Stockholm Syndrome

Selah's POV

The word hit my stomach like a physical blow, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs.

"Preg... pregnant?" I stammered. Profound shock coursed through my battered body. My wide eyes darted frantically between Zane’s smug face and my sister.

Vespera remained comfortably seated on Zane's lap, her posture relaxed and victorious. She offered a slow, chilling smile laced with dark amusement. "Yes," she replied smoothly, her voice a soft purr. "You look surprised, sister. Did you not expect me to be pregnant?"

Her tone was entirely too casual for the sheer devastation she was causing. I forced a stiff, broken nod, my voice shaking as the words tumbled out. "I... I didn't know." A bitter, tangled knot of envy twisted deep in my gut. I tried to summon genuine happiness for my blood, but the ugly truth was I felt hollow. She had everything figured out, living a life of luxury and power, while I was rotting in the shadows of the packhouse.

Vespera waved her delicate hand dismissively, uncaring of my inner turmoil. "You wouldn't have known. I recently acquired a specialized potion from a witch. It is designed to completely mask my scent from any potential enemies who might wish harm upon the Alpha's heir." She shifted against Zane's broad chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt. "Maeve will be coming along simply to assist me with any potential medical complications during the trip."

My exhausted mind spun. Why Maeve? Why thrust my secret healer, my only ally, into the dangerous spotlight of the Alpha's inner circle? Before I could even begin to process the twisted logic of her words—or voice my frantic questions about the risk to Maeve's life—Zane’s deep voice shattered the room.

"Guards!" he bellowed.

Panic instantly clawed at my chest. The heavy wooden doors swung open, and heavy boots stomped against the floorboards. Rough, unforgiving hands suddenly grabbed my bruised arms. They violently yanked me backward, pinning me hard against the rough oak of the doorframe. My breath hitched in pure terror. I struggled against their iron grip, my boots scraping desperately against the floor.

"What's going on?" I demanded, my voice cracking.

"Today is Sunday," Vespera explained softly.

She looked at me. On the surface, her expression was heartbreakingly sympathetic, a flawless mask of pity. But underneath, it was fundamentally hollow. "You need to receive your weekly whips. I'm sorry, sister, that I have not been able to help."

I opened my mouth to plead, to beg her to use her new leverage as the mother of the heir to stop this, but the guards brutally dragged me out of the office. As they pulled me backward into the dim hallway, I caught a fleeting, sinister glint. It was a sharp flicker of pure, unadulterated malice hidden deep beneath Vespera's beautiful violet eyes.

It was a look of absolute triumph.

Hours later, the dim, flickering light of the basement cast long, grim shadows over the cold stone floor. The air down here was always thick with the metallic stench of my own blood. I lay flat on my stomach on a hard table, biting down hard on a rolled-up piece of cloth to muffle my wretched screams.

I hissed and winced in agony. Maeve stood over me, her hands gentle but trembling slightly as she carefully tended to my torn, bleeding flesh. She meticulously worked with a pair of silver tweezers. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from my throat as she agonizingly removed the tiny, microscopic silver splinters embedded deep in my fresh whip wounds.

As an omega, my natural healing capabilities were dreadfully slow. Without Maeve's highly illegal, secret medical assistance, the infection and blood loss would have ended my miserable life weeks ago. She wiped away a fresh trail of blood with a damp rag, her brow deeply furrowed in concern.

"Today's whipping seemed heavier than the others," Maeve observed, her voice tight with worry.

"I think it's because my back doesn't have scars anymore," I muttered weakly, pressing my hot cheek flat against the freezing stone table. "Whenever he does not see the designs he had done on my back with his whip, it ticks him off. He wants to leave a permanent mark, and you keep erasing his twisted artwork."

Maeve let out a heavy sigh, tossing another bloody silver splinter into a metal bowl with a sharp clink. A profound, suffocating fear for her safety suddenly overwhelmed me. The reality of her attending the trip with Zane and Vespera weighed on my chest. I turned my head slightly, wincing as the movement pulled my shredded skin tight.

"We need to stop," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "You need to stop healing me."

Maeve paused, her bloody tweezers hovering over my back. "Is there a reason why you want me to stop?"

"Because it's highly illegal," I pleaded, staring up into her tired eyes. "If they find out you're the one fixing me, they will hurt you. They will string you up right next to me. Who knows if they suspect you right now? Why else would Vespera request you for the trip?"

Maeve scoffed at my panic, waving off my concern. "Relax. I wear a mask every night I sneak down here. No one knows. We're in the deepest level of the basement where the healers keep the extra supplies. It's perfectly hidden. I can't just stand by and let my friend suffer at the hands of this injustice."

