~ ROSELLE ~

Ronan releases my hand and takes a step forward.

"Fuck you, Warren. The only reason I’m not smashing your face in right now is because Roselle wouldn’t want that."

His jaw tightens as he glares at Warren. "We both know you don’t give a damn about how she’d feel. No, you don’t. You wanted to have your cake and eat it too."

He takes another threatening step forward, his presence alone enough to make the air feel heavier.

"And you know the consequences of handing someone’s mate over to me as part of an alliance. Not to mention your own mate, Warren."

Warren’s face pales slightly despite the anger burning in his eyes.

"I could withdraw the alliance. Report you to the council. Sue you for deliberately trying to incur the Moon Goddess’s wrath upon me."

A cold laugh leaves Ronan’s lips as he folds his arms across his chest.

"But all of that is a long process, so I’m going to give you an option."

His gray eyes lock onto Warren’s, leaving no room for negotiation.

"The fifty percent still gets transferred to Roselle, or we go the other route."

A dangerous smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Which one are you aiming for?"

"I..." Warren’s face reddens with fury as his hands curl into fists. "There’s no way she’s getting my money."

Ronan raises a brow, looking almost amused by the response.

"So, you don’t mind going the other route then? I’m curious to see what the council would think of that. As much as I’d enjoy seeing a new Alpha sitting in your position while you serve your sentence, I wonder..."

"Fine!" Warren snaps through gritted teeth before Ronan can finish.

Ronan’s smirk deepens as satisfaction flashes across his face.

"That’s what I thought."

Then he turns toward me and reaches for my hands.

The hardness in his expression softens the moment his gray eyes meet my hazel ones.

"It’s time, Roselle. Do it."

My stomach twists painfully as my pulse pounds against my ribs.

I blink once before drawing in a shaky breath.

Then I slowly lift my hands, knowing there is no turning back after this.

"I, Roselle Thalora, reject you, Warren Calix, as my mate."

I sign with a finality that makes my chest ache.

The moment the rejection is complete, I feel the bond between us begin to unravel.

Invisible strings snap one after another, sending a sharp pain tearing through my chest.

A gasp escapes me as my knees threaten to buckle beneath me. My heart clenches violently, and tears sting the corners of my eyes.

Even through the pain, I know there is no regret in my decision.

Ronan catches me before I can lose my balance, gently pulling me against his chest.

"It’s fine... you’re going to be alright," he murmurs softly as one of his hands rubs soothing circles against my back.

He pats my shoulder gently before wrapping his arms around me in a brief but comforting hug.

"Nikolai will take you to the car. I’ve got some unfinished business to deal with Warren. Once I’m done, I’ll join you."

His voice is calm and reassuring, and despite everything, I find myself nodding.

Ronan slowly pulls away and signals for Nikolai with a tilt of his head who immediately steps forward and positions himself beside me. "Come on," he says quietly as he guides me toward the exit.

I spare one last glance over my shoulder before allowing Nikolai to lead me outside and back to the waiting car.

~ RONAN ~

The moment Nikolai leads Roselle out of the hall, I lose the last bit of patience I have left.

I turn back to Warren as he tries to push himself up from the floor. His body trembles with fear and adrenaline.

"Now, let’s quit the entire lying scheme and bite the bullet. I know you’ve been torturing her for years, and every fucking word that comes out of your mouth is carefully fabricated. I’d be a fucking idiot to believe you, Warren."

Warren’s entire body goes rigid.

"I know that every scar on her body, injuries, and marks of abuse, they were all done by you. Or with your knowledge and permission. Which means you were aware and you watched it happen and did nothing."

I step closer, and Warren instinctively tries to back away.

"You know what the worst part is?" The worst part is that she still wants to protect you. Even now, and after everything, she’s terrified of what I’m going to do to you. That’s infuriating and that’s exactly why I’m going to beat you to a pulp to get the truth out of you."

Warren’s face goes pale.

"The scars," I say, gesturing at nothing but speaking of everything. "The injuries. The chemical poisoning. The psychological torture. The rejection while keeping the bond intact. All of it. You orchestrated it. You knew about it. You wanted it to happen."

I grab Warren by the collar and lift him off the ground like he weighs nothing. He claws at my wrist, his feet dangling uselessly in the air.

"Isn’t it funny," I say, my voice dripping with disgust, "that the bride-to-be you sent to me — the one you claimed was your sister — is actually your mate? Isn’t it funny that she has no clothes, zero possessions, no will made to her, no protection under pack law? Just a broken, traumatized girl with no way to defend herself?"

I toss him across the room.

He crashes into a table with bone-jarring force. The impact knocks the wind completely from his lungs, and he lies there gasping, struggling to draw air back into his body. Blood trickles from his mouth where he bit his tongue on impact.

