Chapter 3

Camilla pressed her back flat against the rough-hewn doorframe, each breath trembling in her chest. The corridor beyond was steeped in shadow, lit only by a dim, flickering sconce that cast bull-headed shapes on the stone walls. She dared to shift sideways, hoping to slip past her father’s massive silhouette. But as she inched forward, his broad shoulder blocked the entire opening, cutting off her escape.

Her heart thundered so loudly she feared he might hear it, but she caught herself before letting panic draw closer. Tentatively, she dared a glance over her shoulder. He stood half in darkness, half in that harsh golden light, and even from that distance, she could see the cruel curl of his lips. His eyes glinted like steel.

“Did you really think you could escape me, punk?” The rasp in his voice scraped across her nerves.

Before she could form an answer, his hand flew out. The sharp crack of his palm against her cheek echoed through the corridor, and white-hot pain flared along the right side of her face. She tasted salt and iron—tears and blood both—but refused to let a single sob slip out. Instead, she bit her lower lip until a hot drop of blood steadied her.

Her father watched impassively, as though her tears were mere dewdrops on a leaf—there to be ignored. A slow burn of anger glowed behind his eyes, promising that this strike would not be the last. Camilla’s trembling fingers came up to cradle her cheek; she pressed into the pain as if daring it to break her.

He raised his hand again, but at that moment two figures emerged from the gloom: Larissa and Lakisha, her stepsisters. Larissa paused in the doorway, one pale eyebrow arching in triumphant scorn. Behind her, Lakisha’s gray eyes roamed over Camilla with thinly veiled contempt, as though examining the insect she was ready to squash.

“Boyfriend?” Lakisha’s mock whisper cut through the tension. “Someone’s actually interested in you?” She let out a harsh, shrill laugh that sounded like broken glass scraping stone.

From further down the hall came a cool, measured voice. Karina—Camilla’s stepmother—leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand cradling a steaming cup of black coffee. The other tilted her chin, and she let her gaze drift over Camilla’s bruised cheek. “I’ve seen him around,” she murmured softly. “He brings you food, clothes… helps you with your chores. Did you think I was blind?” She gave a contemptuous smile that rested like a suffocating blanket over Camilla’s shoulders.

Camilla pressed her lips together so firmly her jaw ached. Ash—her friend, the one who had rescued her from the wolf’s den with only a single letter—had never wanted his kindness used against her.

“He is not my boyfriend, Father,” she whispered as steadily as she could manage. “We are just friends.”

Her father’s expression twisted. He stepped forward until his breath ghosted across her face. “Friends?” he snarled. His voice dropped to a low hiss, venom curling around each word. “Sleeping around behind my back…” The accusation slithered into her ear like poison.

A small whimper escaped her throat before she could stop it. She knew, from the weight of his glare, what punishment would follow: something worse than the storeroom beatings; worse than the dungeon itself.

“Guards,” he ordered.

Two silent figures slid from the shadows, their leather boots soundless on the cold stone floor. Before Camilla could plead for mercy, rough hands seized her arms and yanked her backward. She twisted and kicked, but they were too strong. Her screams ricocheted down the hallway only to be swallowed by the thick walls.

They dragged her until the iron-bound door of the dungeon loomed in front of her. The guards shoved her inside, and one of them growled, “Lock her up. I’ll deal with her later.” The bolt slid home with a metallic clang that resonated through her bones.

Instantly, darkness swallowed her whole. The stale stench of damp stone and decay filled her nostrils. No windows. No moonlight. Nothing but cold walls pressing in on every side. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled onto the rough floor, her limbs folding beneath her like a broken marionette. The narrow cell offered no straw, no blanket—just bare stone.

She curled into herself, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, and cried until her tears ran dry. Sleep finally came only when sheer exhaustion hollowed her out.

***

In the manor’s grand salon, the landline rang with an urgency so frantic it crackled through the gilded room. Cameroon sank into an opulent velvet sofa, sweat beading at his hairline as he snatched up the receiver.

“H-hello,” he breathed, his voice catching. “Killan?”

On the other end, Alpha Killan’s tone was eerily calm—so cold that Cameroon’s face drained of blood. The lines around his mouth were tight, unforgiving. Five seconds passed, then ten, and Cameroon’s shoulders collapsed. He hung up the phone and let the ivory receiver thud against its cradle. Then he flopped backward against the cushion, hands covering his eyes.

Karina was at his side in an instant, soft concern on her face. “What is it?” she demanded.

He pulled his hands away to look at her, eyes hollow. “Killan knows we can’t repay the loan.”

Karina’s hair, a rich chestnut wave, went slack against her shoulders. Two months earlier, she had insisted on borrowing millions to launch her cosmetics startup, convinced it would be a world-conquering success. Instead, the business had collapsed in mere weeks, draining their coffers until every purse was bare. Now Alpha Killan’s ultimatum loomed: full repayment within twenty-four hours—or their entire pack would be enslaved.

Larissa drifted into the room as though drawn by the tension, her eyes shining with opportunism. “Father, Mother,” she said, voice smooth, “perhaps we can bribe Killan with gold? He loves gold.”

Lakisha nodded beside her, her eagerness sharp. “We still have gold stones in the vault.”

Cameroon shook his head, panic threading through his voice. “We owe six million. The gold isn’t enough. What else can we do?”

For a split second, Larissa looked uncertain—her ivory skin pale in the chandelier light. But then her lips curved into a sly grin. “You remember Alpha Kepha?” she began. “He couldn’t repay Killan, so he offered a girl—his own daughter—as collateral. Killan accepted, and the debt disappeared.”

Karina sucked in a breath so sharp it echoed in the room. Her eyelids fluttered as she stared at Cameroon, realization dawning cold. “Camilla,” she whispered, tone brittle. “She’s your daughter—useless to us. Why not give her to him as payment?”

In that moment, Cameroon felt something inside him snap. Only hours ago, he had beaten his own child to satisfy his rage. And now he was about to hand her over, like merchandise, to save himself.

He drew in a ragged breath, knuckles whitening around the sofa’s arm. “Prepare her,” he said, voice hollow as the silence that followed.