Beta David dragged me across the rough, cold floor by my hair, each pull igniting a fire of pain across my scalp. The agony was unbearable, each tug making it feel like my skin might tear away.

My eyes filled with tears, and no matter how hard I tried to blink them back, they spilled over, hot and unstoppable, streaming down my cheeks.

Every inch of my bare skin felt raw, scraping against the gritty, jagged stones below, each scrape opening fresh cuts that stung and burned.

I couldn’t even grieve my father’s death. I wasn’t given a moment to mourn, to reflect, or to breathe before they decided I was next to be discarded.

My father—Alpha Nikolay Vladislav—had been taken down by silver poisoning after a brutal battle. He was the Alpha of the South, feared by many but loved by none.

He was ruthless, a man with an iron heart and fists to match. His power was overwhelming, and he ruled with cruelty that was legendary.

He took anything he wanted without hesitation or mercy, leaving people broken in his wake. Greedy and never satisfied, he always wanted more. And I, his only child, was no exception to his cruelty.

To him, I was a disappointment from the moment I was born. He had wanted a son, and I—weak, late-blooming, and female—was a disgrace in his eyes.

Valkin Alphas were supposed to get their wolves at sixteen, yet here I was, eighteen and still wolf-less, marked as nothing more than an ordinary werewolf. He blamed my mother for this, and he never hesitated to let that hatred show.

He scorned her because she wasn’t his fated mate.

Valkin Alpha werewolves, like my father, only truly manifested their magic when they bonded with their fated mate, yet he had chosen my mother.

With no magic to amplify his power, he channelled all that bitterness and resentment onto her. I bore the brunt of it as well, his daughter, his unwanted child, a symbol of his regrets.

Valkin Alphas were different from other Alpha werewolves. They held immense power, unmatched strength, and a magic that made them superior.

“Is she the one?” the stranger asked, his voice as harsh as sandpaper. He didn’t look at me as he spoke, as though I were nothing more than an object to be handed off. David nodded quickly, too eagerly, as if ridding himself of me was a prize all its own.

The stranger reached out, pulling me up with one swift, effortless motion, his grip unyielding. He looked me over, studying me with a detached sort of curiosity. “No wolf?” he questioned, turning to David.

“She’s eighteen,” David said, his tone dismissive, reminding them both that I was past the age to gain my wolf, and yet here I was—wolf-less, magic-less, little more than an ordinary werewolf in their eyes.

“She’s a Vladislav?” the man pressed.

David nodded again, almost smirking. “The last of them.”

And at that, the stranger’s mouth curled into a chilling smile.