CHAPTER 182: CUT OFF HIS HAND

Harned instantly began to panic.

It was his son whom Jared was staring at with such unmasked malice. The Alpha’s gaze was like a predator’s—sharp, locked in place, every flicker of light in his eyes carrying a silent promise of violence. It was almost as though he was already prepared to rip off Bavira’s head in the very next second. That sight alone made Harned’s blood run cold.

There was no room for thought, no time for strategy. His body acted on pure instinct—the instinct of a father desperate to shield the only child he had in this world.

He stepped directly in front of his son, blocking the Alpha’s direct line of sight. His movements were swift, urgent, almost reckless. He knew—he knew—that to put himself physically between Jared and his target was beyond dangerous. It was a grave breach of protocol, an open display of defiance in a pack where the Alpha’s will was unquestionable.

But he didn’t care.

He dropped to his knees, lowering himself in a gesture of absolute submission, a silent acknowledgment of Jared’s authority even as he tried to shield Bavira. His forehead dipped low, his hands tightening into fists against the dirt. Deep down, he knew this show of deference would not save him—or his son—if Jared decided they should both die here. The Alpha had the power, the right, and the strength to end them. No words would change that.

"Your highness," Harned’s voice cracked, but he pushed the words out anyway, "I can assure you that Bavira hasn’t left my side. There is absolutely no way that he’s the monster you’re talking about!"

His head stayed bowed, so low it almost brushed the ground. His shoulders trembled. His entire frame shook—not with cowardice, but with the unbearable strain of standing between a predator and its prey.

Jared didn’t even slow. The Alpha stepped past him, his stride deliberate, unhurried, yet each step thudded with the weight of command. In a heartbeat, Jared was towering directly over Bavira again, his presence blotting out everything else in the young man’s vision.

"Cut off your own arm," Jared ordered, his voice sharp and precise, his authority absolute.

The words were not shouted, but they struck harder than any roar. His gaze bored into Bavira, daring him to pause, to resist—to give Jared the smallest reason to unleash violence without restraint.

The faint metallic tang of blood reached Jared’s senses, so faint at first he almost dismissed it as a trick of his imagination. But instinct gnawed at him. He inhaled—once, twice, three times. Then again. And again. He counted silently—ten, twenty, thirty—until, after more than fifty small sniffs, his certainty solidified. The scent clung to Bavira. Light, but unmistakable.

"Alpha!" Bavira gasped, his voice a blend of shock and desperation. His eyes flicked to his father, wide with disbelief and pleading for intervention. But before he could speak further, Jared’s voice sliced the air like a blade.

"...If you refuse, I’ll do it for you!" The tone was quiet, but the steel in it was unmistakable. It carried the weight of an unspoken threat—that if Jared had to do it himself, he would take far more than an arm.

Every muscle in Jared’s frame was taut, his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched. The tension radiating from him infected the air, wrapping around everyone present like a chokehold. Even the other werewolves around them stiffened, their own breathing shallow, their postures locked.

The council members glanced at one another, silent exchanges passing between their eyes. Yet none of them moved. None of them spoke. The unhealed memory of the explosion they had faced still pulsed like an open wound in the back of their minds. No one wanted to be the one to risk igniting a similar disaster here.

Bavira’s hands trembled. His black hair had fallen forward, strands framing his face, partially shadowing the turmoil in his eyes. He was tall, striking—handsome even in distress—but the fear hollowing his expression made him look fragile, almost childlike. His gaze darted between Jared and the blade now being handed to him.

His breathing quickened. The handle felt heavy in his grip, heavier than any weapon he’d ever held.

In one sharp movement, he pressed the blade against his own flesh. He inhaled sharply, then drove the steel through with a swift, clean motion. Pain exploded through his body as the limb separated completely, the severed arm hitting the ground with a lifeless thud.

Jared’s eyes narrowed, studying him, studying the wound, watching the blood pour freely. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for—but he knew Zyren had sensed something earlier. Something connected to this blood.

"Back off!" Jared snapped suddenly. The command was like a whip crack, jerking every head up.

They obeyed instantly, taking a few steps back—all except Harned. The father stayed rooted beside his son, still kneeling, unwilling to abandon him. His gaze was fixed on the wound, his mind screaming at the sight of the crimson pooling around Bavira’s feet.

Yes, werewolves could heal. They could even regrow limbs. But that healing required time and sustenance. Bavira was losing blood far too quickly. The risk of bleeding out was very real.

Harned’s jaw was tight, his lips pressed in a hard, thin line. He was trying to keep himself composed, to mask the fury burning inside him. But with every heartbeat, every slow, silent second of Jared simply watching his son bleed, his restraint frayed further.

The blood kept flowing.

The air was a thick, suffocating thing now—too heavy to draw into one’s lungs without effort. Then Jared’s voice came again, this time directed to another werewolf nearby, positioned just beyond Harned’s crouched figure.

"Cut off his other hand."

The sound of Harned grinding his teeth together was sharp, ugly. The werewolf receiving the order hesitated for the barest fraction of a second before moving forward.

Refusal wasn’t an option. Jared’s word was law.

The council members remained still. Not one raised their voice.

Harned’s breaking point arrived. Bavira was his son. His only son. He could not, would not, stand here and watch him be carved apart.

"Your highness, please!" The plea burst from his chest, raw and desperate. His voice cracked under the weight of the words, his pride shattered into dust. His knees dug deeper into the dirt. His eyes sought Jared’s, trying to find even a sliver of mercy there.

The hesitation from the executioner barely lasted. The second cut came swift and merciless. Steel met flesh. Bavira screamed, the sound jagged and piercing, echoing in the tense silence. More blood spilled, rich and hot, saturating the earth beneath him.

Harned’s heart slammed against his ribs. His breath came shallow, erratic, the world narrowing to the sight of his son’s mutilated arms.

Still Jared said nothing. He inhaled again, deeper, harder this time, trying to sift through the scent for something—anything—that would confirm his suspicion. But it wasn’t there. Only the scent of pure, ordinary werewolf blood filled his senses.

Frustration shadowed his face.

Movement stirred at the edge of the gathering. A small group approached along the path leading back toward the heart of the pack’s territory. Jared recognized them instantly, even before their figures came into clear view.

"What’s happening here?"

The voice was feminine—soft in pitch but carrying effortlessly through the stillness.

The air shifted. The heavy pressure of fear cracked slightly, replaced by a ripple of relief that swept through the onlookers.

Harned’s head lifted sharply. His eyes widened, and for a moment his expression was almost one of worship. "Clara!"

Jared turned toward her, his face a mask of cold control. Clara’s gaze, however, bypassed him entirely. She went straight to Bavira, taking in the sight of him swaying on his feet, his skin ghost-pale, his breath shallow and uneven.

Her eyes dropped to his wounds, her brows knitting at the sight. The cuts were too precise, too surgical—nothing like the chaotic tearing of a beast’s attack.

Jared didn’t answer her. His mind had already moved past explanations. He would not hesitate now. Hesitation had cost him before; it would not happen again.

"Get me fire!" he barked.

One of the guards startled violently, trembling as realization struck. The order spread like a shockwave. Everyone understood what it meant—especially Harned.

The Alpha was about to burn his son alive. Reduce him to ashes.