Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

The interior of the Aston Martin didn’t smell like new leather. It smelled like him.

Crushed cedar and the ozone of a gathering storm filled the cabin, heavy and suffocating. It was a sensory assault—a reminder that even miles away, Dallas Marshall was wrapping his fingers around my life. I sat in the driver’s seat, my hands gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white.

“Connect your phone,” Azalea urged, buckling her seatbelt. “This sound system is insane. I want bass that rattles my teeth p>

I fumbled with my cracked iPhone, plugging it into the sleek console. The system synced instantly, the large touchscreen dashboard lighting up. But before I could select a playlist, a message notification expanded across the entire screen, the letters bold and impossible to ignore.

Braydon: Stop playing games. Come home. You belong here.

The air in the car grew stagnant. The words hung there, glowing with a possessive toxicity that made my stomach churn.

Azalea let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s not just interested—that’s creepy, obsessive psycho level.” She jabbed the screen with a manicured nail. “He thinks you’re a lost puppy, doesn’t he? ‘Come home.’ Gross p>

“He doesn’t like losing things he considers his property,” I muttered, quickly disconnecting the phone to banish his words from the screen.

“Well, you’re driving a car worth more than his entire house now,” Azalea smirked, settling back into her seat. “Let him choke on that p>

𝖱𝖾a𝗱 𝗼𝗇 𝖺𝘯y 𝖽еvі𝘤𝘦 on

I forced a weak smile and started the engine. The car purred like a beast waking from slumber. I was fleeing one monster only to drive straight into the lair of another, and the irony tasted like ash in my mouth.

Ten minutes later, we were huddled in a booth at the campus coffee shop. The scent of roasted beans and sugary pastries usually calmed me, but today my nerves were wire-tight.

“You need to see this,” Azalea said, sliding her phone across the table. Her playful demeanor had vanished, replaced by a sharp, protective edge.

On the screen was The Howler, the Pack’s exclusive social media app. Katherine Parrish smirked back at me from the photo, her arm draped possessively over a brooding Braydon. But it was the caption that made my blood run cold.

Cleaning house. Finally getting rid of the wolfless parasites who think they can climb the ladder by clinging to Alphas. Purity matters.

“She’s talking about me,” I whispered, the shame burning my cheeks. The comments section was already filling with cruel agreements from Pack members who were all too eager to pile on.

“Don’t worry,” Azalea said, taking a slow sip of her latte. “I handled it p>

I looked closer. Beneath Katherine’s post, Azalea Sterling—daughter of the Alpha King—had left a single comment: a wolf skull emoji.

In our world, that wasn’t just a comment. It was a declaration. It meant you are dead to me.

“Azalea, you shouldn’t have p>

“She’s a bitch, and she’s boring,” Azalea interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “Besides, you have bigger things to worry about. Like that.” She pointed directly at my neck.

I froze. In my agitation, I must have tugged the cashmere scarf Dallas had left for me out of place. I moved to readjust it quickly, but Azalea’s hand shot out and stopped me. Her honey-colored eyes widened, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled sharply.

“That’s no bruise from a fall, Adelia,” she hissed, leaning in closer, her voice dropping low. “That’s a claiming mark p>

Panic seized my chest. The deep, purple mark on the sensitive skin of my neck throbbed under her scrutiny. It was where Dallas’s teeth had grazed me the night before, leaving a very obvious, very possessive souvenir.

“I walked into a door,” I stammered, the lie tasting sour the moment it left my mouth.

“Bullshit,” Azalea scoffed. “I know exactly what that kind of mark looks like. It reeks of possession.” She narrowed her eyes, scanning my face. “Who is he? And don’t tell me it’s Braydon, because that’s fresh, and it smells like power p>

I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t tell the Alpha King’s daughter that her father had bought me, claimed me, and married me within the span of twelve hours.

“It’s complicated,” I managed, staring down at my coffee. “He’s an older man. Someone powerful p>

Azalea studied me for a long moment, the silence stretching thin between us. Then, unexpectedly, she grinned.

“An older man? A sugar daddy?” She laughed, delighted. “Oh my Goddess, Adelia! That is the perfect revenge. Let Braydon rot while you get pampered by some rich, powerful Alpha. I love it p>

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. She didn’t know.

Just then, Azalea’s phone buzzed against the table. The screen flashed a caller ID that made her smile vanish instantly: The Bank.

“It’s my dad,” she whispered, her posture straightening reflexively. She answered, her voice shifting from gossip-girl warmth to careful obedience. “Hi p>

I watched her face, my heart hammering against my ribs. She listened for a moment, her eyes cutting to me with a look of quiet confusion.

“Now? But I have Econ in an hour,” she protested weakly. A pause. The voice on the other end was low and indistinct, but the tone of absolute command was unmistakable. “Okay. Yes, sir. We’re coming p>

She hung up and reached for her bag, her expression tight.

“Change of plans,” Azalea said. “He wants us at the flagship store downtown. Immediately p>

“Us?” I asked, dread pooling in my stomach.

“Yeah. He said you need to be prepped for a dinner tonight.” She looked at me, suspicion flickering behind her eyes. “Adelia, what kind of translation work requires a gala dress p>

I gripped the edge of the table, the platinum ring on my finger feeling heavier than ever. Dallas wasn’t simply keeping me. He was putting me on display.

“I don’t know,” I lied again, rising on unsteady legs.

But I did know. The King was summoning his property.