Azaria's Point of View
When I first opened my eyes, the bright light was blinding, searing through my eyelids and forcing me to squint. The light felt harsh and unnatural, piercing through the lingering haze of unconsciousness, making it difficult to focus. My vision swam, blurring the edges of the room in a dazzling, disorienting white. Blinking rapidly, I struggled to adjust, but the intense brightness seemed to amplify every sound around me — the beeping of the monitors, the distant murmur of voices, the rustle of bedsheets. The sterile smell of antiseptic and clean linens filled my nostrils, sharp and slightly metallic.
My head felt heavy, as though it were stuffed with cotton, and a dull ache throbbed at the base of my skull, radiating outwards. The cold, stiff pillow beneath my head offered little comfort as I tried to take in my surroundings. The light stung my eyes, causing them to water, adding to my discomfort. Gradually, shapes and colors began to sharpen — the pale blue of the hospital gown, the sterile white walls, the muted greens and blues of medical equipment.
Each blink was a slow, painful effort, as my dry eyes greedily sucked in whatever moisture they could find. The brightness remained relentless, and I longed to close my eyes again, to retreat into the comforting darkness.
"Shit," I mumbled groggily, my voice thick and hoarse.
I heard a few attendants leave, and the remaining one approached me. "How are you feeling, Luna?" she asked.
As my vision cleared, I recognized Sally, the head nurse. She was excellent at her job — and more importantly, she was discreet.
"Head still hurts a little," I admitted, pushing myself up in the bed. "How did I end up here?"
"Oh, Gamma Theo brought you in. Said he found you passed out in the library. Do you remember what happened?"
Relief washed over me at the mention of Theo. Gammas were to the Luna what Betas were to the Alpha, and although Theo had been chosen by Ethan, he had shown nothing but loyalty and respect to me since I had taken on the role of Luna.
"Yes, I remember," I said slowly, choosing my words carefully. "But I don't think medicine will help this time." I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Please let Dr. Lillian know I'm awake. And, how long have I been here?"
Sally checked my vitals as she replied, "About six hours, Luna. I've already sent someone to inform the doctor. Alpha is waiting outside to see you — should I send him in?"
My stomach twisted at the mention of Ethan. Even though I wanted to recoil, I couldn't avoid him. I forced my voice to stay steady. "Yes, I would like to speak with him now. Thank you, Sally."
As Sally exited the room, I braced myself for the inevitable confrontation. I couldn't help but think back to my mother and how everything fell apart after she left.
My mother, Helena, had been a very special wolf — descended from the Alidan royal bloodline pack that had reigned in Arcanthia before the governmental reform. After the reform, the families of the bloodline started their own packs. The once named crowed prince started Bloodwolf pack with his wife. Their pack controlled the alliance agreements between all the family's packs and their allies. The pack is always passed down to the eldest child of the pack, although if a daughter is the eldest, she has to marry before taking over the pack. Everything went smooth until, well as the only child of my grandparents, my mother had been forced to step into leadership after their deaths, marrying my father to solidify her position. I was born almost a year later.
They said I was "kissed by Selene" at birth, but my life had hardly felt blessed. Instead, it felt as though I had been cursed from the very beginning.
I was only three when my father came home with another woman. He claimed my mother had died in battle, but I knew better. She was too fast and strong…mama was strategic and there's no way she just died in a simple battle. Margaret, my stepmother, had hated me from the start and never bothered to hide it. Her eyes, cold and calculating, saw me as nothing more than an inconvenience, a reminder of my mother's absence. After taking over my mother's pack, my father left me in her care far too often. She would beat me with a ferocity that left me trembling in pain. Her rage seemed to come from a place of deep-seated resentment, a hatred I could never understand but felt acutely.
The beatings were not always frequent, but they were severe. I remember nights spent huddled in my room, the bruises and welts on my body throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Margaret's anger would flare unexpectedly, and her hands, so often gentle with her own children, would turn into instruments of cruelty when directed at me. Her methods were calculated to ensure that no mark was left where it might be noticed, but the pain was relentless.
I would lie awake at night, trying to anticipate when the next punishment would come, terrified of the sound of her footsteps outside my door. Even in the silence, I could never feel safe. The constant threat lingered like a heavy shadow over my every action, watching and waiting for the smallest mistake.
Margaret had Zoe, her witch maid, to performed spells to heal the most visible injuries. But the pain beneath the surface was never addressed. I had learned to hide the worst of my injuries, to wear long sleeves and keep my head down. But the emotional wounds were harder to cover up, and the constant fear and humiliation became my daily reality. The healing spells only masked the truth, leaving me to suffer in silence.
A few months after arriving, Margaret got pregnant with the twins and I had hoped for a reprieve, a shift in her disdain. I thought that with her own children to care for, she might soften. Instead, the abuse only worsened. The twins were favored, their needs prioritized over mine. Margaret would lavish them with affection while I was left to fend for myself. Their cries were often heard, while mine remained silent.
