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Ruined by the Sovereign

Chapter 7 

Word Count: 1312    |    Released on: 05/06/2026

e in temperature. It started as a heavy, dra

so tightly in her hands that the paper was slicing into her palm. She didn't care. The sh

throat, right over the bruised, hidden puncture wounds. The feral venom Michael had pumped into her

ed to alphabetize the financial recor

glass walls. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the dissociation back into place. *Compartmentalize.*

ed door to the arc

it. It wasn't the dark, suffocating weight of bergamot, pine, and copper. It was thin

y

hell did

und, placing the manila folder on the polished mahogany tab

e vibrating with a frantic, messy energy. He had slipped past the penthouse securit

s entirely flat. "If you are looking for the qu

n three heavy strides. "Elena came to my office sobbing. She

of caviar," Jane replied, picking up a

s to the floor. "You went down there! You gave yourself to a rabid

d, her tone as clinical as a receptionist denying a walk-in

nt mind. He didn't see the tactical genius of her survival. He only saw hi

the upper arm, his fingers dig

re of his grip. It was painful, yes. But compared to the massive, scarred hand that had

t making her stomach churn. "You're my leftovers. I rejected you. You don't get

n the room droppe

gen was sucked out of the archives, replaced by a sheer,

e hairs on his

past Ryan'

suit, the jacket unbuttoned, his hands casually resting in his p

ke rage on Michael; it

nd on the hardwood floor. He moved with the terrifying, fluid silence of a

Michael

hat barely disturbed the air, yet it r

chest puffing out in a desperate, pathetic display of dominance. "Thi

delusions," Michael interrupted, his

idn't look at his brother's face. He looked at Rya

mly, tilting his head. "If you ever cross my threshold uninvited again, I will not call the C

out of his pockets. He ad

g to meet Ryan's terrified gaze, "and I will use it to tie your jaw shut while I dismantle yo

his place was a terrified boy realizing that the horror stories about t

Ryan ch

t of my

rly tripping over the doorframe before sprinting down the hall

into the room, thi

acting like gasoline on the feral venom in her blood. Her skin flushed hot. Her breathing turned s

th his back to the door, staring

ene," Jane said. Her voice w

d mask he had worn for Ryan was completely gone. The

ical asset. He looked at her like

it her like a physical blow, and Jane's body violently reacte

thm. He inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as he caught the s

ed the reinforced glass door w

o the floor. He unbuttoned his cuffs, his golden eyes b

he whispered, his voice vibrating with pure

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Ruined by the Sovereign
Ruined by the Sovereign
“She didn't run when her fated mate rejected her; she walked straight into the subterranean fighting pits to be ruined. If the pack wanted her pedigree pristine for their golden boy, she would make sure her womb was violently, irrevocably corrupted by their locked-away nightmare. She just didn't expect the feral beast she fucked in a blood-stained cell to wear a bespoke Tom Ford suit to breakfast three days later. Jane was bred to be the perfect Luna, a pureblood mare for the future Alpha, Ryan. When Ryan humiliated her on Mating Day by claiming her perfect half-sister instead, Jane didn't break. She dissociated. Seeking absolute destruction of her political worth, she stole the warden's keys and descended into solitary confinement. She offered herself to Michael, the Blood Sovereign and Ryan's older, feral brother who had been locked in the dark for years. The claiming was a blindingly explicit transaction of teeth, slick heat, and suffocating pine. She left him in the dark, thinking she'd won her sick little game. Then came the pack dinner. Michael isn't chained. He isn't feral. He sits at the head of the table, executing a hostile takeover of the pack with cold, surgical precision. While discussing finances with her father, Michael pushes a wave of dark arousal through their hidden bond, watching Jane's knuckles turn white. When Ryan sneers that purebloods don't take leftovers, Michael's tactical facade slips just enough to be terrifying. He reaches across the table, his thumb pressing exactly over the hidden, raw puncture wounds on Jane's neck, and whispers, "My knot doesn't wash out."”