Magnus sat across from me, sprawling with the terrifying grace of an apex predator who knew no such thing as "foreign territory." He was the pure embodiment of dominant lineage and raw power, carved from marble and ice.
His expression was utterly impassive, but his eyes... Those deep, penetrating eyes—the color of a stormy sky—glared at me with such icy, primordial contempt that it caused actual physical pain, as if he had driven a blade straight into my chest.
Slowly, with his signature lethal elegance, Magnus pulled a sleek platinum lighter from his pocket and flicked it to ignite a long, thin clove cigarette. The flame illuminated his sharp features for a fleeting second, catching the pale scar that slashed through his left eyebrow. He took a deep, deliberate drag, releasing a thin stream of smoke from his lungs. Every movement was fluid, practiced, and deadly.
I felt like an insect pinned under glass—insignificant, pathetic, and doomed. His tailored suit, his flawless features, his undeniable aura of absolute authority... it was all completely alien in this bleak, sterile interrogation room. He looked like a god who had descended into hell just to personally oversee the torment of a sinner.
And worst of all, somewhere deep down beneath layers of terror and bitterness, a foolish, buried instinct stirred. A remnant of the Omega in me that had once believed this male was her destiny. It made me sick to my stomach. I hated him—but more than anything, I hated myself for that treacherous spark.
"Why are you here? You said everything you needed to say in the courtroom." My voice sounded like a rusty hinge, raspy and barely audible. I hardly recognized it as my own.
He slowly exhaled a plume of heavy smoke directly into my face. The sharp, expensive scent filled my nostrils, stinging my throat and clouding my senses.
"To look at you... and savor your suffering," he replied without a trace of emotion, save for a slight, cold twitch at the corner of his lips.
My stomach twisted into a painful knot. I forced myself to hold his gaze, refusing to look away, desperate not to show how utterly terrified I was—how badly I wanted to curl into a ball and fade into nothingness.
"Have you savored it enough? Then get out."
"Why the rush, Jane?" His tone turned dangerously sweet, dripping with venom and mockery that made my skin crawl. "Don’t you want to spend one last moment with your fated mate?"
One last moment. The words tolled between us like a funeral knell.
"No. I regret the day that mark ever appeared on my skin. I hate you, Magnus."
The transformation was instantaneous. His faint smile widened into a predatory snarl, baring immaculate white teeth and the elongated, razor-sharp fangs unique to a high-ranking Alpha—an Alpha born to rule, to mark, and to claim a breeder by absolute right of strength.
In his eyes, where I had once foolishly hoped to find warmth, the last embers of humanity burned out. Nothing remained except an Antarctic void—a wall of solid ice radiating a cold, merciless fury.
With sudden, violent force, he crushed the burning cigarette against the wooden table, leaving a dark, ugly scorch mark on the surface. The scar across his eyebrow twitched.
Then he stood up.
His massive shadow stretched over me, swallowing me whole, stealing the last drops of oxygen from the room. He towered above me, filling every inch of the cramped, concrete cell.
"Trust me, I regret not snapping your neck the day we met—and letting you crawl under my skin," his voice was low, vibrating with tightly restrained wolfish fury. Every word struck like a whip, flaying invisible, bloody scars into my soul. "A pathetic little mistake like you should never have dared to pretend to be my fated mate. I promise you, Jane: your life will become a living hell."
"Get out, Magnus. I never want to see you again. Never."
He let out a low, dark chuckle—a sound like the cocking of a hammer right at my temple.
"What a pity. Because tomorrow... you’re coming home with me."
I jerked backward, my mind rejecting what my ears had just heard. He was insane. I was bound for a high-security prison for a crime I didn’t commit. What on earth was he talking about?!
"You’ve lost your mind, Magnus. You were the one demanding I be locked away, and now—"
"And now I want you in my private possession," he interrupted, leaning down until his dark breath fanned against my ear. "As my personal property. My wolf enjoyed taking you. You’re coming with me."
He turned on his heel and strode out without a backward glance. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind him with a deafening, final clang.
And I remained.
I sat motionless, still crushed under the weight of his suffocating gaze, the lingering scent of his clove smoke clinging to the air. Inside me, there was only an absolute, deafening silence. Utter desolation—like the wasteland left behind by a hurricane that had swept away everything in its path. The shaking returned, but it was no longer pure panic; it was a deep, feverish chill radiating from the darkest depths of my broken soul.
The hours inside the cell dragged so agonizingly slow that time itself felt broken, trapped in the space between seconds, refusing to move forward.
I lay on the narrow cot, staring up at the stained yellow ceiling and its web of hairline cracks. The background noise of the block was endless—the muffled groans from neighboring cells, someone’s hysterical weeping, the harsh clatter of metal, and the heavy, rhythmic tread of the guards. It all coalesced into a relentless, monotonous hum that scraped against my mind, drowning out every rational thought.
Without my permission, my fingers drifted to my left wrist—to that cursed spot on my skin. To the mark.
I traced the pad of my thumb over the lines of the design. The skin beneath it throbbed with a sickening heat, burning as though live embers were buried beneath the flesh. The pain was dull, aching, and constant. It never let up for a single second. I dragged my fingertips over the delicate curves of the pattern again and again, trying to numb the sensation, but it only flared hotter.
Ever since I was brought here, I hadn’t felt a single heat cycle. Not one surge. Before, the mate-pull had hit me in overwhelming waves. Now? Nothing. Blank space. My body had shut down, as if my very heart had retreated into a deep sleep, forgetting how to feel anything at all.
Maybe the bond never existed. Maybe it was all an illusion created in my own head. Or maybe... maybe when I was twelve and the neighborhood boys were teaching me to ride a bike, I didn’t just crash? Maybe I’ve been in a coma all these years, trapped in a waking nightmare?
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