Maxim’s POV

The crystal decanter exploded against the wall.

Shards rained down like ice, glittering in the lamplight. Whiskey dripped down the wallpaper, leaving dark streaks that looked like blood.

I grabbed the next thing my hand found—a lamp—and hurled it after the decanter.

The crash was satisfying. Brief. Not nearly enough.

How could this happen?

The question circled in my head like a vulture. Over and over. No answer. Just rage.

The Alpha King. Fucking Nicolas. Marked my Irina.

I’d been standing right there. Watching. Unable to do a goddamn thing about it.

My fist slammed into the desk. Wood splintered under the impact. Pain shot up my arm.

Good. I needed the pain. Needed something to ground me before I lost my mind completely.

She was supposed to be mine.

Not as my mate—fuck that. I’d rejected her. Made my position clear in front of witnesses.

But mine to use. Mine to break. Mine to fuck whenever I wanted, however I wanted.

I’d planned it so perfectly.

Let her get sold to the trading post. Let them put her on that stage, desperate and terrified. Then swoop in at the last second, claim her as house property.

No one would bid. I’d made sure of that. Spread the word through every channel that she belonged to me.

And it had worked. The auction hall had been silent as a tomb.

Until he showed up.

My hands fisted in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.

The image wouldn’t leave my head—Nicolas bending over her. His mouth on her neck. His teeth sinking into her skin.

Marking her. Claiming her. Taking what was mine.

Was he fucking her right now?

The thought hit like a fist to the gut. I actually stumbled, catching myself against the desk.

Was she underneath him? Was she making those sounds—those little gasps and whimpers I’d imagined hearing from her for months?

Was he the one to take her virginity?

No. No, that was supposed to be me. Mine to take. Mine to ruin.

I’d promised her. Right there in that filthy basement cell, I’d told her I’d be her first. That I’d fuck her before they shipped her off.

But Nicolas had stolen that too.

Another lamp went flying. Then a chair. Then everything on the desk—papers, pens, a coffee mug that shattered into a dozen pieces.

It still wasn’t enough.

Nothing would be enough until I had her back.

Katerina’s face flashed through my mind. These sisters. These fucking sisters.

They were the same. Both of them. Whores who couldn’t stay where they belonged.

My boot connected with the overturned chair. It skidded across the floor, slamming into the wall hard enough to leave a dent.

"Fuck!"

The word echoed in the empty room.

I stalked to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. My breath fogged the surface.

Below, the compound stretched out in darkness. Lights flickered in a few windows. Guards patrolled the perimeter.

Everything looked normal. Peaceful.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"What?" I snarled without turning around.

The door opened. Footsteps crossed the threshold. Heavy but measured.

"Sir." The steward’s voice was carefully neutral. "You called for me?"

Right. I had.

I turned slowly, fixing him with a stare that made him take an involuntary step back.

"I need something," I said, my voice dropping low. Dangerous. "An omega. Female. Bring me one with light hair and blue eyes."

The steward’s face remained blank. Professional. But I saw the flicker in his eyes. The momentary hesitation.

"Of course, sir. Right away."

He disappeared.

I waited.

Paced the length of the room. Back and forth. Back and forth.

The door opened again ten minutes later.

A girl stood in the doorway. Young—maybe nineteen or twenty. Blonde hair pulled back in a simple braid. Blue eyes wide with poorly concealed fear.

She wore the standard omega servant uniform. Plain gray dress that hung to her ankles.

Close enough.

"Come here," I ordered.

She obeyed immediately, crossing the room with small, timid steps. Her hands were clasped in front of her, knuckles white with tension.

When she reached me, she kept her eyes down. Submissive. Obedient.

Everything Irina should have been.

I grabbed her wrist. Pulled her closer.

She made a small sound—half gasp, half whimper.

Perfect.

My other hand fisted in her hair. Not gentle. I yanked her head back, exposing her throat.

