Chapter 3

Clarissa's POV

No matter how I explained, a single tear from Ophelia made me a vicious monster in his eyes.

"You're right." I stopped struggling and looked at him calmly. "I am cheap."

Ezra froze.

"That corpse cleaner is substantially cleaner than you." I gave a hollow, freezing smile. "What do you want to hear? How I serve him in that basement? You disgust me, Ezra."

"Bitch!"

He threw me away like he'd been electrocuted.

My back slammed into the sharp edge of the glass case. The glass cracked and shattered into a million pieces around me.

"You have absolutely no shame." He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his hands, acting as if he had touched garbage. "Ophelia, we're leaving."

Ophelia took his arm, turning to shoot me a triumphant look before they walked out.

I slumped against the broken cabinet into the sea of shattered glass. A hot, wet sensation spread across my back before everything went black.

When I woke up, I was in my bedroom at the Ashford estate. My back was wrapped in bandages.

"Are you done throwing tantrums, Clarissa?" Margot Ashford sat by my bed, sipping tea. "Forcing Ezra to marry you would only humiliate everyone. There’s something you probably don't know: Ophelia isn't just a model. She's the long-lost Alpha daughter of the Silvermane Pack."

"She can help Ezra expand his territory. What about you? An orphan from a dead bloodline. How can you compete with her?"

I pushed myself up.

"That mortician's face might be ruined, but he's obedient and dull. Perfect for someone like you to play house with." She tossed a jewelry box onto the bed. "It belonged to a former maid of mine. Suits you. Consider it a wedding gift. Ten years of raising you—my debt is officially paid."

The box bounced on the blanket. Later, I opened it. Inside was a tarnished silver pin with someone else's name engraved on it.

I thought of the man named Rhysand. Everyone said he was a monster with half his face burned off, but I had seen him in the morgue alley a few days ago. His back was to the light, so I didn't see his face, but his posture was ramrod straight. The way he moved was far too elegant for a slum-dweller.

Even if he really was hideously ugly, it was better than staying in this man-eating house.

"Fine. I'll marry him."

Margot gave me a dismissive sneer and left.

That night, my bedroom door was kicked open. Ezra stumbled in, reeking of bourbon.

"Clarissa..." He leaned against the doorframe, reaching out to touch me. I took a step back, leaving his hand hovering in mid-air.

"I drank too much tonight. I was thinking about how things used to be... I'll give you one last chance. Call off tomorrow’s ridiculous wedding. Ophelia is generous; she agreed to let you bear my children in the future. That’s enough for you, right?"

I pulled open my drawer and took out a yellowed document.

The ten-year-old marriage contract.

"Watch closely."

I flicked my lighter. The blue flame bit into the corner of the paper.

"Are you crazy?!" He lunged to grab it.

With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the burning contract into the metal trash can.

"Ezra, the contract is ashes. We're done."

The firelight danced across his face. It took me ten years to realize that paper was never my protection; it was my leash.

"Good. Great." He suddenly burst into laughter. "You ungrateful idiot!"

He pointed at my nose. "Tomorrow, I’m going to watch you marry that deformed freak in the slums. And when he tortures you until you wish you were dead, even if you strip naked and beg on your knees in the rain, I won't spare you a single glance."

"Get out."

I slammed the door in his face.

The wedding was set for noon the next day. On the exact same day, at the exact same hour, Ezra and Ophelia’s wedding of the century took place in the city’s grandest cathedral—Margot had picked the date. Every camera in the city was on them. Not a single person came to mine.

My wedding was held in a small cabin on the border of the Starfall Pack. No priest. No guests.

When night fell, my feral instincts flared. Just as my bones began to shift, Rhysand wrapped I his arms around me from behind.

When the door was kicked open, Ezra was still wearing his tuxedo, his boutonniere crushed and crooked.

"Clarissa! I gave you a chance and you blew it, now get your ass back and serve—"

The rest of the sentence died in his throat.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed. Rhysand, the lowly mortician, held me in his arms without an ounce of hesitation.

I turned my head, my hair spilling over my shoulders.

The bite mark on the back of my neck was still bleeding. A fated mate's mark.

Ezra's pupils contracted violently.

"You... you let him mark you?"

Rhysand didn’t say a word. He simply raised his hand, covering the back of my neck and hiding the mark from view.

"How dare you—how dare you actually let this piece of trash touch you!" Ezra's voice cracked, bordering on a sob. "Clarissa! You heartless, lying bitch!"