ZALE'S POV;
Three days. That's how long it's been since I locked Amora in that room, shutting her off from the world, determined to teach her a lesson about the dangers she faced. But in those three days, I have learned something too—a lesson I never wanted to confront. Punishing her, isolating her, starving her of the comfort and care she deserves… it's been a torture I never saw coming. Not for her. For me.
I thought I was in control, that I was making the right choice to protect her from the reckless choices she might make. But each passing second stretched into an eternity, gnawing at me, breaking down the iron walls I'd built around myself for so long. I was supposed to be teaching her that running away would only lead to more danger. But all I've managed to do is show her that I'm the source of her suffering. The bond that ties us together—the one I've spent so long denying—is the very thing that's unraveling me from the inside.
Every time I hear her cry, it's like a knife being driven deeper into my chest. I know Wilder's been sneaking food to her, defying my orders, and yet I can't even find it in myself to be angry. If anything, I'm relieved. I'm supposed to be her protector, but instead, I've become the one inflicting harm, the one causing her pain. Damn this mate bond, I curse under my breath. It pulls me in directions I can't control, linking her suffering to my own, forcing me to feel every ounce of the anguish she's been drowning in.
And Lace—my wolf—is furious with me. He's been silent for three days now, refusing to talk, refusing to engage. His anger is a physical presence in the back of my mind, a constant reminder that I've gone too far. I keep asking myself the same question, over and over: Was I too harsh? But there's no answer, only the hollow sound of my own doubt echoing inside me.
Does she hate me? The thought of it twists something inside me. Every sob I hear from behind that door makes me feel like I've already lost her, that whatever fragile connection we had has been shattered. I've forced her to suffer in silence, and now I'm the one drowning in it too. This punishment—this lesson I thought was necessary—has turned into my own personal hell.
Yet, I can't bring myself to end it. Not at first. Every instinct in me screams to go to her, to open that door, to pull her into my arms and tell her that it's over. But I don't. I can't. I need her to understand why I'm doing this, why running from me—running from the truth of what she is to me—will only lead to more harm. But as the hours stretch on, as the minutes bleed into days, I start to wonder if I'm the one who's truly lost.
Lace, I reach out to my wolf again, desperation clawing at my voice. I'm sorry for putting mate through this. But you know why I had to do it.
His silence is like a blade to my chest. He's angry, angrier than I've ever felt him before. And I know why. He's connected to her in ways I can't even begin to understand, more attuned to her emotions than I'll ever be. He's felt every tear, every sob, every moment of her despair, and I've kept him caged just as I've kept her.
I won't let her be alone in that room anymore. It ends today, I vow, my voice steady, though inside I'm shaking. I've made up my mind. I can't keep her locked away, can't keep punishing her when I'm the one who's being broken by it. Are you happy now?
There's a pause, a flicker of something in the bond between us. And then, finally, he speaks. I will respond when you've done what you said, he growls, his voice laced with anger, before cutting off the link again.
I let out a breath, the weight of his words settling over me like a heavy blanket. Even my own wolf is turning against me. But I can't blame him. I've earned this. I've earned their anger, their hurt. And now, I have to fix it.
As I walk toward her room, my footsteps feel heavier than ever. The silence is unbearable. Every step I take, every inch closer I get, the sound of her crying grows louder. My heart clenches in my chest, a mix of guilt and something deeper, something more painful. When I reach the door, I hesitate, my hand hovering over the handle. How do I face her after what I've done? How do I make her see that this wasn't about cruelty, but about protection?
Without thinking, I push the door open. The loud crack as it swings against the wall startles her, and she quickly tries to wipe away her tears, but I can see the evidence of them all over her face. Her eyes are red, swollen, her cheeks still wet. She's trying so hard to hide her pain, to mask her emotions from me, but I see through it all. And it's like a punch to the gut.
She doesn't say anything. She just turns her back to me, her body tense, as if bracing for something worse. The sight of her like this—defeated, broken—it makes me sick. I force the words out, my voice sounding harsher than I intend. "Go and freshen up," I tell her, trying to maintain the authority I'm clinging to. "A maid will come for you in thirty minutes."
She doesn't move, doesn't respond. But I know she heard me. I continue, my voice a little softer, but still laced with the command I'm used to giving. "I'll leave clothes for you. I don't want lateness." My words fall flat, the edge of authority losing its sharpness as I realize just how fragile she looks.
I turn to leave, closing the door much more softly than when I'd entered. As I walk away, the tension in my chest eases just slightly. I've made my decision. Her punishment is over. No more isolation. No more tears. I've already instructed the chef to prepare a meal fit for her, something to restore her strength, her spirit. She'll eat at the dining table tonight, and I'll be there with her. I can't keep hiding her away. Not now. Not ever.
I sit at the dining table, waiting. Thirty minutes pass, and then I see her. She's following the maid, her eyes wide with curiosity as she looks around, taking in the world she hasn't seen in days. She looks almost… relieved. There's a small smile playing on her lips—a smile I've never seen before. It's tentative, cautious, but it's there. And it's beautiful.
She looks like a different person. Lighter, freer, even if only for a moment. The way the light hits her, she seems almost ethereal, like a fairy stepping out of the pages of a storybook. I can't help but stare, captivated by the sight of her. It's a feeling I can't explain, a warmth spreading through me that I've never experienced before.
"Alpha?" the maid speaks, breaking the moment.
"You can leave," I say, not taking my eyes off Amora. I don't want to look away, don't want to miss a single second of the way she's moving, the way she's looking at the world around her. It's as if she's seeing everything for the first time, and it takes my breath away.
The maid leaves, and suddenly, it's just the two of us. Alone, in the quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Amora is still fidgeting, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of the shirt she's wearing. She won't meet my gaze, keeping her head down, as if afraid to look at me. And it cuts me deeper than anything else has these past three days.
"Sit down, Amora," I say gently, watching as she hesitates for only a moment before lowering herself into the chair. She's still quiet, still avoiding eye contact. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands twitch with uncertainty.
I don't want to push her, but I have to break the silence. "From today onwards," I start, my voice steady but soft, "you'll have breakfast here." I pause, waiting for her reaction, but she doesn't say anything. She just sits there, quiet, fidgeting.
Then, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, she lifts her head and looks at me. Her eyes meet mine, and I see the surprise, the confusion, the flicker of something else—something like hope. And for the first time in three days, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I haven't completely lost her.
But I know this is only the beginning.