I coldly replied: “That gun was a gift from my mother before she died. If you want one, ask your father to buy it. Don’t you have
your own father?”
That gun was the last thing my mother gave me before she left this world. She had placed it in my hands and whispered, “Protect
yourself, Scarlett. Not everyone in this pack has your best interests at heart.” At the time, I didn’t understand her warning. Now I
did.
I thought my father would understand its significance to me, but his next words shattered that illusion completely.
“It’s just a gun, Scarlett. If Amber likes it, just give it to her. You have other weapons, why fight with Amber over this one? Just
give it to her.”
Hearing his words, I suddenly realized my father was no longer the man who once loved me. He had become someone else
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+15 BONUS
entirely–someone I didn’t recognize.
Still, I refused to surrender my mother’s last gift. I gripped the gun tighter and backed away, shaking my head.
My father’s eyes flashed yellow with anger. He signaled to the guards, who approached me cautiously.
“Take it from her,” he ordered.
In desperation, I raised the gun, not to shoot but to keep them at bay. The guards hesitated, looking to my father for instruction.
“Now!” he barked, and they rushed me.
In the struggle, knowing I would lose, I made a split–second decision. Rather than let Amber have my mother’s gun intact, I
quickly removed a critical firing pin and swallowed it. The guards wrenched the weapon from my hands, but I smiled knowing it
was useless now.
My father was livid. “Fix it,” he demanded of the pack’s gunsmith. Within hours, the gun was repaired and presented to Amber as
a gift.
She cooed and thanked my father profusely, handling the weapon with inexperienced fingers.
Three days later, disaster struck. Amber was studying the gun in her room–my old room–when it accidentally discharged. The
fire bullet hit the curtains, igniting them instantly. The flames spread rapidly, trapping her inside.
The smoke alarms blared throughout the house. Pack members rushed to help, but the fire was intense, fueled by the special
ammunition.
Before losing consciousness, Amber managed to call my father. Father, without regard for his own safety, shifted into his wolf
form and charged through the sea of flames to rescue Amber.
The pack’s emergency response team arrived minutes later, extinguishing the fire and treating the injured. Fortunately, Amber
had only suffered minor burns on her arm. Father had a few singed patches of fur but was otherwise unharmed.
When Amber regained consciousness in the medical wing, she immediately played the victim.
“It was an accident,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. “I must have made a mistake using it. I know Scarlett
wouldn’t tamper with the gun to hurt me.”
Her words, seemingly defending me, were designed to do the opposite. And they worked perfectly.
My father, standing at her bedside, turned to me with a rage I had never witnessed before. His entire body trembled with it, his
eyes fully yellow now.
“You did this,” he growled, his voice barely human. “You tampered with the gun, knowing she would use it.”
“No!” I protested. “I would never-”
Before I could finish, his hand struck my face with such force I crashed into the wall behind me. The pack members present looked away, unwilling to intervene.
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“Donovan…” Elise, still in the room, moved between us. “Maybe she didn’t mean it.”
“She must have! ” my father roared.
He father was beyond reason. He dragged me from the medical wing to the basement where I’d been forced to live after Amber
took my room.
From a hidden compartment, he withdrew something I’d only heard about in pack horror stories–a silver whip. Silver, the one substance that could prevent our wolves from healing.
“You need to learn,” he hissed, raising the whip.
The first lash tore through my shirt and into my flesh. I screamed as the silver burned into my skin, my wolf howling inside me.
The second lash crossed the first, creating an X of fire across my back.
After the tenth lash, I could no longer stand. I collapsed to the floor, blood pooling beneath me.
“Take her to the fire house,” my father commanded the housekeeper who had been watching in silent horror. “Two–hour
intervals. For at least a week.”
I was dragged, half–conscious, to the isolated building. The stone walls absorbed my cries as the first spray of fire rained down
from the ceiling.
My wolf, already weakened by the silver whip, could not protect me. With each subsequent burning, her presence within me grew
fainter.
The scent of burned ur and flesh filled the small space. Between burnings, I begged anyone who might hear for water, for mercy.
But no one came.
By the fifth day, I felt my wolf go first.
And then I followed.
Now, ten days after being locked in the fire house, five days after my death, I watch as my body decomposes in the heat.
The fluids from my corpse seep through the cracks in the stone floor, creating a dark stain visible from outside.
Pack members walking past wrinkle their noses at the strange odor but say nothing. No one dares question the Beta’s orders.
P
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