Devon struggled to keep track of time. Minutes dragged into hours, and an eternity passed in the blink of an eye. She stared at the rock, not raising her head to look beyond the edge of the central raised circle.

Why would she when she only had to close her eyes to see the thirty-two rotting corpses of the blameless souls condemned with her, scattered among the standing stones like straw dolls?

Lya, who raised her; Hank, who taught her what a father should be; and so many others who belonged to her court. Their deaths tore at her insides, searing her conscience.

Not even bothering to wield the weapon himself, her father—King Wolfgang—had Marcus punctuate each murder with a lash of the king's silver-studded whip on her exposed back. It released trace amounts of silver into each deep laceration, and the metal prevented her cuts from closing or healing. Those injuries leaked blood, pus, and gore.

After the dark prince released her from the whipping pole, he tethered her to the central stone with a six-foot-long chain, stalked her—chasing his prey—and tripped her. It triggered her instinct to fight, but when she turned on him, he pelted her with his fists, something achieved with ease in her weakened condition. He gave her some space, then followed it up with a few kicks to hasten her pace.

Devon cringed at the memory.

"Run from me, mighty wolf. Let's see this royal blood of yours in action," he had taunted, and the crowd mocked her.

"First, I will break her spirit, but after, I will take what should have been mine. She won't be too good for me after I am finished with her," he jeered.

The men's laughter and the knowing titter of the females filled the air.

What did I even do that they hate me so much? she agonized. Was I not kind to them? Did I not feed them when they were hungry or help them when they were in trouble? Did I not defend these lands from foreign invaders and bandits? Did I not support their businesses and their establishments? What sin did I commit that blinded them to my innocence?

Danya's strength lent Devon the determination to drag herself to her feet, mindlessly driven to survive and defend her existence despite it being a futile exercise that extended her agony.

"Let's see how much punishment a princess can take?" Marcus goaded.

Tired of the game, he caught the chain, tumbling Devon face-first into the dirt. She hit her temple against an outcropping of rock and saw stars as she drunkenly crawled to her knees. But Prince Marcus gave her no chance to gather herself, his foot connecting with her jaw and spinning her onto her back. A streak of warm, thick fluid trickled from a cut on Devon's brow, right nostril, and split bottom lip. Her body grew slack, and she was dazed.

All of that reminded her of the day in the tower when he came to set her free at her father's command.

"Time for the main event!" Marcus growled, gasping for breath. He gathered the remains of her flimsy shift in one large hand and yanked.

The material parted with ease, and he tossed it aside.

Strong fingers locked around Devon's throat in a one-handed chokehold her father had taught the prince. His lips spread into a grin as he straddled her, and those blue-gray eyes glittered with self-satisfied pride.

Devon fruitlessly tried to pry his grip loose.

I would gut him if I could shift my hands into claws, she thought.

The pulse of the baying crowd pounded against her control while the weight of this monster pressed down on her, highlighting her defeat. Helpless anger raged through her veins, and Devon Elizabeth Declan Creed had never experienced such primal emotions.

Did he not warn me that I would regret denying his marriage proposal? Safe in my innocent, self-important little world, I'd had no idea what he could do when he set his mind to it.

"I told you I would have you," Marcus gloated.

Her father only turned his face away as if she were never his daughter and stepped down from the podium, stalking off toward his horse. She watched him, horrified.

A powerful sense of abandonment snuffed out that final glimmer of hope. Are parents not supposed to protect their children and be on their side no matter what? How could my father wash his hands of me? His apathy left her drowning in loneliness. Everyone and everything I loved is gone, and even Father can no longer stand the sight of me. Something in her chest shattered, and her will to fight bled away.

Although he was never the best father, his heartlessness ground her to dust.

Devon shut down as Marcus shamed her. She stared into that intense blue sky as his animalistic violation ground dirt, filth, and stones into her open wounds. The fingers cutting off her air supply never let up, and darkness danced at the edge of her vision. The burn of her lungs only added to her misery.

My disgrace is Marcus' victory lap as he triumphs over our king, and Father does not even realize it. The disjointed thought seemed to come from far off as tears leaked from her eyes and dripped into the dirt.

"Let us leave her to her slow and painful end," the prince said, grabbing his clothes to dress himself.

She watched the hostile spectators turn their backs and walk away, knowing no one would return until someone reported her death. Two or three guards would bring a few prisoners, and what remained would be piled into a heap, set alight, and scattered to the wind.

Marcus was the last one to leave. He mounted his horse, and while holding the fiery stallion back, he caught her eye. He laughed as he steered the animal toward the road and galloped off without looking back.

Devon slowly came back to the present. She was a helpless observer trapped amid the chaotic destruction of death, watching as scavengers gnawed on the sun-bloated, maggot-invested cadavers of her dearest friends—their fates foreshadowing her own.

Despite her best efforts to keep still, a sob escaped her.

The relentless pressure of the cuffs hurt, and each minute shift of her weight wedged the roughened edges of the chain deeper. Marcus' horrid system of counterweights made them cut into her muscles, intensifying her suffering.

Her continued survival was a testament to the power of her bloodline and a curse denying her entrance to the tranquil fields of eternal rest.

When will fate release me from this mental and physical anguish that drives me to delirium? she wondered, long past hope.

She closed her scratchy, swollen lids, but the faces of the dead flashed before her mind's eye in a never-ending collage. Even the memories of happier times, their lives, and their families provided no respite to her aching heart.

"Stop, please," she whispered. "No more. Have I not suffered enough?"

No one answered her.

Her tortured body resisted the fatigue dragging her into oblivion.

"Please lead me into the kindness of that final twilight," she muttered with a dry, cracked voice, but nothingness beckoned beyond her reach.

The only solace she could draw from the situation was that, on her behalf, the Creator would one day visit vengeance upon the inky soul of Marcus. The Protector would not let him go unpunished, for too much blood clung to the prince's hands.

When he initially arrested her, everything seemed like the dregs of an awful nightmare. The girl in her wanted to prove she had no part in what happened, while the woman in her understood she would never wake up in the safety of her bed again.

Her empty stomach grumbled, distracting her from the horrors in her head. Starvation had become her familiar companion the past few months, teasing her wolf into rising and keeping it dominant.

"Danya?" Devon called out in her mind, but there was no answer.

When Marcus took her innocence—and maybe even before that—Danya became silent.

If not for my wolf disobeying me, our enemy might not have overcome us with such ease, but even the feared creature is better company than my spiraling thoughts.

The blistering sun heated the rocks and reflected off the light-colored dirt. Her lips cracked, she struggled to swallow, and her bloodshot eyes became more sensitive.

In my condition, even a human can kill me with his bare hands, she realized.

When humans and vampires called werewolves brutes in the past, I corrected them. Bitter ashes of disillusion replaced her faith in her kind.

Even if they had spared me, I would want no part of them.

The chants of enraged hostility from the surging crowd and the ferocity of their insistence that King Wolfgang Creed should "end Devon Creed, the kinslayer" still echoed in her ears.

The betrayal of those moments broke her heart. How could they denounce me with such relish? Condemning me and the others without compassion?

That caused a sharp ache in her chest.

How can I ever trust another wolf? The thought gave birth to an unbridgeable emotional distance. A monster lurks beneath the surface of our skin, and pure evil lives in the eyes of ordinary wolves.

A chill invaded her soul.

This day severed her kinship with them even before they turned on her like feral beasts, revealing their quicksilver temperament and thirst for violence.

Only my rank kept me safe in the past and isolated me from the truth. Maybe my impending doom is a good thing. How does one live with what I have learned?