I shook my head stubbornly, squeezing my eyes shut against the stinging pain of the antiseptic she applied. "It's too dangerous. Just leave it. Vespera will eventually step in. She will solve everything."

Maeve let out a harsh, bitter laugh. The sound echoed sadly in the empty, damp basement. "Solve? Why can't you see, Selah, that your so-called sister is using you?"

"She isn't," I snapped, clinging desperately to my defense of her.

Maeve wiped her bloody hands on a towel and walked around to the front of the table. "I think I know the diagnosis for your blind loyalty," she said, her voice dropping into a tone of profound pity. "Stockholm syndrome."

I opened my eyes, frowning in confusion. "Stockholm syndrome?"

Maeve nodded solemnly. She gently explained the psychological phenomenon to me, her words cutting through my delusions like a knife. "It's a condition where hostages develop a twisted, desperate affection for their captors. You've endured vicious, repeated cycles of manipulation, fear, and physical abuse. Vespera gives you a little bit of hate, orchestrates your torture, and then throws you a crumb of fake sympathy. She plays the helpless sister while letting her mate destroy you. The next thing she knows, you are acting like a loyal dog, defending the very person holding the leash."

I recoiled, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I swallowed hard, looking down at my scarred arms. Was it true? Had I become so pathetic that I couldn't see the cage I was locked in?

"But... Vespera is my sister," I protested, my voice trembling as hot tears pricked my eyes.

Maeve reached out, placing a comforting hand on my uninjured shoulder. "I know it's difficult to accept. But sometimes, the people we trust the most are the ones who hurt us the deepest."

"It's not true," I insisted, pushing her hand away as panic flared in my chest. "Vespera knows you heal me. I know she does, but she never reports us to the Alpha. Do you know why? Because she loves me and won't do anything to hurt me. She even wants you to come with us to the capital so you can stay close and safe. She cares. I don't have some syndrome. Sisters fight. She is working on it. The whippings will stop soon, you'll see."

Maeve simply shook her head gravely. Her eyes were heavy with a sorrowful knowing. She didn't argue anymore, realizing my walls were too thick to break down tonight. Without another word, she packed her bloody supplies into her leather bag, turned on her heel, and walked away into the shadows.

The heavy metal door clicked shut, leaving me entirely alone in the suffocating silence.

I slowly pulled my knees tightly to my chest, ignoring the searing pain in my back. Hot, shameful tears finally spilled over my cheeks, dropping onto the cold stone. Who was I actually deceiving? It was glaringly obvious that Vespera didn't truly care for me. But with absolutely nowhere else to go and no one else to protect me in this brutal pack, I had no choice. I had to blindly, pathetically believe that one day, somehow, it would all be fine.

Soon after that devastating realization, the pack set off toward the grand capital for the highly anticipated Lycan King's mating ball.

The journey was an exercise in degradation. While Vespera, Zane, and Maeve rode in luxurious comfort inside the plush, velvet-lined carriage, I was forced to sit outside. I huddled on the hard wooden bench beside the gruff coachman, completely exposed to the biting wind. The icy air whipped at my face, freezing the tear tracks to my cheeks and sending violent shivers down my battered spine.

My stomach was tied in anxious knots, filled with a swarm of terrified butterflies. This was the first time I was ever leaving the pack territory, and we were heading straight into the jaws of a monster.

My mind raced with the dark, bloody rumors surrounding the tyrant Lycan King, Darius. The stories traded in the slave quarters painted a picture of a ruthless demon. Whispers claimed he had mercilessly slaughtered entire packs with his bare hands, painting the snow red with the blood of his enemies. They said he had brutally murdered his own family to seize absolute power over the realm, and that he bore a hideous, demonic curse that made him more beast than man.

For generations, the Lycan kings had been deeply cursed. They were tragically unable to naturally sense their fated mates. They had no scent pull, no instinctual bond. Because of this affliction, the Imperial Summit mating ball was mandated by strict law. Every high-ranking, unmated wolf across the realm was required to attend and parade themselves before the throne.

Yet, the darkest rumor of all was the chilling mortality rate. Anyone chosen by the current king met a horrific, unfortunate fate. They all died before they could even properly mate. Their bodies were quietly disposed of, the causes of death buried under layers of royal secrecy.

This was the fifth time King Darius was selecting a bride. Four women had already walked through his palace doors, never to breathe again.

I pulled my thin shawl tighter around my shivering shoulders, staring out at the blurred line of passing trees. The looming shadow of the capital grew closer with every rotation of the carriage wheels. I silently prayed to the Goddess. Hopefully, this chosen bride would survive. Hopefully, this grand ball would be his last.