Damon Volkova
The first thing I register when I wake is the quiet. Too quiet.
I push myself upright, my muscles still coiled tight from the shift. My bare skin is cold against the air, my shredded clothes a useless heap on the floor. The scent of whiskey, sweat, and something far more bitter lingers—Sienna.
A low growl rumbles in my chest as the memories settle, sharp and unwelcome.
She drugged me. She thought she could control me.
And she almost did.
My hands flex at my sides, claws still itching beneath my skin. The anger simmers low, coiled and lethal, waiting to strike.
Enough.
I rise, rolling my shoulders, feeling the familiar burn of barely restrained fury. My movements are slow, measured, but the storm inside me is anything but.
It's time to deal with her.
Sienna's scent leads me down the hallway, faint but unmistakable. It clings to the air like a poison.
I push open the grand double doors of her room without knocking. The moment she sees me, she flinches. Good. She had better be scared. She is about to feel my wrath for what she did.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in silk, her dark hair cascading down her shoulders in carefully arranged waves. A performance. Even now, she's playing a role.
Her eyes are red-rimmed, tears glistening on her cheeks. But beneath them—beneath the trembling lip and delicate, wounded act—lies something else. A flicker of something ugly.
She recovers quickly, sniffling as she rises to her feet, clutching the robe tighter around her frame. "Damon—"
"Pack your things," I cut her off, my voice cold as steel. "You're leaving."
Her lips part slightly, her breath hitching, but she doesn't crumble. Instead, she shakes her head, stepping closer. "You don't mean that."
My jaw tightens. "I do."
"You were drugged!" she exclaims, voice raw with false emotion. "You weren't thinking straight. I only— I was only trying to—"
"Trying to what?" I snap, stepping forward, crowding her space. "Trap me? Take away my choice? Play your twisted little game?"
She inhales sharply but doesn't step back. Instead, she tilts her chin up, eyes gleaming with something far too satisfied for a woman supposedly broken.
"You don't get to throw me away, Damon." Her voice is quiet now, measured. "Not when I still have a place in this house. In this family."
A slow, dark chuckle escapes me. "This family?"
Before she can react, I reach out, grabbing her by the wrist. Not enough to hurt—yet—but enough to remind her that she doesn't hold the power here.
"You think you still belong here?" I murmur, voice low and dangerous. "That you're anything more than a leech clinging to my name?"
She gasps, struggling against my grip, but I don't let go.
The door creaks behind us. I don't turn, but I sense them—servants lingering in the hallway, watching.
They've always despised her. And now, with my command hanging in the air, they wait.
For the first time in too long, the power in this house is shifting.
Sienna notices it, too.
Her eyes dart toward the doorway, her breaths coming faster now. "Damon, please. Your father—"
"Will not save you," I say coldly.
I let go of her wrist, turning toward the doorway. "Get her things. Now."
The servants don't hesitate.
Sienna lets out a small, broken sound, shaking her head wildly. "No, no, you can't—"
But they're already moving. The doors open wider, and the staff—who've endured her cruelty in silence—step inside, faces blank but movements swift.
One grabs her suitcases from the closet. Another tosses her perfume bottles and silken robes into a box without care.
Sienna's breath quickens, panic flashing across her features. "Damon, please—"
"Enough."
She freezes at my tone.
I meet her gaze, unrelenting. "You're done here, Sienna."
A heavy silence stretches between us. The servants move around her like ghosts, their satisfaction subtle but unmistakable.
And then—
Footsteps. Heavy. Purposeful. I could smell his wolf him even if he were five blocks away.
My father.
The air shifts, thickening with something weighty. The servants still, their hands still buried in her things, but their eyes flick toward the door.
A moment later, Nikolai Volkova steps into the room.
The temperature drops.
My father is an imposing man—tall, broad, with the kind of presence that commands obedience without words. His silver-threaded hair is neatly combed back, his face lined with power and years of authority.
Nikolai Volkova, former Alpha of the Ironclad Pack, is a legend forged in war and dominance. A ruthless tactician and an unyielding force, he built the pack into an empire through blood, steel, and fear. His presence alone commands submission—his towering frame, graying hair, and piercing wolf-gold eyes a testament to the battles he's survived. Even in retirement, his word is law, his reputation unchallenged. Strength defines him, but so does his belief in power above all else. To him, weakness is intolerable, and disobedience is betrayal.
His gaze sweeps the room, taking in the chaos. Then, it lands on me.
"What's going on here?" His voice is calm. Deceptively so.
Sienna, damn her, seizes the moment.
She rushes toward him, eyes wide, voice trembling with just the right amount of distress. "Alpha, please—Damon is—he's throwing me out. I tried to tell him, but he won't listen!"
My father watches her. Then he turns to me.
"Damon," he says, slow and deliberate. "Explain."
"She drugged me," I say bluntly. "Tried to manipulate me."
His expression doesn't change. "And?"
The muscles in my jaw tighten. "And she doesn't belong here."
For a long moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, coiling tighter.
Then, Nikolai exhales, a slow, measured breath. He turns slightly, eyes flicking toward the servants still moving her things.
"Put it all back."
The air stills.
Sienna stiffens.
The servants freeze, hesitant, caught between two orders.
My father turns back to me, his face a mask of calm authority. But his next words cut through the room like a blade.
"If you throw her out," he says, voice quiet but firm, "then you are no son of mine."
The words land like a blow, reverberating through the space.
I stare at him, something slow and seething curling in my gut.
Sienna lets out a soft, shaky breath. And then—beneath the tears, beneath the act—a small, victorious smirk curves her lips.
I want to rip it off her face.
The servants glance between us, eyes darting in silent alarm. They know what this means. What it costs.
My father holds my gaze, unflinching. His word is final.
Sienna steps back, fingers clutching her robe tighter, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears—but that smirk remains.
She's won this round.
My father turns away from me, already dismissing the matter. "Sienna, go back to your room."
She hesitates for a fraction of a second—just long enough to let me see her triumph—then nods, stepping past me without another word.
The servants, deflated, step back, their quiet resentment palpable.
Nikolai Volkova doesn't spare me another glance as he strides toward the door.
And just like that, the room empties.
Leaving me alone.
Seething.
Burning.
I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms as the anger coils tighter, hotter.
This isn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Sienna will never be my Luna. Lilith will.