Only one person in our so called family noticed—Marcellus.
Marcellus is Margaret's son, and though he is only my half-brother, he became my only solace in that house. Although he was three years younger than me, even at a young age, he knew what Margaret was doing to me. He was kind in a way that Margaret and Jennifer never was. When I was locked in my room after a particularly bad beating, he would sneak in with books or extra food. He had a way of making the bruises hurt just a little less, his soft presence a balm on my tortured soul.
I'll never forget one day in particular, just after Margaret had whipped me for some trivial reason. I was curled up in my room, too afraid to cry out loud. The door creaked open slowly, and Marcellus slipped inside, carrying a damp cloth and a small jar of salve.
He knelt beside me, his eyes wide with concern. "Azzy," he whispered, using the nickname he had given me. "Does it hurt?"
I nodded, too ashamed to speak. He touched my arm gently, his hands shaking as he began to clean the bloodied welts. His voice was barely above a whisper as he worked. "I wish I could stop her," he muttered.
"You can't," I croaked, trying to keep my voice steady. "If she knows you're helping me, she'll hurt you too."
He shook his head, his dark eyes flashing with determination. "I don't care. I'll always help you, Azzy. I'll always be there."
In that moment, I knew he meant it. Marcellus was the only person who had ever shown me unconditional love in our family. When Lilly became my maid and he started sneaking his witch friend, Lolani, to help heal me, we became a family of four. Lolani was actually a captive of our pack according to the older maids who would gossip not noticing, or just not caring about my presence. Her family had been killed and she was the lone survivor so dad just…took her. We were each other's only family in that house, bound by my suffering and our longing for happiness.
Jennifer, however, was a different story. She is Marcellus's twin and mirrored her mother's cruelty. Jennifer reveled in my pain, treating me as though I were beneath her. She would mock me, laugh when Margaret punished me, and sometimes take part in the abuse. Jennifer's taunts echoed through my mind even now, her voice cruel and sharp.
She mostly abused me anytime she felt I stole something from her, whether it was father's attention or acknowledgement, even though she knew he saw me as nothing more than a war tool. She got all his true admiration since she favored him more while just having a lighter complexion. Marcellus was closer to my complexion, although out facial features differed greatly from each other, even he didn't compare to Jennifer in our father's eyes. My skin is the same deep, rich brown, my white eyes, framed by dark, bold lashes, possess an almost luminous quality that gives them a captivating and intense clarity. My long black hair with a rich and dense texture, characterized by coiled curls that frame my face in a halo of natural volume. I looked like her, and he couldn't stand to be near me for too long, and even then, he would busy his attention elsewhere as not to look at me.
One evening, shortly after I had turned thirteen and had finished the building plans for the alliance center, Jennifer took it upon herself to inflict her own kind of punishment. I had been cleaning the kitchen when she found me, her eyes gleaming with malice.
"Still scrubbing floors, little princess?" she sneered, grabbing a handful of my hair and yanking me to my feet. "You think you're so special, don't you Aria? You're nothing."
She dragged me into the pantry, locking the door behind us. Before I could react, she pushed me against the shelves, her fingers digging painfully into my arms. "You need to learn your place," she hissed.
Jennifer's nails dug into my skin as she slapped me across the face, the force of it knocking me sideways. She kicked me while I was down, her sharp words echoing in my ears. "You'll never be anything," she spat, landing blow after blow. "You're just trash." Jennifer's nails dug into my skin as she slapped me across the face, the force of it knocking me sideways. Her nail polish bore wolfbane and she always had a mini whip hidden in the side of her dress, just like her mother. She kicked me while I was down, her sharp words echoing in my ears. "You'll never be anything," she spat, landing blow after blow, alternating between her fists and the whip. "You're just trash."
The pain of her strikes was unbearable, but it wasn't just the physical torment that broke me. It was the emotional cruelty, the way she enjoyed my suffering. I had seen her laugh with her friends, smile at Margaret's affection, but all I ever received from her were sneers and hatred. She was her mother's perfect image — cruel, cold, and calculating. She didn't have Margaret's brutal hands, but her words and actions were just as cutting.
With each strike, my body cried out, but I refused to let the tears fall. I had learned long ago that crying only made them enjoy it more. Instead, I curled into myself, doing my best to protect my face and torso, letting her rain down her fury until she grew tired of it. Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Jennifer stopped, panting slightly from exertion. She kicked me one last time for good measure, the heel of her shoe digging into my ribs, before she straightened up.
"Pathetic," she muttered as she dusted her hands off, as if the very act of touching me had sullied her.
The pantry door swung open with a loud creak, and Jennifer's heels clicked against the kitchen floor as she left me lying there in the dark, bruised and battered.
