The Wife He Gave Away Became the Alpha's Only Weakness

The cold salt from my own sleeve still crusted on my cheek when he handed me across the threshold, trading me like a sack of damp grain to men who smelled of stale tobacco and swamp water.

I remember the grit of the floorboards under my bare knees after the door slammed shut. I remember the sound of boots retreating down the gravel path, heavy and unhurried, as if the man who called himself my husband hadn't just left me to rot in the outer districts.

They thought I was currency. They thought a discarded wife from the southern packs would arrive broken, shivering, and ready to sweep ash…