Chapter 2

Elowen's POV

Hanging up the phone, I pushed open my own hospital room door.

Dr. Gareth stood by the bed, his face ashen.

"Luna, you inhaled far too much toxic smoke in the fire. The physical damage is severe. If you don't rest completely and keep your stress levels minimal for the next month... you may be permanently infertile."

I stared numbly at the creases in the bedsheets. My inner wolf let out a tearing, localized howl of agony, but not a single tear fell from my eyes.

Gareth sighed and slipped out. Before the door even clicked shut, the crisp sound of heels echoed—Linnea let herself in.

She wore expensive silk pajama sets. A single small Band-Aid rested on the back of her hand. She looked flawless—nothing like a woman who had just barely escaped a raging inferno.

"Oh, Elowen, you look terrible," she smirked, making herself at home on the sofa. She examined her fresh manicure, her voice dripping with the thrill of victory. "The doctor said I only breathed in a little soot. But Rhys absolutely insisted on canceling all his executive board meetings at Hale Group just to stay by my side."

She leaned forward, dropping her voice. "You don't mind that he left you to die just to save me, do you?"

The cloying stench of her perfume filled the room, making my stomach churn.

"Shut up," I glared at her. "Get out of my room."

Her smugness faltered for a second, then, as if she remembered a script, her face morphed into a picture of fragile victimhood.

"Elowen, please... You can't just keep bullying me like this just because your grandfather favors you." Her eyes turned red. She reached out to tug at my hospital gown.

"Don't touch me!" I yanked back in disgust.

At that exact second, the door flew wide open. Rhysand charged in, bringing the sharp scent of cold iron and cedar with him.

Linnea hadn't even touched my clothes, but she threw herself backward with dramatic flair, crashing to the floor.

"Ah!" She clutched her wrist, tears pouring down her face. "Elowen, if my presence makes you so miserable, I'll just leave! Why did you have to feed lies to the press? Telling everyone I hook up with random men and try to seduce Rhysand?"

"Linnea!" Rhysand rushed over, pulling her into his arms. So natural. So desperate. A warmth I had begged for over the last three years.

"Rhys, don't blame her..." Linnea sobbed into his chest. "Elowen is just upset. I don't care about my reputation anymore, as long as I have you."

Rhysand whipped his head around. His cold gray eyes locked onto me, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he was ready to snap my neck.

"You really can't tolerate her, can you?" he asked, his voice entirely dead.

I almost laughed. I pointed straight at the woman hiding behind him. "Rhysand, do you have any idea she’s the one who started that fire?"

"I know," he replied without missing a beat.

I froze. He knew.

"If you hadn't spread those vicious rumors and pushed her to the brink of a breakdown, why would she have lost control?" His eyes were full of naked disgust. "If Linnea had died in that fire because of her emotional state, Elowen, you would be a murderer."

It was the most absurd joke I had ever heard. My fated mate was defending an arsonist and pinning the blame squarely on my head.

"Apologize to her," he commanded, looking down at me.

"In your dreams," I tilted my chin up, glaring right back.

Rhysand’s eyes darkened. He grabbed the glass of cold water from my nightstand and splashed it viciously across my face.

Ice water dripped from my chin. Three years of repressed grievances and absolute despair detonated in my chest.

I grabbed the heavy ceramic mug beside me and hurled it at his face with everything I had.

The mug shattered violently against his temple. Shards flew. A dark trail of blood snaked down his sharp jawline.

Dead silence fell over the room.

Rhysand stood frozen, his pupils dilated in shock, his chest heaving with fury. He clearly couldn't fathom that I—the docile, enduring wife—would ever lay a hand on him. But beneath his rage, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something unnamable—panic, a loss of control.

"Rhys!" Linnea shrieked, jumping up to shield him. Simultaneously, she shoved my shoulders hard.

Weak to the bone, I was easily pushed over. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of the table. Agony ripped through my nerves. I curled up on the cold floor, biting my lip hard enough to bleed to hold back a scream. Cold sweat soaked my spine.

Rhysand snapped out of his daze. He wiped the blood from his forehead, his gray eyes turning savage.

"Elowen Mercier," he ground out my name.

Propping myself up on my elbows, I struggled to lift my head. I looked at his twisted, furious face, and instead of crying, I burst into loud laughter.

"What's wrong, Rhysand?" I mocked him, my tone dripping with venom. "Your 'allergy' to me is suddenly cured, but you've gone totally braindead instead?"

The veins in his neck bulged. His humiliation turned into pure malice.

"Enough." His voice dropped to sub-zero, shredding his last bit of restraint.

He barked an order to the guards outside the door.

"Take her to the asylum."