Chapter 3
872words
Only servants bringing meager meals twice daily broke her isolation. They never met her eyes, dropping the trays and fleeing as if she carried a curse.
Her gilded cage echoed with maddening silence.
Her Omega instincts screamed for her mate's presence, while her human mind recoiled from Karen's cruelty. These warring impulses threatened to tear her apart.
On the seventh evening, her door crashed open.
"Lord Karen commands your presence at the banquet." Two heavily armed guards entered, contempt etched on their faces.
Ella's stomach dropped. A banquet?
She had nothing else to wear. She still wore the same gray dress from her capture—now washed so many times it had faded to a dull white.
"Move, Omega." A guard shoved her roughly.
Ella stumbled after them toward the great hall in the main keep.
A wall of heat slammed into her, thick with the smells of roasted meat, ale, and wolf musk, all nearly drowned by deafening noise.
At least two hundred werewolves packed the hall—drinking, shouting, laughing. When Ella entered between her guards, a heartbeat of silence fell.
Then came the whispers and sneers, rising like a tide.
Ella stood like a lamb among wolves, naked under their predatory stares.
Her threadbare dress looked pathetic among their furs and battle leathers.
Karen Wolcoff lounged in his throne upon the dais.
His black silk shirt hung open at the collar, revealing the hard planes of his chest. He twirled a silver goblet lazily, watching her humiliation with cold amusement.
"Keep moving." The guard shoved her again, nearly sending her sprawling.
She had to cross the entire hall to reach the foot of the dais—to "present herself" to her husband.
Ella's nails bit into her palms. She lifted her chin and forced herself forward, one step at a time, ignoring the contempt that battered her from all sides.
Just as she approached the high table before the dais—
"My gods, what is that stench?"
The flame-haired Seraphina waved her hand dramatically before her nose. "Smells like desperate Omega."
The warriors around her howled with laughter.
Seraphina rose to her feet, towering over Ella, power rolling off her in waves. She snatched a goblet of blood-red wine and stalked toward Ella.
"How pathetic our 'Luna' looks," she sneered, making the title sound like a curse. "Cold and filthy as a street dog."
Ella tried to step around her, but Seraphina moved to block her path.
"Let me help warm you up."
Seraphina's lips curved into a cruel smile as her wrist flicked sharply.
Ice-cold wine cascaded over Ella's head, drenching her hair and dress. The crimson liquid streaked down her pale face like blood.
"HAHAHAHAHA!"
The hall exploded with savage laughter. They mocked the "most pathetic Luna in history"—the Omega who dared taint their mighty Alpha.
Ella's body shook violently under the crushing weight of humiliation.
Tears scalded her eyes. She wanted to curl into herself, to cover her face, to simply cease existing.
But in that moment, her inner wolf—cowering in fear for days—suddenly lifted its head.
It felt the insult.
Not just to Ella, but to the Alpha's mate! A cold fury—ancient and primal—surged through her blood, drowning her fear.
Slowly, deliberately, Ella raised her head.
She wiped wine from her face with the back of her hand, her gaze cutting through wet strands of hair to lock onto Seraphina.
Her eyes held no tears—only a deadly, arctic calm.
The laughter faltered and died. Confusion rippled through the crowd at this Omega who should be cowering, not standing tall.
Ella took a single step forward.
Her voice wasn't loud—it even trembled slightly—yet it cut through the hall like an ice blade:
"I am Ella Wolcoff."
She claimed the name he had given her—the name she had thought a curse.
"By contract and the Moon Goddess's witness, I am your Luna."
She turned to Seraphina, her gray eyes igniting with dark fire.
"And you, Beta," she said, each word a blade, "have insulted both your Alpha and your Luna. Kneel."
The hall froze in absolute silence.
Laughter, whispers, even breathing—all sound vanished in an instant.
As if death itself had seized the hall by the throat.
An Omega—a defeated, wine-soaked servant—commanding Shadow Fortress's fiercest Beta warrior to kneel?
Seraphina's face flushed purple with rage. She couldn't believe her ears.
"You filthy little roach!" she snarled, hand whipping up to strike. "You DARE command ME?"
But her hand froze mid-swing.
On the dais, Karen Wolcoff set down his goblet. The soft clink against wood echoed like thunder through the silent hall.
For the first time, something unreadable flickered across his cold features.
He had expected tears, pleas for mercy, groveling submission—like any proper Omega.
But she hadn't broken.
She stood on trembling legs, gray eyes blazing, defending a title she herself might not even believe she deserved.
This little mouse he'd dismissed as worthless actually had claws.
A strange, almost pleasurable shiver raced up Karen's spine. This thrill surpassed even the bond-driven desire.
He studied the Omega who dared meet his gaze, his lips curling into a dangerous smile.
"She's right, Seraphina."
Karen's voice carried softly through the deathly quiet hall.
"Kneel."
