6

Bryan's pov

The tension from last night still clung to me like smoke—thick, choking, and impossible to ignore. I couldn’t sleep, not after what happened in the club. The moment my father excused Lisa from her punishment earlier that day, I should’ve known trouble was brewing.

She was already in trouble.

I needed a distraction.

That was how I ended up calling Desmond and a couple of the guys. We drove out to the edge of town, to our usual spot—a dimly lit bar built for alphas with too much testosterone and not enough sense. Cheap drinks. Loud music. Willing women.

Perfect.

Laughter spilled out of the cracked windows before we even stepped inside. The air reeked of alcohol and sweat, the place packed with rogues, loners, and thrill-seekers. I welcomed the chaos. Anything to drown the rage boiling inside me.

We claimed our usual booth, and shots landed on the table without anyone asking.

“Loosen up, Bryan,” Desmond said, elbowing me. “You look like your balls are in a chokehold.” he jokingly said, nudging my shoulder with his while I rolled my eyes.

I scoffed. “Just drink.” I muttered.

After a few rounds, the dares started flying.

One of the guys smirked, nodding toward a brunette at the bar. “Dare you to kiss her, Bry. Bet you she’s got more bite than your fiancée.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please.”

“You in or out?”

“Fine.” I downed the last of my drink, rose from the booth, and stalked over. She was average. Decent body. A little too eager. But I kissed her anyway—quick, sloppy, meaningless.

The guys roared with laughter when I returned.

“My turn,” Desmond said, grinning like the idiot he was. “I want her.”

He pointed to a woman in a red dress, dancing like the music was stitched into her bones. Long legs, dark hair, attitude dripping from her posture.

“Hot,” one of the others whistled.

Desmond swaggered toward her, but I barely paid attention. Until she turned.

My stomach dropped.

Lisa.

My mate.

My vision darkened.

That dress. That body. That look in her eyes like she didn’t give a damn anymore—it ignited something savage in me.

She was dancing with a stranger.

Touching him.

Smiling.

Desmond leaned in to say something. His hand slipped to her waist.

I snapped.

I stormed across the bar, fists clenched. Desmond stepped back the moment he caught the fury in my eyes.

“Look who’s whoring it up again,” I said loud enough for everyone near to hear.

Lisa turned, surprise flickering briefly before her face hardened.

“You really can’t stay away from trouble, can you?” I sneered, stepping closer, towering over her. “One night and you’re already begging for scraps in bars like the filthy low-rank you are.” I thundered angrily, holding a bunch of her hair and pulling it away.

She didn’t speak but her nosey low rank friend did, pushing me away from her. Before I could regain my stamina, Lisa kicked my groin angrily.

“Bastard” she muttered, dusting imaginary dirt off her palms.

My wolf growled out of the disrespect we have received and I stepped forward to slap her when a hand stopped me mid air, throwing my hands off.

“Back away,” he said calmly.

My eyes flicked to him. Masked. Again. Like a coward hiding behind mystery.

“This is between me and her,” I snapped.

The man stepped between us.

“It stopped being your business the moment you attempted to hit her like a dog,” he said, voice low and sharp.

The crowd around us grew quiet.

Embarrassment burned through me, hotter than the anger.

“She’s mine—”

“No,” he interrupted. “She never was. You treated her like trash. Now deal with the consequences.”

Before I could swing, he moved. Quick. Precise.

My wrist was twisted behind me, my body shoved backward. I stumbled. Caught myself on a stool. Laughter erupted around us.

I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t breathe.

I stormed out of the bar, rage clawing at my insides.

I didn’t even wait to reach the house. Irene had been texting nonstop. I didn’t answer—I just showed up at her door, tore the robe off her shoulders, and kissed her like I wanted to erase everything else. My mind screamed Lisa, but I let lust and bitterness guide my hands.

That night, I punished myself with Irene’s body.

But it didn’t fix anything.

—

The next morning, I sat in the garden, nursing a hangover and sipping lukewarm tea. The wind was soft, but it couldn’t cool the fire simmering in my chest.

Irene walked up to me in a silk robe, smug as ever.

“Good morning,” she purred.

I nodded once, uninterested.

She dropped a folder on the table.

My name was scrawled across it.

I frowned, opened it—and my heart stopped.

Photos.

Dozens of them.

Lisa. In the club. On that man’s lap. His lips on hers. Her dress pushed high. Her expression flushed.

Something in me cracked.

I stood up angrily and stormed straight to the maid quarters.

The door flung open just as she was tiptoeing in, looking like she hadn’t slept a second. Probably hoping to avoid attention.

“How dare you” I raged angrily, moving closer to her.

Slap!

My palm met her cheek with a force that echoed through the corridor. She stumbled, wide-eyed, one hand to her face.

“You ungrateful bitch!” I roared.

She stared at me, eyes flashing with a fire I hadn’t seen before.

“Oh, I’m the bitch?” she snapped back. “You cheated on me first with a mashed potato!”

She pointed at Irene, who stood frozen near the hallway.

“Look at her! You left your mate to rot in a cell and crawled into that. Congratulations. Guess you needed bland to match your soul.”

Irene’s face twisted with fury.

I clenched my fists, trying to reel it in.

“You think you can talk to me that way?” I growled.

She straightened her back. “What? Gonna hit me again? Go ahead. That’s all you know how to do.”

I saw red.

“Take her back to the cell,” I barked at the guards. “But not before I give her what she deserves.”

—

She was dragged to the main house. Her hands bound. Tied to one of the stone pillars in the grand hall like the criminal she was trying to become.

I didn’t wait for a guard.

I took the whip myself.

Each strike echoed louder than the last. Her body trembled. But she never begged.

Not once.

I hated her more for it.

Because part of me—deep, buried—respected it.

The more I hit, the more I felt relieved of my anger.

Her knees finally buckled.

She sagged forward, her chest heaving, blood seeping through her thin shirt. Her skin was slick with sweat. Her lips parted like she couldn’t even speak anymore.

I stared.

She was on the brink.

Her head tilted back weakly.

And she smiled.

That was it.

I dropped the whip, disgusted with her—and with myself.

“Throw her back in the cell,” I snapped, walking away.

She was dragged across the marble, limp and broken.