Davian.

"Wake up, Maria!"

My voice tore through the room, raw and thunderous, echoing off the stone walls as I took a step toward her crumpled form. She didn’t move. Didn’t even twitch. The sight only stoked the fire already raging inside me.

"I am not done with you yet!" I roared.

My foot connected with her stomach, hard enough to jolt her body across the floor. Still, nothing. No groan. No gasp. No instinctive curl of pain. She lay there like an abandoned doll, limbs slack, hair fanned across the cold floor.

I kicked her again.

And again.

Each strike was driven by fury, by the sick conviction that she was pretending, that this was another one of her tricks. She always had a way of slipping through consequences, of looking weak just enough to draw sympathy. I refused to believe this was any different.

But the longer she remained motionless, the louder the silence became.

My breath hitched.

For a split second, just one, I felt something strange twist in my chest. It wasn’t fear. I had no concern for whether she lived or died. That wasn’t it.

It was... emptiness.

A hollow, unsettling void that spread through me at the thought that she might not open her eyes again. That she might really be gone. The idea irritated me more than it should have, scraping against something I didn’t want to examine.

I clenched my fists.

No.

She wasn’t allowed to escape like this.

"Maria!" I shouted again, stepping closer, looming over her still body. "I will call your name one last time. Open your eyes...now...or I will really kill you!"

My voice cracked the air with authority, with promise.

Nothing.

She didn’t stir. Her chest barely moved, so faint it was almost impossible to tell if she was breathing at all. That emptiness in my chest widened, sharpening into something unpleasant, something I refused to name. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

Rage rushed in to smother it.

I threw my head back and shouted, my voice carrying far beyond the room. "Guards!"

The doors burst open almost instantly.

Two men rushed in, armor clanking softly as they dropped to one knee, heads bowed in submission, waiting for my command. Their eyes flicked briefly to the motionless body on the floor before snapping back to me.

"Get me three buckets of water," I ordered coldly, turning slightly so they could see my profile. "Warm water. Cold water. And iced water."

My jaw tightened as I finished, every word sharp with warning.

"Someone is really testing my patience."

They didn’t question me. They didn’t hesitate.

"Yes, Alpha," they replied in unison before springing to their feet and rushing back out, footsteps echoing down the corridor.

The room fell quiet again.

Too quiet.

I looked down at Maria once more, her body crumpled where it had fallen, her face starkly pale against the dark, unforgiving floor. The contrast was jarring, skin drained of color, lips faintly parted, lashes resting too still against her cheeks. Too perfect. Too quiet. For a fleeting moment, the sight unsettled me, but not in the way it should have. It wasn’t guilt that stirred uneasily in my chest. It was the absence of it. The disturbing calm. The hollow space where remorse was meant to live—and didn’t.

I searched myself for something. Regret. Doubt. Even satisfaction.

There was nothing.

She was mine to punish.Mine to break.

Mine to remind—mercilessly—of her place.

The thought settled easily, fitting into me like it had always belonged there. Maria had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed, and consequences had followed as inevitably as night followed day. This was not cruelty. This was order being restored.

And she would wake up.

She had to.

I stood there with my arms crossed, my weight evenly balanced, my gaze never leaving her face. Time stretched, thick and heavy, each second dragging itself forward as I waited. Watched. Listened. The silence pressed in around us, broken only by the distant sounds of movement somewhere beyond the room. When hurried footsteps finally echoed back toward me, sharp and rushed, I knew the water was on its way. Good. She wasn’t finished yet.

Slowly, I bent toward the ground. Every movement was deliberate, measured, stripped of haste or emotion. Control mattered. It always did. A single strand of Maria’s hair had fallen loose, clinging stubbornly to her cheek where dried blood and sweat had mixed into a dark, ugly smear. The sight irritated me more than it should have. I reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear, my fingers brushing her skin in the process.

Cold.

The sensation made my jaw tighten instantly.

Not lifeless—no. I knew the difference. There was still breath in her, shallow and faint, still a pulse beneath the surface. But she was cold enough to set my nerves on edge, cold enough to remind me how close she was to the edge she’d been pushed toward. I didn’t withdraw my hand immediately. I lingered for half a second longer than necessary, as if confirming the reality of her warmth—or lack of it.

Then I leaned closer, lowering myself until my shadow stretched over her, swallowing her fragile body whole. From this angle, she looked smaller. Weaker. Stripped of every sharp edge she liked to wield. This was how I needed to see her. How I needed to remember her. I etched the image into my mind with ruthless clarity, committing every detail to memory.

So that the next time she even thought of crossing Vanessa...the next time arrogance whispered lies into her ear...this moment would rise up to meet her.

Broken.

Helpless.

Beneath me.

"Maria, darling," I murmured close to her ear, my voice soft, almost tender, far too tender for the fury burning behind it. "I hope you’ve learned your lesson."

My fingers curled slowly into her hair, gripping tight at the roots, tugging her head back just enough to test her. To see if she was pretending. To provoke even the faintest reaction, pain, a whimper, anything.

"Stay away from what is mine," I whispered, the words heavy with possession.

Nothing.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t cry out.

Her body remained slack, unresponsive, her lashes resting unmoving against her cheeks. The lack of resistance sent a sharp spike of irritation through me, followed immediately by something else. Something I didn’t welcome.

I released her abruptly and straightened, turning away from her prone form with a sharp breath. Anger surged again, hot and violent, as though it could burn away the strange unease curling in my chest.

I didn’t look back.

I crossed the room in long strides and went to the bed, lowering myself beside Vanessa. She lay there curled slightly on her side, her breathing shallow but steady, her face pale from exhaustion and pain. The sight of her grounded me—reminded me why this had happened in the first place.

She was the victim.

She was mine to protect.

My body was tense, every muscle wound tight, and before I could think better of it, before reason had a chance to intervene, I leaned down and claimed her lips.

The kiss was sudden. Fierce.

I poured everything into it, my anger, my frustration, the violence still humming beneath my skin. I kissed her as though doing so could erase the image burned into my mind, as though her warmth could drown out the lingering chill clinging to my thoughts.

Her lips were warm. Soft. Familiar.

Her hands moved weakly against my chest, and I let myself sink into it, into her presence, breathing her in as though she were an anchor. As though she could steady the storm raging inside me.

But it didn’t work.

No matter how deeply I kissed her, no matter how much I tried to lose myself in her warmth, the tension refused to ease. It coiled tighter instead, gnawing at me, pressing down on my chest until it became difficult to breathe.

I pulled back slowly, resting my forehead against hers, my breath uneven.

This didn’t make sense.

I had faced battlefields soaked in blood. I had stood over fallen enemies without hesitation, had given orders that decided life and death. I had punished traitors. Broken rebels. Enforced discipline without a flicker of doubt.

So why?

Why did my chest ache like this?

Why did the memory of the whip striking Maria’s back replay in my mind, sharper now, heavier? Why did the image of her body crumpled on the floor refuse to fade, no matter how hard I tried to replace it?

I clenched my jaw.

I told myself it was nothing. Just irritation. Just unfinished business.

Yet when I glanced—only briefly—toward the spot where she still lay unmoving, a cold wave washed through me, swift and unwelcome.

Panic.

Real, sharp panic.

"What if she doesn’t wake up?"

The thought crept in quietly, insidiously, and once it took hold, it refused to leave.