(Liora POV)
Morning light cut through the heavy curtains of my chambers like knives.
I woke already angry—jaw clenched, fists tight in the silk sheets. The torn marriage contract lay on the floor where I'd thrown it two nights ago, ink still dark and accusing. Damien's signature had been sharp, decisive; mine had been trembling. The memory burned: the great hall in ruins, his eyes fixed on that half-breed omega instead of me, the pack watching as he chose her over everything we'd been promised.
Years of lessons, of posture, of smiles practiced in mirrors, of being told I was the perfect match for the Blackthorn heir—gone in one moment of weakness. Humiliation tasted like copper on my tongue.
I rose, threw off the covers, and paced to the window. Below, the estate grounds were quiet—too quiet. Scouts moved in pairs, heads down, voices low. The pack was still reeling from the declaration yesterday. Rogue. Cursed. Bounty.
Good.
Let him rot.
A knock at the door—soft, deferential.