"You sent her to me knowing my brides die," I continue, walking toward him slowly. "You sent her thinking the curse would eliminate her for you. That’s what this was about. That’s why you were so eager to get rid of her."

Warren tries to crawl away, his hands scrabbling against the marble floor, leaving bloody streaks in his wake.

"But I’m not a fool," I say flatly.

I pull out a dagger, the steel, pristine, waiting to be baptized in blood.

I lift Warren up again, this time by his hair, forcing him to his feet. His eyes are wide with terror now, the reality of what’s about to happen finally sinking in.

"Please," he gasps out, his voice breaking. "Please, I didn’t—"

I toss him to the floor again.

He hits hard, and this time I hear the crack of ribs breaking. He screams, a short, sharp sound of agony, and tries to roll away from me. But there’s nowhere to go. The hall is empty except for us.

I pick him up one more time.

This time, I don’t hesitate. I drive the dagger straight through his palm, slamming his hand against the wall behind him. The blade pierces through flesh, through bone, pinning him there with brutal finality.

The sound is wet. Obscene. Bone crunches, flesh tears, and blood sprays across the wall in a grotesque pattern.

Warren’s scream is inhuman.

"RONAN!" His fucking wench voice tears through the hall like a banshee’s wail. She rushes into the main hall, her face twisted with desperation. "RONAN, PLEASE! SPARE HIM! HE’S MY MATE! YOU CAN’T DO THIS!"

I don’t even spare her a glance. As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t exist. She’s irrelevant to me—nothing more than a meaningless bystander and a footnote.

I ignore her completely and focus entirely on Warren, whose body is shaking with shock and agony as his hand is pinned to the wall, his nerves screaming, his consciousness threatening to slip away from the sheer intensity of the pain.

"You’re only getting broken bones and chopped fingers," I continue. "Because she asked me not to kill you, and somewhere inside that beautiful, broken woman is enough mercy to spare your pathetic life."

I take his other hand — the one that’s still free — and I begin to methodically break each finger.

Crack.

The first finger snaps backward at an unnatural angle. Warren’s scream intensifies, becoming a sound of pure, primal agony.

Crack.

The second finger breaks. His hand spasms involuntarily, trying to curl into a protective position, but there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

Crack.

The third finger.

"Please," Warren gasps between screams, blood filling his mouth, his entire body convulsing. "Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to hurt her. I was just—"

"Just what?" I ask, my voice cold as ice. "Just following orders? Just doing what your father told you to do? Just protecting your own position?"

Crack.

The fourth finger breaks, and Warren’s screams reach a fever pitch.

Nova continues to scream, calling my name, begging for mercy, but I tune her out completely, she’s noise, background static and completely irrelevant.

I take the dagger and slam it through the wall again, this time pinning his second hand beside the first.

He’s hanging now, suspended by his palms, his body weight pulling at the wounds, stretching the torn flesh, keeping the bones fractured and misaligned. Every breath he takes sends new waves of agony through his body.

"Do you understand what you did to her?" I ask, my voice steady despite the violence happening in front of me. "Do you understand the systematic nature of your cruelty?"

I move to his ribs.

The first punch lands with surgical precision, and I feel something give way inside him. A rib fractures, splinters, possibly punctures a lung.

Warren vomits blood. Another punch.

His body convulses, and I can hear the wet, rattling quality of his breathing — lungs filling with blood, ribs shattered, internal bleeding beginning.

"And then you had the audacity to call her desperate," I say, my voice dropping to something almost gentle, which somehow makes it infinitely more terrifying. "To call her manipulative, and blame her for your own cruelty."

I grab what’s left of his hand — the one still relatively intact — and I systematically begin to sever each finger.

The dagger is sharp enough that it cuts clean through bone and tendon without resistance. His fingers fall to the floor like discarded refuse, and Warren’s screams become something that’s no longer recognizable as human sound. It’s just pure agony being expelled from his body in waves.

"Don’t mistake her mercy for weakness," I say, my voice steady despite the carnage. "Or mistake her desire to protect you for forgiveness. What you’re experiencing right now is the bare minimum of what you deserve."

Nova’s screams fade to hoarse sobs in the background.

By the time I’m done, Warren is barely conscious. He’s hanging from the wall by his pinned hands, his body a catalogue of broken bones and severed digits, his face swollen beyond recognition. Blood pools beneath him, spreading across the marble floor in an ever-widening stain.

He’s still breathing, and still alive. That’s the only mercy he’s getting.

"If you ever," I say, my voice the last thing he hears before unconsciousness claims him, "if you ever contact her again, if you ever so much as think about her in a way that isn’t absolute contrition and shame, I will finish what I started. And next time, there will be no mercy. Do you understand?"

I walk away from him without looking back.