Maria.

I was still sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on my knees, fingers loosely intertwined as if they could somehow hold my thoughts together. But they couldn’t. My mind was a storm, loud, chaotic, relentless. Every memory, every doubt, every whispered insult circled me like vultures waiting for me to break.

The room felt too small, too quiet and too heavy.

A sharp knock shattered the silence.

It wasn’t hesitant, it wasn’t polite, it was abrupt, forceful, like whoever stood on the other side didn’t intend to wait.

My spine stiffened.

Before I could even part my lips to respond, before I could gather myself enough to say "come in," the door swung open with a harsh creak.

Patricia stepped inside.

She didn’t ask for permission.

She didn’t need it, at least not in her mind.

The air in the room shifted instantly, thickening as if the walls themselves recoiled at her presence. She didn’t look calm. There was no carefully crafted composure masking her emotions this time. Her eyes were blazing with something raw and volatile. Her jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitch beneath her skin, as though she had been grinding her teeth to keep from exploding.

Her breathing was sharp, controlled, but barely.

I pushed myself up from the bed, instinctively straightening to my feet, though I hadn’t fully steadied myself yet.

I barely had time to stand.

The slap came without warning.

Her palm collided with my cheek in a sharp, vicious crack that ricocheted off the walls. The sound was louder than I expected, louder than it had any right to be. My head snapped violently to the side from the force, my vision flashing white for a split second.

Everything went still.The room, the air and even my thoughts. Then the burn began. It spread slowly, deliberately, across my cheek, hot and humiliating. My skin throbbed beneath her touch long after her hand had withdrawn. My ears rang faintly, and I tasted metal on my tongue where my teeth had scraped the inside of my mouth.

"How dare you!" she hissed.

Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with fury. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath uneven, charged. "Even if you crawl back to our pack, Maria, you will be nothing but a mistress!"

The word struck harder than her hand.

Mistress.

It felt deliberate. More like it was meant to carve into something fragile inside me.

Like I was beneath her, like I was scrambling for leftovers, like my existence depended on scraps she believed she owned.

Slowly, very slowly, I turned my face back toward her. My cheek pulsed with heat, but my gaze was steady, unwavering and I didn’t blink, I didn’t flinch.

For half a second, triumph flickered across her expression.

That was her mistake.

Before she could draw another breath to speak, before she could twist the knife any deeper, I lifted my hand.

And I slapped her.

Just as hard.

The sound rang through the room, louder this time.

Her head jerked to the side, strands of her hair whipping across her face. Her eyes widened in disbelief, shock draining the fire from them as if she couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

Silence fell, heavy and pressing.

It stretched between us like a drawn blade.

"You don’t get to put your hands on me," I said quietly.

My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It carried something far more dangerous, steel. A firmness she hadn’t expected. A boundary drawn without hesitation.

Her shock didn’t last.

It twisted instantly.

What had been disbelief melted into something darker, something uglier. Fury flooded her features, tightening every line of her face until she looked almost unrecognizable. The hand she had used to slap me trembled faintly at her side, whether from anger or wounded pride, I couldn’t tell.

"You think you can compete with me?" she snapped, her voice rising, sharp and brittle like glass about to shatter. "You think Darren would ever choose you over me?"

The way she said his name, possessive, defensive, revealed more than she probably intended.

I didn’t step back.

I didn’t even blink.

Instead, I took a deliberate step forward, closing the small distance between us. I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me retreat. Refused to let her believe her voice, or his name, had power over me.

"I don’t even want Darren to win," I shot back, my tone cutting through her accusation like a blade.

The words were firm and certain.

And they landed.

Her expression faltered, just for a split second. A crack in the armor. A flicker of confusion passed through her eyes, as if my response hadn’t aligned with the narrative she had prepared in her head.

"It’s a shame, Patricia," I continued, my voice lowering, not softer but colder. More precise. Each word sharpened before I released it. "You can’t even control your so-called mate... or should I say false mate."

The insult wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Her nostrils flared instantly, her breathing growing heavier. I could almost see the word echoing inside her mind. False. The one thing she feared being reminded of.

"How pathetic is it," I pressed on, refusing to slow down now that I had found my rhythm, "that you’re here slapping me instead of questioning why he feels the need to cheat in a competition to secure what’s supposedly already his?"

Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. The knuckles whitened. Her nails dug into her palms hard enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if she broke skin.

But she didn’t interrupt me.

Not yet.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," she spat, though her voice lacked the steady conviction it had moments ago. It wavered, just slightly.

"Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about," I replied evenly.

I held her gaze, unflinching.

"If he was so certain of you," I continued, each word deliberate, controlled, "he wouldn’t need to play dirty. And you wouldn’t be this threatened."

The silence that followed was suffocating, the truth hung between us, heavy and undeniable.

That did it.

Her composure cracked completely.

The fury in her eyes was no longer masked by superiority. It was raw now, exposed, beneath it lay something far more fragile, doubt.

"You think you’re special?" she screamed.

Her voice cracked through the room, shrill and unrestrained, no longer polished or controlled. It bounced off the walls, filling every corner with her fury. "You think you can waltz back in here and ruin everything?"

The accusation hung between us like smoke.

I didn’t flinch.

My heart was pounding, hard enough that I could feel it in my throat, but I forced my voice to remain steady when I answered her.

"I didn’t ruin anything," I shot back, the words leaving me sharp and unyielding. "If your bond is as strong as you claim, then you wouldn’t be standing here trying to intimidate me."

For a split second, something flickered in her eyes.

Doubt.

Fear.

Then it was swallowed by anger.

We stood there, unmoving.

Breathing hard.

The air felt charged, thick with tension, like the moment before a lightning strike. Our eyes locked, neither of us willing to look away first. It wasn’t just an argument anymore, it was a battle of pride, of territory, of who would bend.

And neither of us intended to.

Her cheek was slightly flushed where my palm had connected with her skin. A faint red imprint lingered there, a visible reminder that I had not stayed silent. That I had not stayed submissive.

Mine still burned from hers.

The sting hadn’t faded. It pulsed faintly with each beat of my heart, warm and humiliating.

But I didn’t feel weak.

I didn’t feel small.

The old me might have.

The old me might have lowered her eyes, apologized. Backed away just to end the confrontation.

But not now.

For once, I felt steady.

Grounded.

Like my feet were firmly planted and no one, not her anger, not her threats, could push me over.

"You’ll regret this," she warned, her teeth clenched so tightly the words had to force their way through. Her entire body was rigid, trembling slightly with restrained rage.

The threat was meant to shake me.

It didn’t.

"Never," I replied calmly.

The calmness in my tone seemed to irritate her more than any insult could have.

"Not today," I added, holding her glare without hesitation. "Not ever."

Her eyes burned brighter at that, rage blazing hotter, fueled now by the fact that she couldn’t get the reaction she wanted from me. She couldn’t make me crumble. Couldn’t make me afraid.

For a moment, it looked like she might say something else.

Like she might lunge forward again.

But instead, she spun around sharply, the movement abrupt and violent. Her hair whipped around her shoulders as she stormed toward the door, each step heavy against the floor.

She grabbed the handle and yanked it open so forcefully it slammed against the wall with a loud bang that echoed through the room.

The sound made the walls tremble.

She paused at the doorway, her back stiff, shoulders tight. Slowly, she turned her head just enough to glare at me one last time.

Her expression was a volatile mix, fury, humiliation, wounded pride.

And beneath it all... resentment.

Then she stormed out.

The door slammed shut behind her with such force that the frame rattled.