She trembled. I could feel it through her wrist, through her hair. Feel her pulse hammering against my palm.

I leaned in. Let my breath ghost across her neck.

She smelled wrong. Like cheap soap and laundry detergent. Nothing like vanilla and fear.

Nothing like Irina.

My mouth found her throat anyway. Rough. Demanding.

She gasped again. Her hands came up, pressing weakly against my chest.

I kissed down her neck. Bit at her collarbone hard enough to leave marks.

She whimpered. The sound was scared. Unwilling.

Good. I wanted scared. Wanted unwilling.

My hands moved to her dress. Found the buttons. Started tearing them open.

The fabric ripped. Buttons scattered across the floor, tiny clicks against hardwood.

She tried to step back. I didn’t let her.

"Stay still," I growled against her skin.

She froze. Went completely rigid in my arms.

I yanked the dress off her shoulders. It pooled around her waist.

Her breathing came fast and shallow now. Panicked.

I looked down at her. Took in the cheap cotton bra, the pale skin, the way she trembled like a leaf in a storm.

And felt... nothing.

She wasn’t Irina.

Didn’t smell like Irina. Didn’t look enough like Irina. Didn’t have that spark of defiance that made breaking her so satisfying.

Boring.

I shoved her away. Hard.

She stumbled backward, nearly falling. Her hands scrambled to pull her ruined dress back up.

"Get out," I said flatly.

She stared at me. Confused. Terrified.

"I said get out!" The words came out as a roar.

She ran.

The door slammed behind her.

Silence crashed down again.

I stood there in the middle of my destroyed office, surrounded by broken glass and splintered wood, and laughed.

A short, bitter sound that held no humor.

I’d become pathetic. Couldn’t even get hard for a random omega because she wasn’t the right one.

Footsteps in the hallway made me turn.

The door opened without a knock.

Grigori leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His expression was somewhere between amused and exasperated.

"Heard you were redecorating," he said dryly, eyeing the destruction. "Interesting aesthetic choice."

I glared at him. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in." He pushed off the doorframe, strolling into the room like he owned it. "Heard you sent a crying omega running through the halls half-naked. Wanted to make sure you hadn’t completely lost your mind."

"I’m fine."

"Right." His tone made it clear he didn’t believe me. "You still can’t accept it, can you?"

My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind.

"I thought you didn’t even want Irina," he continued, moving to lean against the desk. Or what was left of it. "You rejected her. Made a whole scene about it."

Heat flooded my face. Rage and something else. Something uglier.

"I never said I didn’t want her," I snapped. "I rejected her as my mate. There’s a difference."

Grigori raised an eyebrow. "Is there?"

"She can’t be my luna." I forced the words out through clenched teeth. "Can’t be my equal. Can’t stand beside me as I take over this pack."

I stalked toward him.

"But that doesn’t mean she gets to escape. Doesn’t mean she gets to run to another man’s bed."

"I heard," he said carefully, "that you spread some... interesting rumors. About her. About how she chased after you. Threw herself at you."

I shrugged. Didn’t confirm or deny.

"You do realize," Grigori continued, his voice dropping lower, "that if the Alpha King finds out those rumors came from you, our pack is fucked. Right?"

A laugh bubbled up. Dark. Mean.

"Let him find out."

Grigori’s eyes widened slightly. "Maxim—"

"You think I’m afraid of him?" I sneered. "The Mad King can come after me all he wants. But first—" I smiled. "—he’ll have to deal with his little mate."

Understanding dawned on Grigori’s face. "You want him to hurt her."

"He’ll punish her for it." The words came out smooth. Satisfied. "He’s the Mad King, after all. Known for his violence. His temper."

"This is insane," Grigori muttered. "You’re playing with fire."

"Maybe." I pressed my palm against the cold glass. "But Irina needs to learn. Needs to understand that no matter where she runs, no matter who claims her—"

I turned back to face him.

"She’ll never be free of me."