Despair settled over me like a second skin. His mistress, Serena, looked down at me with pure contempt. "Save the pitiful act. Your mother owes me this." "She's just taking on a little pain. It's not going to kill her." My father's voice was ice-cold, each word landing like a blade. "Your mother brought this on herself. She's the one who pushed Serena down the stairs and nearly caused a stillbirth. A little pain is getting off easy." I thought of every time Mom had screamed and writhed alone in a room while they celebrated outside. I curled my fists until my knuckles went white. I wanted to burn everything down with them still inside. And then — I heard it. A voice, crystalline and otherworldly, rising inside my mother's mind. "My child. I offer you the gift of rebirth, and the power to return every wound to those who gave it." "From this moment forward, when the one hundredth pain transfer is complete —" "All harm will be returned to its source, doubled." "The witch's curse will shatter. Every fortune, every title, every glory belonging to those who hurt you — all of it will be surrendered to you." Silence. Then, slowly, color crept back into Mom's pale cheeks. The despair that had clouded her eyes dissolved. Serena noticed. She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Damien, what did I tell you? She's faking. Look at her — color in her face already. She's been performing this whole time." My father stared at the woman in the bed. Whatever flicker of guilt had been in his eyes went out entirely. "Elara Voss, you disgust me. Pulling a stunt like this just to make me feel sorry for you?" "Since your body's so fine, drag yourself out there and kneel in front of Serena. You stay on your knees until she forgives you." My face went cold. A year ago, Serena had heard that winter swimming could help with weight loss. She had waded into a frozen lake, pushed herself too hard, and spiked a fever of a hundred and four. She could barely stand. My father had coaxed my mother with honeyed words, transferred Serena's fever and pain directly into her. Mom had spent three days and three nights unable to sleep, rolling across the bed in agony. She never fully recovered. Her joints ached every time the temperature dropped. And now he wanted her to kneel on cold stone floors with those ruined knees. He knew. He knew exactly what that would do to her — and he was asking for it anyway. There had been a time he was gentle with her. All of that gentleness now belonged to Serena. Over the years, he had transferred pain into Mom for everything — Serena's surgery recoveries, Serena's gym injuries, even once when Serena clipped her fingernail too short and nicked the skin. Every ache, every inconvenience, tunneled straight into my mother. Mom, who had once had bright, clear eyes — she had grown dim under the weight of it all. I was about to step forward and say something. Mom caught my arm and shook her head, once, quiet and firm. She looked directly at my father, her voice low and hoarse. "Damien Ashford. Sever the bond." He blinked, startled. Then his hand shot out and he yanked her upright from the bed, his grip vicious. "Is that a threat, Elara?" Her face went paler. He saw it. His grip loosened just slightly, his voice dropping half a degree. "You are and will always be my luna. But the fact remains — you put Serena in danger. You nearly cost her and the baby their lives." "Kneel before her and mean it, and I'll have ginger broth and a heating salve sent up. I'll protect your legs." When she heard that, Mom let out a smile — hollow, heartbroken — as though she had just remembered the punchline to a very old joke. The rage I'd barely tamped down flared back to life. Even now, after everything, he was still dangling the title of luna over her head like bait on a hook. Hadn't that title already taken enough? Because of it, she had run every ceremony in Ashford Pack — every coming-of-age ritual, every pack feast, every full moon gathering — organized by her hands alone, while he stood at the front and took the credit. Because of it, she had taught herself to cook from scratch, never having set foot in a kitchen before the bond. Her hands were maps of old scars from burns and cuts. And Serena — Serena had everything except the title. Money. Devotion. His time. His protection. And when it came to bearing his children, he wouldn't even let her feel the pain of it. I had begged him. On my knees, I had begged him not to put Mom through it again. She was a werewolf — she could heal — but there were limits. Do it enough times and it would kill her. He had told me Mom had already been through childbirth. She could handle it. Serena, he said, was too delicate. Too delicate. Serena was a full year older than my mother. She only looked younger because she had spent years wrapped in his affection like a hothouse flower, while Mom had aged in his shadow. I tightened my fists. Every nerve in me screamed to go at him. Mom held me back again. Then she reached for the fruit knife on the bedside table and pressed it to her own throat.
