CHLORENDIA
I stared at myself in the mirror, or at least what was left of me. My breath hitched as I ran my fingers over the bruise that bloomed across my cheek, purples and blues painting my once-flawless skin. A shallow cut just beneath my eye caught the light, mocking me with every small movement. Blood had dried there, its rust-red streak a permanent reminder of my failure.
Failure.
The word burned in my chest like acid, twisting my stomach into knots.
I had let my guard down.
"Alaric," I hissed, the name spilling from my lips like venom. That bastard. He had claimed it was a test, some sick way of "proving my worth." But it wasn't a test. It was an attack. A deliberate, calculated ambush by a male who had no business leading a pack, let alone ruling one.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as the anger surged again. That psycho thought he could put me in my place? Humiliate me? Teach me a lesson?
I'll teach him a lesson.
