Chapter 3

Daphne Hall POV:

Arthur Foster was coming. Once he walked through those doors with his silver centrifuge and vacuum tubes, my life in this pack was over. Under pack law, an unmarried Omega carrying an unverified child could be locked away in a containment ward, stripped of all legal autonomy until the Alpha determined the pup's sire. And if Jameson realized the child was his—from that one night his control had snapped—he would lock me in a gilded cage forever.

I stood up. My voice shook. "I need to use the washroom. Immediately."

Jameson stared down at me. He didn't speak. He just drummed his knuckles against the fireplace mantel, watching me like a hawk watching a mouse crawl through open grass.

I turned and walked briskly toward the hallway. I bypassed the main powder room, slipped past the kitchen corridor, and pushed through the heavy wooden side door that led to the rear courtyard where the estate's waste bins were housed.

The night air hit my face like ice water. My hands trembled as I reached into my dressing gown pocket and pulled out the broken halves of the pregnancy test, wrapped in the toilet paper from earlier—and beneath them, the crumpled application letter I'd been carrying all day, waiting for a chance to mail it.

I rushed toward the large industrial trash bin near the stone wall, lifting the heavy lid with my left hand.

A hand clamped around my right wrist from behind.

A scream ripped from my throat. I spun around, slamming back against the stone wall. Jameson's furious gray eyes locked onto mine.

"Did you really think you could run behind my back on my own estate?" he snarled, his grip tightening until my wrist bones ground together.

Two junior guards near the garage stepped back into the shadows.

I twisted wildly, trying to pry his fingers off with my free hand, but he was an immovable wall of muscle. He caught my left wrist before I could break free, then pinned both wrists together in one massive hand and used his other hand to pry open my clenched fist.

"Open your hand, Daphne," he commanded, his Alpha tone vibrating against my eardrums.

The toilet-paper bundle slipped from my fingers. The pregnancy test rolled into the ivy at the base of the stone wall and vanished. The application letter fluttered onto the damp grass.

I looked down—the test was gone. Only the parchment remained, bearing the crest of Silvercreek Design Studios, a luxury firm three hundred miles north, outside Oakhaven territory.

Jameson stared down at the paper. The air went cold enough for my breath to mist.

He bent down, scooped up the letter with two fingers, and smoothed the crinkled edges. His eyes scanned the header—Application for Senior Jewelry Artisan: Daphne Hall.

A low, terrifying chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"You applied to a rival studio?" he asked, voice deceptively soft. "You tried to sneak an employment application outside my borders?"

I gritted my teeth, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. "I completed my coursework with honors at Pack Academy’s Design School. I only have the final submission left. I have the legal right to work where I choose. I'm an adult, Jameson."

"You are my ward," he corrected, venom dropping into his voice. "Every scrap of fabric on your back, every bite of food you choke down, the roof over your head—it all belongs to the Hardin name. And the Hardin family belongs to me."

He raised both hands and tore the thick parchment in two. Then again. And again.

White scraps fluttered through the night air, scattering across the damp lawn like dead leaves.

"You are never leaving Oakhaven," he said, stepping so close his chest pressed against mine. His fingers dug into the nape of my neck. "As long as I draw breath, you will stay inside the boundaries I set for you."

He spun me around and dragged me back toward the house.