For a long time, I just lay there, my body shaking, pain radiating from every bruise and welt. The faint light from the crack under the pantry door did little to comfort me. My skin stung where she had grabbed me, and my ribs ached where she had kicked me. Every breath I took was shallow, trying to keep the pain at bay. But it wasn't just the physical pain that tore at me. It was the loneliness, the sense of complete abandonment. I had hardly anyone one who cared for me in this house — except Marcellus and Lilly.
Hours seemed to pass before I heard the soft creak of the pantry door again. I flinched instinctively, my body tensing as I prepared for more pain, but the voice that called out to me was soft and familiar.
"Azzy?" It was Marcellus, his voice barely a whisper as he stepped into the pantry and knelt beside me. His eyes, wide with concern, took in the bruises and cuts that marred my skin.
"I'm okay," I whispered, though my voice wavered. I didn't want him to worry.
"No, you're not," he muttered, his jaw clenching in anger as he gently touched one of the cuts on my arm. "I'm going to help you. Just hold still, okay?"
Marcellus worked quietly, his hands gentle as he applied the salve to my bruises. His touch was careful, almost reverent, as if he were trying to erase the pain with his very presence. He didn't speak much, but he didn't need to. His actions said enough.
"You shouldn't let her keep doing this to you," he said softly after a while, his voice trembling with emotion. "One day, she's going to take it too far."
I shook my head, my throat tight with unshed tears. "I don't have a choice."
He exhaled sharply, his frustration evident, but he didn't push the subject further. Instead, he finished tending to my injuries and helped me to my feet.
"Come on, you need to rest," he said, guiding me out of the pantry and toward my room.
Once we were inside, he and Lilly helped me into bed, Marcellus pulling the covers over me with the same care he had shown when bandaging my wounds. He sat beside me for a long while, watching me, as if he was making sure I wouldn't fade away if he left while Lilly left to get Lolani.
"I'm sorry I can't do more," he whispered after a long silence. "But I'm here for you, Azzy. Always."
I wanted to tell him how much his words meant to me, but I was too tired, too emotionally drained to speak. Instead, I reached out and squeezed his hand, hoping he understood how much I appreciated him.
The next day, as always, I put on a brave face and hid what was left of the bruises beneath my clothes. No one ever questioned me — they never did. It was easier that way. Everyone within our house saw me as Margaret's unwanted stepchild, someone not worth their time or concern. The rest of the pack just thought I was protected and loved heir of their pack, since that's the farce that we've led them to believe.
By the time I reached adulthood, I had grown accustomed to the cycle of pain and fear. I thought it would never end, that I would always be under Margaret's thumb, but then Ethan came into the picture, my way out, a chance to escape Margaret's cruelty.
I was wrong.
Ethan's betrayal stung deeply, even more than Margaret or Jennifer's abuse ever had. I had never expected love from them, but Ethan was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be my mate, my partner. Yet, even now, standing over me in the hospital room, he wore the same mask of concern that had once fooled me, but I could see through it now. His fair, yet slightly tanned skin looked striking against his rich chocolate suit complementing his overall polished look. His rich blonde hair, neatly styled with a classic side part, has a smooth texture and a sleek, polished look that complements his refined demeanor. Ethan's sharp, chiseled features and piercing blue eyes only added to his enigmatic charm. Ethan has a lean, yet athletic build, which can be expected since he works hard to maintain his refined, fit physique. His concern was shallow, his words empty.
"Beloved," he said softly, his voice tinged with a false warmth. "Theo found you and brought you here. What happened? Did you fall ill? Was it poison? Tell me what ails you."
I removed my hand from his grasp, sighing heavily. "Ill? In a sense. Poison? Maybe… in the form of our marriage. You ail me, dear husband. So, tell me, what will you do to fix it?"
Ethan looked confused, his brow furrowing. I continued, not letting him interrupt. "Answer me this, who were you fucking about six to eight hours ago?"
His smile faltered for a moment before recovering, but I caught the brief flicker of guilt in his eyes. "Why would you think I'm cheating? That's ridiculous. And even if I were, which I'm not, how would that affect your health?"
"Don't play games with me, Ethan. I felt your betrayal through the bond."
He chuckled, but it was humorless. "Only fated mates can feel infidelity through their bond."
"You'd be right — if I were just any ordinary Luna. But I'm not, and you know it."
Ethan's smile faded completely, his expression hardening. "Well, since you asked so nicely, an Omega came onto me, offering what you've denied me."
I scoffed. "And the mighty Alpha couldn't refuse. Denied you? Ha! As if I've ever been able to deny you anything since our marriage."
Ethan's smirk deepened. "I knew you'd see reason. And really, you should calm down. We can't have our Luna shouting, can we?"
His condescending tone made my blood boil, but I forced myself to remain calm. "The renewal contract for our marriage is coming up, isn't it?" I asked, changing the subject abruptly.