Chapter 1

I am an Omega sentenced to death by twenty-one silver nails.

On the execution platform, my Alpha stood at the highest point, watching with his own eyes as the silver nails were driven into my body one by one, yet he never uttered a word.

They said I had committed the sin of forbidden love—that an Omega should never harbor desires for an Alpha, and he had chosen to abandon me with his own hands.

When the tenth silver nail pierced through, I was still waiting for him to say "stop," but he only stared at me coldly.

It wasn't until I lost consciousness that he descended from the high platform and had the remaining twelve silver nails driven into his own body...

……

The silver spike pierced my left shoulder, and the entire execution ground could hear my wolf screaming.

They said I had committed forbidden love. That I, a rogue Omega, had developed improper feelings for the pack's Alpha.

So the Council of Elders sentenced me to the silver nail punishment—every spike had to be driven in while my wolf was still alive, so I could taste the burning agony before I died.

The first nail drove into my collarbone.

Silver poison crawled outward along the bone. My wolf thrashed inside my chest, claws desperately scratching, trying to escape.

I bit down hard, my mouth filling with the taste of blood.

The second one. Right shoulder. The executioner's aim was precise, every nail avoiding the arteries.

Silver burns. It burns from skin and flesh inward, through bone, through blood vessels, burning into that invisible, intangible thing that truly lives in my chest. My wolf was screaming.

The third. The fourth.

Each one felt like someone driving a red-hot iron rod into my body. Pain. Too much pain. So much pain that my vision went white, so much I forgot how to breathe.

I forced my head up, looking toward the platform through eyelashes matted with blood.

Marcus stood there.

Gray cloak, silver wolf-head brooch, he stood at the front.

Marcus. Alpha of the entire Blackstone Pack.

My Alpha.

His face was like a frozen lake, without a ripple.

He watched me. Not even disgust on his face.

The fifth nail drove through from behind. I lurched forward, iron chains jerking my wrists back to pin me in place. Someone in the crowd clapped. Someone laughed.

"An Omega dares covet an Alpha?"

"Kill her."

I swallowed the blood in my throat, continuing to stare at the platform. If he would just say one word. Make one gesture. If he would just walk down one step—

He didn't move.

The sixth. The seventh. The sound of silver nails piercing flesh was dull, like a hammer pounding into raw meat.

My left arm wouldn't lift anymore. The places burned by silver poison were turning black, my wolf's cries growing fainter.

I struggled to keep my eyes open, searching his face for even a trace—guilt, annoyance, anything at all.

Nothing.

He looked at me like I was a discarded old weapon being disposed of.

The eighth nail aimed at my ribs. As the executioner raised it, I saw the figure on the platform move.

Just once. His shoulder leaned forward half an inch. Then he straightened.

The nail drove in. I heard myself cry out.

The crowd grew more excited.

The ninth. The last one held in midair, torchlight reflecting off the silver, blinding me.

I suddenly didn't want to look at him anymore.

Ten years. I had lived for that full moon night, lived for the warmth of his hand on my head.

I had worshipped the casual tenderness he gave me like a shrine, kneeling for ten full years.

He had never told me to kneel.

He had never told me to rise, either.

The tenth nail fell. I thought it would pierce my heart.

But I felt nothing.

Everything went dark.

...

The executioner held the eleventh silver nail, waiting for me to wake.

They wouldn't let the punishment end halfway. That was the rule—either complete all twenty-one nails, or the person dies completely. No third option.

Marcus walked down from the platform.

He didn't look at anyone. He walked to the execution rack, looked down at my unconscious form.

Then he turned, facing the Council of Elders.

"I'll take the rest for her."

An elder stood up. "Marcus, do you know what you're saying?"

"Twenty-one nails." His voice was level. "She took nine. Twelve remain."

He lifted his left hand, rolling up his sleeve.

"I'll take them for her."

No one on the elder's bench moved. No one dared respond.

Marcus didn't wait for their answer. He walked to the rear of the execution rack, where a row of unused silver nails lay.

Twelve of them, perfectly aligned, tips pointing upward, gleaming coldly.

He picked up the first one.

The executioner stepped back.

Marcus took the iron hammer from his hand, walking to the empty position beside the rack.

He pressed the silver nail against his own left shoulder.

The position parallel to my first nail.

Then he raised the hammer.

Bang.

The sound of the silver nail piercing flesh was muffled. His body jerked forward, the vein at his neck instantly bulging. He bit down, his jaw tensing into a hard line.

He made no sound.

The third. Left shoulder blade, rear.

He braced against the wooden post, his whole body arching like something had slammed into him from behind.

The fourth. The fifth.

When the silver poison burned into his bloodstream, his whole body began to tremble. His body couldn't suppress that instinctive spasm.

But he didn't stop.

He picked up the sixth nail.

His white shirt was soaked through with blood.

The seventh.

His hand holding the hammer began to shake.

When the second strike fell, the hammerhead slipped, the nail only driven in halfway. He pressed it in with his thumb.

The eleventh.

He positioned the nail tip against his left ribs. The same position as my eighth nail.

He looked down at it briefly. Then he raised the hammer.

Bang.

This time his whole body staggered forward a step.

He braced himself against the wooden frame, head bowed, standing there for a long time.

Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away, his knuckles stained red.

He picked up the twelfth nail.

The last one.

He pressed it against his right ribs. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Then he opened them and raised the hammer.

Bang.

The hammer slipped from his grip as it fell.

The iron tool crashed onto the wooden platform, rolled twice, stopping at the edge of the pool of blood.

He stood there, both hands braced against the rack, head hanging low.

His entire shirt back was completely soaked. Blood dripped down his hanging fingers, one drop, two drops, hitting the boards, the rhythm slowing.

He stood like that for a long time.

Then he released his grip, slowly turning around.

He walked to stand before me.

I was still unconscious, head tilted to one side, face covered in dried blood.

He looked down at me, lips moving without making a sound.

He reached out his hand.

His fingertips touched the edge of my jaw. Very lightly, just a touch.

Then he withdrew his hand, clenched it into a fist, letting it hang at his side.

"Lock her in the third level of the dungeon." His voice was hoarse. "Without my orders, no one visits her."

"Alpha, her injuries—"

"I told you to lock her up."

The jailer didn't dare ask again.

He bent down to pick up the cloak from the ground.

Gray wool stained with blood, he draped it over his shoulders, pressing down on the still-bleeding wounds on his back.

He walked down from the execution platform. Through the courtyard.

Torches flickered behind him.

...

I might be dead.

But death shouldn't hurt this much.

When I woke, my back pressed against damp straw, the air thick with mildew and rust.

I moved my fingers. My shoulder was still bleeding, but the silver nails driven into me were gone.

Someone had treated my wounds.

The iron door creaked open with a squeal. The jailer stood in the doorway. He glanced at me, neither sympathetic nor disgusted, like looking at an item being logged into inventory.

"Awake?"

"Where is this?"

My throat felt like I'd swallowed coals.

"This is the third level underground." He hung the lamp on the wall, turning to leave. "Alpha's personal order, you'll be kept here from now on."

I tried to push myself up on my elbows, but half my body wouldn't obey.

"He...?" My voice cracked in two.

The jailer stopped. Looked back at me.

"Count yourself lucky," he paused. "No one who's taken ten silver nails has survived past that night."

The door closed.

The oil lamp flickered on the wall, stretching my shadow long.