WICKED PROVIDENCE

"You’re late, Avery."

The voice sliced through the thunder rattling the Montgomery Estate. Hudson stood by the hearth, the dying fire catching the amber gold in his eyes. He didn't turn. He didn't have to. His scent—rain, cedar, and the suffocating pressure of a dominant Alpha—pinned Avery against the oak door.

Avery’s fingers curled into her palms. She couldn't answer. The scars across her throat, a "gift" from the fever that had burned away her wolf and her voice at age seven, kept her a prisoner of silence.

"The Council is circling," Hudson growled, finally turning. He stripped off his soaked leather jacket, his movements predatory. "They want an heir. They want to know why my 'Mate-Bond' yielded a broken female who can't even howl to the moon."

He crossed the room in two strides, his hand tilting her head back. For a second, the cold mask slipped. Avery saw it—a flash of the boy who had once promised to be her voice before the world broke them both. But then the mask hardened.

"Open," he commanded.

His mouth crashed against hers, tasting of bourbon and storm clouds. It wasn't a kiss; it was a reclamation. He shoved her against the cold stone wall, his hands bruising the skin of her thighs with a desperate, angry hunger.

Avery let out a jagged, clicking sound from her ruined throat.

"Don't," Hudson hissed against her skin, his forehead resting against hers for a heartbeat too long to be accidental. "Just for tonight... let me forget you're broken. Let me forget what we've become."

He entered her with a brutal, heavy thrust that made her knees buckle. Avery’s fingers clawed at the stone, her eyes blown wide. Every strike of his body against hers felt like an accusation. Why can't you speak? Why can't you love me? She wanted to scream his name. She wanted to tell him that she still remembered the way he used to hold her hand before he became the Alpha and she became the Ghost. Instead, she could only offer him those wet, gasping breaths as she shattered under him.

He marked her with his teeth—not the bond-bite she craved, but a temporary claim that would fade by morning.

As he withdrew, leaving her cold and slick, a phone vibrated on the nightstand. The screen glowed with a message from Delaney Cross, the High-Beta’s daughter: Hudson, come back to the Scarlett Vale. It kills me to think of you touching that mute.

Avery pulled her torn clothes together, her heart a lead weight. She wasn't his mate; she was his penance.

The next morning, the Silver Ridge Great Hall was a cathedral of bone and judgment. Avery walked at Hudson’s side, the "Loser’s Greeting"—a low thrumming of knuckles against wood—following her every step.

"Look at her," the whispers rose like woodsmoke. "A waste of a womb. The Moon Goddess doesn't plant seeds in broken soil."

Hudson’s mother, Victoria, stepped forward, snatching a pack-infant away before Avery could even