The Billionaire Heiress's Revenge: Rejecting Her Cheating Mate

The Sabotaged Shift

Elena POV:

I needed to run.

Politics and heartbreak were suffocating me. Usually, I would Shift, but I was still recovering from the residual pressure of Damien's Alpha Tone.

So, I chose riding.

I saddled Storm, a massive grey stallion only I could handle. The training ring was empty. I mounted, feeling the familiar rhythm clear my head. I urged him into a gallop.

Faster, Midnight urged. Outrun the stench of them.

I pushed Storm harder toward a high wooden oxer.

"Up, boy!" I commanded.

Storm launched. He was perfect.

Then, a sharp snap echoed through the arena.

The girth strap gave way.

Gravity vanished. The saddle slid sideways mid-air. I fell, hard.

I hit the sand with a sickening crunch. My left leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Pain, white and blinding, exploded up my thigh.

"Aggh!" I screamed.

Storm bolted. I lay there, gasping. My vision blurred. I tried to call upon my healing factor, but the pain wasn't fading. It was searing, burning like fire.

I looked down. A piece of the saddle equipment had pierced my breeches.

Silver.

A silver buckle, sharpened to a point, was embedded in my thigh.

"Help!" I grit my teeth, trying to Mind-Link. Father! Anyone!

The Mind-Link was static. Jammed.

The stable doors creaked open.

I looked up through the haze, expecting a stable hand. Instead, I saw Damien.

He was leaning against the doorframe, checking his watch. He didn't rush.

"Damien..." I gasped. "Help me. The saddle..."

He walked over slowly. His face was a mask of mock concern.

"Elena? My god, what happened?"

He crouched down, but he didn't reach for the first aid kit. He just looked at the wound.

"My leg..." I choked out. "It's silver."

"Looks painful," Damien said, his voice devoid of real empathy. "I told you that tack was getting old. You really should be more careful with your equipment."

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. His touch made my skin crawl. Up close, I smelled it on his fingers—leather polish and the faint, metallic scent of silver filings.

"I'll go call the medics," he said, standing up leisurely. "Don't go anywhere."

He didn't run. He walked. Taking his time.

"Why?" I whispered to his retreating back.

He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder with a cold smirk.

"Maybe a few weeks in bed will remind you who protects this pack, Elena. You're vulnerable alone."

He walked out, leaving me writhing in the sand.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the pain. I wouldn't beg. I would take this agony, this burning fire in my leg, and I would forge it into a weapon.