Chapter 4

The Twilight Bar pulsed with life as Malayah Hudson stepped inside, the private room awash in neon lights and thrumming with the rhythm of the music. On the small stage, Desmond Martinez, the Beta of the Silver Moon Pack, who was usually confined to his wheelchair, sat perched on a high stool. His fingers strummed the guitar with ease, and his voice carried the lyrics of a love song through the air. There was a carefree energy about him tonight—a side Malayah had never seen before.

His eyes were soft, his gaze locked on Waverly Bell, who stood beneath the stage lights like a radiant star. With a gentle smile, Desmond leaned into the microphone and said, "Waverly, I love you. Let’s get married."

Malayah froze at the entrance, her legs heavy as if they were made of lead. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, her heart caught in a storm of emotions. How could she reconcile the past three years? Love and hate twisted together in her mind, and for a moment, she wished she could storm in and demand an explanation. Why couldn’t he have just told her he didn’t want her? Why did he have to shatter her heart like this? Was her love truly so worthless?

The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles at Desmond’s declaration.

"Kiss! Kiss!" someone shouted.

Waverly lowered her head, feigning shyness. Desmond set his guitar aside, climbed down from the stage, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a deep kiss. The room exploded with applause.

When they finally broke apart, Desmond smoothed Waverly’s clothes and hair, his actions tender and possessive. Someone in the crowd called out, "Beta Desmond, your mating ceremony is in six days. Did Malayah agree to the breakup?"

"She’s clung to you for years, hasn’t she? Will she let go so easily?"

"Yeah, remember how she went to the healer for your leg? She was so pathetic. I still have that photo."

"Beta Desmond, why was she so easy to manipulate?"

Desmond smirked, his arm still draped around Waverly as he glanced at his wheelchair with disdain. "She chose to."

Malayah bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She leaned against the wall for support, her mind blank and her body weak. Yet, there was a strange sense of inevitability in her chest. Her heart didn’t feel as shattered as it should have. Just like Desmond said, she had chosen this path. Even if she stumbled and fell, there was no one else to blame.

Someone in the room suggested, "Beta Desmond, let’s play a game. What if Malayah shows up? Wouldn’t that be fun?"

Malayah straightened, her resolve hardening. She tapped on the partially open door of the private room, her eyes locking onto Desmond as he sat back in his wheelchair. She stepped inside, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. "Beta Desmond, I came to take you home."

Suddenly, someone kicked Desmond’s wheelchair, sending it crashing to the floor. His so-called friends laughed, one of them taunting, "You’re Desmond’s mate? He just lost a bet. We were going to make him drink as a penalty, but look at him—blind and crippled. Why don’t you drink for him?"

Malayah’s gaze swept over the table, already littered with opened bottles. She turned to Desmond, her eyes meeting his. She knew he could see her, despite his feigned blindness.

"Beta Desmond, what do you want?"

"Malayah, you play, you pay."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, tears welling in her eyes. "You play, you pay." What a cruel twist of words.

This was Desmond’s chance to prove himself—to prove he was still the Beta, still in control. He knew she was allergic to alcohol. In the early days of their relationship, he had been protective, shielding her from drinking at pack gatherings, saying with a indulgent smile, "With me here, my mate never has to drink."

Malayah grabbed a bottle and began to drink. The liquor was cold, but it burned as it slid down her throat. Her heart felt like it was on fire, ready to burst into flames.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Desmond watching her intently, his expression unreadable. Was every moment of her supposed deep affection just entertainment to him? Perhaps Waverly was right; Desmond didn’t love her. It was all just a game.

The crowd egged her on, their voices blending into a cacophony, while Desmond remained silent, detached. Malayah’s vision blurred as she finished the last bottle. She stumbled forward, her steps unsteady, and as she reached Desmond, someone tripped her. She fell hard, pain shooting through her body.

"Beta Desmond, are you satisfied?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Desmond’s smirk widened, but he said nothing.