On the Alpha's Bed While My Ex Begs

ELINOR POV:

I made it back to our so-called home—Braxton's quarters, a standard suite for a Gamma warrior—and locked the door behind me.

The click of the lock was a shield, shutting out the roars I knew were coming.

My back slid down the cool wood of the door until I was sitting on the floor. The strength that had held me up in the kitchen vanished, leaving me trembling.

My heart hammered against my ribs, not from fear, but from the electrifying thrill of a new beginning.

I held out my hand, staring at the small, crescent-moon-shaped birthmark on my wrist. This was my body. Young, whole, unbroken. It felt like an impossible miracle.

A sharp, soul-deep pain lanced through me. Bloody, fragmented images flashed in my mind—how in my past life, I had loved Braxton too much to ever speak a word against him, no matter how close he grew with Bree. I had lived like a decoration in the corner of his world, small and silent and desperate for scraps of his attention.

Then one day, while Braxton was away on a campaign, Bree led me to a cliff. She told me we could see the warriors marching out from there. When I stretched on my tiptoes, straining to catch a glimpse of Braxton among the warriors below, a silver blade plunged into my back. I felt it pierce straight through my heart. And as Bree's triumphant laugh rang in my ears, she pushed me off the edge.

My spirit drifted back to our home after I died. I watched Bree tell Braxton that I had fallen off the cliff by accident—that I was just being foolish and careless. He believed her, of course. He always believed her. My death was dismissed like it meant nothing, my body left on the rocks below for the vultures to pick clean.

Braxton's back as he held a triumphant Bree. And Bree... in his arms, she had given me a victorious, vicious smile.

Were they remnants of a nightmare, or a warning from the Moon Goddess herself?

I couldn't be sure. But the bone-deep chill of betrayal was real. It screamed at me that if I continued to be the submissive fool I once was, those images would become my reality.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the horrifying pictures away. No. I would not let that happen.

I had shed enough tears in my last life to fill an ocean. From this day forward, Elinor Mercado would not cry for anyone.

My goals were clear.

First, complete the Rejection ceremony with Braxton Porter.

Second, leave this suffocating Pack.

Third, start my own life.

According to Pack law, a Rejection required either mutual consent or a ruling from the Alpha. Braxton would never agree to it now. His pathetic male pride wouldn't allow him to be the one who was "dumped."

So, I had to force him.

I pushed myself up from the floor and surveyed the room. It was filled with Braxton's things, his presence overwhelming. My few clothes were crammed into the far corner of the closet, as if I were a guest who had overstayed her welcome.

I walked to the bed, the one I had once desperately longed to share with my mate. It looked like a cruel joke now.

In those days, I cleaned this room spotless, laid out his clothes, and waited on him like a servant.

And he, in return, would spend half the month finding excuses to "help" Bree, staying out all night. Our bond, the sacred tie between mates, meant nothing to him.

I went to the closet, yanked it open, and began pulling out his clothes, tossing them onto the floor in a heap.

Then, I took out my own meager belongings and spread them across the bed, a small act of claiming my space.

I was no longer the pathetic Elinor who begged for his affection.

The sound of hurried footsteps approached, followed by a key fumbling in the lock.

The door flew open. Braxton stood there, his face a thundercloud of rage. Behind him, Bree peeked out, her face a mask of false concern.

His eyes landed on the mess on the floor, then on my clothes spread across the bed. His fury escalated.

"Elinor! What the hell are you doing now!"

I ignored him, slowly and deliberately folding one of my old shirts.

My cold indifference enraged him more than any shouting match could have. He strode into the room and grabbed my wrist.

"I'm talking to you!" he roared, his grip so tight I thought the bones might snap.

I didn't struggle. I just looked up at him, my gaze as flat and empty as if I were looking at a stranger. "I heard you. So what?"

My calmness threw him off. He was used to my tears, my pleading. He had no idea how to handle this new, unfamiliar version of me.

With my free hand, I began to pry his fingers off my wrist, one by one.

"Let go," I said, my voice cold. "You're hurting me."

It wasn't a plea. It was a command.