"Kneeling isn't enough. Take my life instead. Will that satisfy you?" The blade was thin but sharp. A line of red opened across Mom's neck, and blood slid down the pale column of her throat. My father's pupils blew wide. For the first time tonight, he looked genuinely afraid. "Elara, have you lost your mind? Lyra — don't just stand there! Do you want to watch your mother bleed out?" Mom looked at him, and the bigger his panic grew, the calmer her smile became. "Damien, wouldn't it be easier if I were gone? Then there's nothing standing between you and Serena." His face tightened, words stumbling over each other. "That — you're being ridiculous. I have never thought of Serena as anything but a sister—" A sister. Right. A sister he had shared a bed with for three years and fathered a child with. "Elara, stop making a scene. If someone reports this to the Lycan King, we'll lose our honored pack status before the year is out." And there it was. Three years he had been with Serena. Three years, and now he wanted to play devoted mate? No — he was afraid of the scandal. Afraid the rumors would reach the throne and undo everything he'd spent years building. His reputation. His pack's standing. His perfect image as a faithful, noble alpha. He wanted Mom to stay because she kept everything running and made him look good. He wanted Serena because she made him feel good. He didn't want to lose either one. I looked at the blood on Mom's neck, my eyes burning, and pressed a fold of gauze against the cut to slow the bleeding. "Mom. Don't do this to yourself. He isn't worth it." She lifted her hand — slow, effortful — and brushed the hair from my forehead. She looked at my red eyes, and gently wiped the corner of one with her thumb. "Don't cry. It will all be over soon. And then… we'll be free." She swayed. I caught her before she could fall. But Serena wasn't finished. "Damien—" Her voice went honeyed and pitiful. "It hurts. I think my incision tore open." Damien crossed the room in three steps. He lifted the hem of Serena's hospital gown, and there it was — the surgical wound, split open in a way that did not look accidental. His jaw hardened. He spun toward the nurses. "Transfer Serena's pain to Elara Voss. Now." And in the same instant, the voice returned — crystalline and cold — inside my mother's mind. "The ninety-eighth transfer is complete." Serena sagged against Damien's chest and pressed her fingers delicately to her eyes. "Elara, I'm so sorry. I hate to keep putting this on you." Mom shuddered — the full-body kind, the kind that meant the pain had arrived in a wave. Her face went white as paper. But she clenched her jaw and made no sound. Her lips curved into a cold, anticipatory smile. I understood. She had done this on purpose. She had pushed them — goaded them — into triggering the transfer. Two left. Only two more. But God, the thought of her enduring two more— I gripped the hem of her sleeve, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes. "Mom… we can walk away. Leave everything. I don't care about any of it." Mom tried to smile. Serena cut in before she could speak. Her voice dripped sweetness, laced with poison. "Elara, I know you blame me for taking Damien away from you." "But what could I do? We fell in love. I gave up everything — I didn't even ask for the title of luna. I've been so patient. And then you nearly killed me on that operating table." She paused and sighed, theatrical as a stage actress. "All I'm asking for is an apology. Why play the victim?" "Fine. Maybe it's my fault for everything. Maybe I deserve to die." She turned — and her foot swung, hard and deliberate, straight into my mother's body.
"Ahh—" For the first time all night, Mom couldn't hold it in. The cry tore out of her, raw and broken. My father flinched. He started to raise his hands toward her — Then Serena threw herself into his chest, eyes shimmering, bottom lip trembling. "Damien — it hurts—" One look at her face, and whatever fragment of conscience had stirred in him was gone. "Elara! She stepped back to give you room and you shoved her? After everything she's done to accommodate you?" "Transfer the pain. Do it now." He never even glanced at my mother. He didn't see her face going the color of ash. He just held Serena and murmured into her hair while the nurses scrambled to carry out his order. Within minutes, Mom's breathing had gone shallow and ragged. My eyes flooded red. I fixed my gaze on Serena, still nestled in my father's arms, and watched the corner of her mouth pull up in a small, triumphant smirk. I was already moving when Mom grabbed my wrist and held on. Her lips barely parted. Four words, barely a breath. "One more. Just one." I stopped. My whole body went still. One more transfer. That was all that stood between us and one hundred. Serena caught the pause. She shifted deliberately in my father's arms and pressed a hand to her abdomen, right over the incision, rubbing it in slow circles. My father tensed immediately. He opened his mouth — Mom lifted her eyes. The ruin of her face held no expression at all. Her voice came out like iron. "Damien Ashford. After this one, there is no going back." Serena's eyes filled on cue, her chin wobbling. "Elara, even if you don't want to take on my pain, you don't have to keep threatening Damien with things like that." She turned to him, voice breaking. "Damien, let's just stop here. I can't keep watching you be torn apart like this." She made to walk away. My father's brow creased. He looked at Mom with open disappointment, then immediately reached out to pull Serena back against him, his voice a sharp crack aimed at Mom. "Elara, enough. If you don't want to be luna of Ashford Pack, fine — I'll release you from it. But even if I dissolve the bond, you're not leaving this pack. You will continue to take on Serena's pain. That is what you owe." He paused, and his eyes hardened further. "I was going to authorize pain medication for you. I'm rescinding that." "Let's see how long you can hold out." He had them lock us in the room next door. No food. No water. No medication of any kind. I pressed cloth against Mom's wounds, watching them multiply — wounds that had no source, opening on her skin from nowhere, blooming red. "Mom, let me stop the bleeding—" "Silly girl. Don't cry. It doesn't hurt. Not compared to the other ninety-eight times. This is nothing." She could barely lift her arm. But she tried again and again until her hand found my face, and she touched my cheek — so softly. "Lyra… when it's done… I'm taking you away from here."
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