Chapter 3: Jumping Off A Cliff

Emma's POV: Six months. Half a year of existing in this gilded cage, and I've learned to make myself into nothing. A doll. A thing without thoughts or feelings. It's easier that way. Everyone says Prince Lucian is cold. Distant. A man carved from ice who looks at the world with detached disdain. They've never seen him in my bed. He burns. His hands are rough and demanding, his mouth hungry, his body relentless. He takes me like a man starving—like he can't get enough no matter how many times he has me. At first, I tried to be compliant. Thought maybe if I pleased him, he'd lose interest faster. Let me go sooner. It didn't work. So I tried the opposite—went cold, unresponsive, refusing to give him any reaction at all. Lay there like a corpse and waited for him to finish. That didn't work either. If anything, it made him more obsessed. He came more frequently—several times a day, pinning me down and working my body until I couldn't help but respond, couldn't stop the sounds that escaped my throat no matter how hard I tried to stay silent. "There she is," he'd murmur against my skin when I finally broke. "There's my little bird. I knew you were still in there." And the worst part—the part that makes shame burn through me every single time—is that my body betrays me. No matter how much I hate him, how much I hate this, my flesh responds to his touch. Grows wet when he commands it. Tightens around him when he moves inside me. He knows it too. Takes pride in it. "Your mind might resist," he whispered once, fingers working between my thighs until I was gasping. "But your body tells me you are addicted to this." He never touches the other girls they bring him. I know because I've asked the servants. They whisper that Luna Maria sends beautiful noblewomen to his chambers weekly, hoping one will catch his interest. He sends them all away. Only me. Only ever me. Sometimes he brings me things—silk dresses in deep blues that match my eyes, sweet pastries from the kitchen, books to pass the endless empty hours. Like he's courting me instead of keeping me prisoner. Like this is a relationship instead of captivity. The worst was three weeks ago. He'd finished with me—left me trembling and sore on silk sheets—but instead of dressing and leaving like usual, he pulled me against his chest. His arm wrapped around my waist, hand splayed possessively over my stomach. "Be good, Emma. Give me a son. A little wolf to carry on my bloodline." Ice flooded my veins. The casual way he said it—like it was inevitable, like my body and my future were his to decide—made me want to vomit. I didn't sleep that night. Just lay awake in the dark, one hand pressed to my flat stomach, praying desperately that I wasn't already carrying his child. 'I can't stay here. I can't. If I get pregnant, I'll never escape. Never see home again.' My eighteenth birthday came and went in this cage. I should have shifted. Should have felt my wolf emerge for the first time, that sacred moment every young wolf dreams of. She came—barely. I felt her stir inside me, weak and confused and frightened. Caught a glimpse of her through my own eyes—small, gray, trembling. Then she vanished. Too weak from months of captivity and trauma. Too broken to manifest properly. I cried for hours after. Mourned the loss of something I'd never really had. Lucian found me that way—curled up on the floor, face wet with tears. He didn't ask why. Just picked me up, carried me to bed, and held me while I sobbed into his chest. Like he cared. Like he wasn't the reason I was broken. *** The opportunity comes on a night of celebration. Word spreads through the servants—Prince Ethan is returning home. The eldest son, gone for twelve years at some distant academy, finally coming back to Red Claw. The entire pack is celebrating. Guards drinking heavily. Doors left unattended. Chaos and distraction everywhere. "Tonight," Sara whispers through the barred window of my prison. She's a kitchen slave, was trafficked here in the same batch as me.. "We've bribed the night guard. He'll unlock the doors at midnight. We run for the forest." Hope—that dangerous, terrible thing—surges through me. Her eyes are bright with desperate determination. "We might not get another chance like this." She's right. With the whole pack distracted by Ethan's return, security will be lax. Guards too drunk to notice. Attention focused elsewhere. 'This is it. This is my chance. I have to take it.' Midnight arrives with agonizing slowness. The lock clicks. The door swings open. Sara stands there, breathing hard, eyes wild. "Now. We go now." We run. Five girls in servants' dresses, barefoot and terrified, sprinting through shadowed corridors toward freedom. The celebration roars in the main hall—music and laughter and the sounds of a pack rejoicing. No one sees us slip into the night. The forest edge is so close. A hundred yards. Fifty. Then—bells. Alarm bells shattering the night like breaking glass. "STOP THEM!" "RUN!" Sara screams. We scatter. I veer left, legs pumping, lungs burning. Behind me—shouts. Snarling. The thunder of pursuit. A scream cuts through the darkness. I risk a glance back. Mara. A guard's sword opens her throat. She drops without a sound, blood black in moonlight. "No—" The word chokes in my throat. An arrow whistles past my ear—so close I feel the wind of it. Another girl falls. Arrow through her back. She crumples and doesn't rise. 'Don't look. Don't stop. Just run.' But they're everywhere. Cutting off paths. Herding us like prey. Sara screams. I turn—see an arrow sprout from her chest. She staggers, falls, blood spreading across her dress like a blooming flower. "SARA!" Another arrow. Another body. The fifth girl—I don't even know her name—drops with an arrow through her spine. I'm the only one left. Trees thin ahead. I burst through— And skid to a stop. Cliff edge. Sheer drop into darkness. The sound of rushing water far, far below. No escape forward. Footsteps behind me. Many. Closing fast. I turn slowly, chest heaving. Lucian stands at the forest edge, bow in hand. Golden hair catching torchlight. Purple eyes fixed on me with terrible intensity. Behind him—dozens of guards. All armed. All watching. My legs shake. Threaten to buckle. The cliff edge is inches behind my heels. One step back and I fall. Lucian lowers his bow slightly. Steps closer. "Emma." My name sounds like a plea. Like I've wounded him. "Why?" His voice cracks on the word. "I've given you everything. Beautiful clothes. Fine food. Silk sheets. And my—— ." He steps closer, and I see something that looks almost like pain in his eyes. "I've been good to you. Better than you deserved after throwing yourself at me like a w***e. I could have cast you aside after that first night." Another step. I retreat—feel my heel touch empty air. "Why？"  "I never wanted to stay by your side! You imprisoned me! "The word bursts out. “You were the one who made the first move back then—” “Because if I hadn’t done that, I would have been killed—and after that night, it was over between us!” His expression twists—hurt and fury mixing into something terrible. "After everything I've done—after how well I've treated you—you'd rather die than stay with me?" "Yes." The word is simple. Final. "I would rather die free than live as your possession." His face goes white. Then red. Purple eyes flashing with something that might be anguish. "Emma. Don't—" I don't let him finish. I step backward. Into nothing. The world drops away. Wind screams past my ears. My stomach lurches into my throat. Above—Lucian's roar of rage and denial. "NO!" Below—darkness and the sound of rushing water growing louder, louder, LOUDER— I'm going to die. Going to hit those rocks and shatter and it will finally be over— Something wraps around me. Strong arms catching me mid-fall. Warmth against the cold wind. The sensation of movement—but controlled, purposeful, not the helpless plummet of falling. My eyes fly open. A extremely handsome man holds me.