The Dirty Blood Mate Of The Lycan Alpha

Lyra's Pov...

I sat on the ground of the rusting cell, my own wrists bruised from years of chains and torture.

My body was weak, but my spirit still clung to the fragile hope of survival.

The room smelled of iron and damp stone, the scent of old blood lingering in the air. For six long years, this had been my prison-my world.

Captured by my father's enemies and the ruthless hybrid-killer agency, I had become nothing more than a vessel, my blood taken to fuel their twisted experiments.

Tomorrow, on my eighteenth birthday, I was to die.

I leaned my head against the bars, my gray eyes staring blankly at the flickering light bulb above.

The memory of my mother's death still haunts me like a ghost, replaying in my mind over and over, as if it had only happened yesterday.

I was twelve-a child with no way to defend myself or my mother. I hid behind the crumbling wall of our burning home, my small hands pressed tightly over my mouth to muffle my sobs.

The scent of death filled the air-it was, metallic and thick, filled with smoke and ash.

"Run, Lyra!" My Mother screamed, her voice was  raw filled with desperation.

But I couldn't run. My legs were glued to the floor, frozen in fear.

My mother-my protector-even in her fragile state, tried to defend me.

What could a human do against monsters?

A dry laugh escaped my lips at the thought of that dreadful memories.

She fought with everything she had, a whirlwind of power and fury, but she was outnumbered.

I saw the blade pierce her chest, saw the life leave her eyes as they turned white. She collapsed to the cold ground, laying in a pool of her own blood.

A scream had ripped from my throat. Before I could think-before I could run-they took me.

They threw me into this horrible cell, calling me "dirty blood," a disgrace, a creature born from the forbidden bond between a shifter and a human.

The cold needle, the dizziness, the feeling of emptiness.,my blood used to enhance their own strength, treating me like nothing more than a tool.

I was still surprised I had survived this long.

And now, the countdown to my execution has reached its final day.

I exhaled shakily, my fingers tightening around the bars.

Was this really how it would end?

Pain twisted in my chest as I thought of him.

My father.

The man whose name I had forced myself to forget, whose existence I had buried beneath years of agony and solitude.

If he hadn't abandoned me and my mother, she would still be alive.

If he had cared, if he had loved us, he would have come for me. He would have burned this place to the ground.

All those empty promises-every day, I stood by the door, waiting for him to visit me. But he never did.

Instead, he made excuses, and my mother tried to defend him, trying to protect me from the truth.

But I knew.

I had seen pictures of him and his family. He never missed an event with them, but with me, there were only excuses.

I was mocked at school, laughed at for not having a father.

If he had ever cared, he would have looked for me.