The room emptied slowly, the thick air of judgment still clinging to the walls.
Selene stood stiff, the silver collar pressing against her pulse. Darius hadn't moved since the council's warning like a statue carved in rage.
"Follow me," he said without looking at her.
She didn't. "You planning to kill me now? Or wait until they give the green light?"
His eyes flicked to hers. Cold. Sharp. "Do you think you matter that much?"
"No," she said. "I think you're too much of a coward to make your own decision."
For a second, his jaw tightened but he turned and walked out. She followed because she had no choice. The bond thrummed like a leash, pulling her along behind him through the echoing stone halls of the estate.
They passed thick doors, strange symbols carved into wood, guards in black who averted their eyes. She felt like a trophy being paraded through a war camp.
But Darius didn't speak again until they reached a lower corridor, lit by red-hued sconces. The air here was colder. Older.
He unlocked a door at the end and stepped aside.
"Inside."
Selene hesitated.
Then stepped in.
It wasn't a cell. It was worse.
A training room bare floors, concrete walls, weapons lined up on every surface. And in the center, a bloodstained mat.
"Pick one," he said from behind her.
She turned. "Pick what?"
He nodded at the weapons. "A blade. A staff. Doesn't matter. You're going to fight."
Her brows furrowed. "Why?"
"Because if you're going to die, you're not going to die helpless."
She blinked. "Is that some twisted version of kindness?"
"No," he said. "It's the first order."
Selene's hands wrapped around the hilt of a short dagger. It was heavy, balanced, and far too clean.
She tossed it from hand to hand, weighing it. "You want me to stab you?"
"I want you to try."
He shrugged off his jacket and cracked his neck. No shirt beneath. Just scars, muscle, and the thick black ink of pack markings.
She forced her eyes to stay on his face. Focus. Don't think about him. Don't feel the bond.
Darius took a stance.
Selene rushed forward with a snarl.
He caught her wrist in mid-air. Fast. Too fast.
She twisted, kicked. He sidestepped. Her heel missed his ribs by an inch.
He wasn't playing. He wasn't holding back. And he wasn't helping.
The fight was dirty. Rough. He taught by hurting, not guiding.
And it lit something inside her—something primal.
When she finally drew blood—just a thin line down his forearm—he stepped back and gave a slight nod.
"You'll need to be faster."
"Or maybe you're just getting old," she muttered, breathless.
He stared at her. Then—
"You have three days."
She froze. "For what?"
"To prove you're not a threat, or to make yourself useful. Otherwise, the council will take you. And I won't stop them again."
"You said you'd kill me yourself."
"I still might," he said. "But not before I find out why the Moonblood mark didn't burn you alive."
Later, when she returned to her room, bruised and aching, she saw the new addition.
A chair by the window. A tray of untouched food. And a folder on the bed with her name written across it.
Inside: photos.
Her. As a child. As a teen.
And one she'd never seen—her mother, bloodied and chained, in the same collar Selene now wore.
A note paperclipped to the top page.
"She made the same mistake. Don't repeat it."
No signature.
But the scent was his.
Selene didn't sleep that night.
The photos haunted her. But it was something else that kept her alert—the way Darius had said useful. Like he was still deciding if she was a weapon… or a problem.
By morning, she had her answer.
Because when the door opened, it wasn't Darius waiting for her.
It was a stranger in uniform, flanked by guards, holding out a black folder with the words:
"Target Assignment."
Selene stared.
"What the hell is this?"
The man gave a cold smile. "You're being sent out with the Alpha. First mission. First kill."