The world was darkening with the agony of his sealed mate. Beneath Varg's ribs, there was no longer the heart of a wolf, but a piece of raw flesh branded by white-hot irons. Vespera had collapsed against the roots of that ancient oak at the edge of the forest, drenched in sweat, her body writhing in a fever. Her delicate frame arched like a bow, and the unintelligible whispers spilling from her lips hung frozen in the bitter Alberta air.
Varg realized in that moment that he only ever wanted to see her body arching like that beneath his own—screaming in pleasure, not in pain. He could feel the ache in her bones deep within his own chest.
"Poor girl..." Samuel's voice sliced through the silence like a blade. It was heavy with grief, yet it trembled with accusation. The Alpha stared with fury at his nephew, standing over him as if demanding an account. In the face of the girl's agonized screams, the only thing Varg could feel was a loss of control born from rage and helplessness.
