angel of death american horror story

"The night the blood dyed the bright moon crimson remained an eternal nightmare haunting Elara. She was the most powerful ancient Queen of the wolf clan in ten thousand years, blessed with an unparalleled bloodline that overawed all beasts and ruled the entire nocturnal realm. Yet she fell victim to the one she had trusted above all others. Kane, the elite warrior she had personally promoted, the confidant she had trusted with her back and nurtured with all the clan’s resources, drove his blade straight through her heart at the peak of their clan’s prosperity, when all beings bowed in allegiance. The piercing agony of the blade paled in comparison to the collapse of her heart. She watched the young man who had once knelt before her with utter devotion, his eyes now cold and ruthless. She witnessed him lead the rebel army to massacre the sacred wolf temple, and watch the once glorious wolf clan collapse overnight, its lands drowned in rivers of blood. With her dying breath, she heard his low, indifferent voice, devoid of the slightest affection, carrying only icy command: “Slay the Queen, secure the realm.” Boundless hatred engulfed her soul, burning her to the core, yet her vengeful resolve never wavered. Fate granted her a second chance, reborn from blood and embers. When she opened her eyes again, Elara shed her domineering ancient wolf royal bloodline, suppressing all her sharpness and supreme majesty. She transformed into a frail, humble human girl. Hiding the raging blood feud in her eyes, erasing every trace of her former queenly identity and taming her unyielding pride, she disguised herself as an ordinary, timid mortal, lingering on the fringes of the wolf territory now fully under Kane’s control. The Kane of today was no longer the dependent warrior who had once relied on her. He had seized her throne and risen as the undisputed Alpha Lord of the entire wolf clan, ruling over vast territories with absolute power of life and death over all his kind

The night before our wedding, my mother needed a fifty-thousand-dollar emergency deposit for surgery. I went to my fiancé, Major Adrian Hayes, hoping he would listen before it was too late. He only saw the number. He paid the deposit in the end, but something between us broke that night. That money became the beginning of every name he would ever use against me. After that, every time I asked him for help, he sent me one hundred dollars. When I was in a car accident, he sent one hundred dollars. When I begged him to attend my mother’s funeral, he sent one hundred dollars. Eight months ago, I found out I was pregnant. I sent him seventy-seven voice messages, desperate to tell him we were having a baby. He never listened. He only sent seventy-seven payments of one hundred dollars. Later, when I started bleeding and was rushed into emergency surgery, I called Adrian and begged him to come to the hospital, to answer the doctors, to save our child. He sent one hundred dollars again. At the same time, Madeline’s Instagram story showed Adrian in his dress uniform beside her at a lavish officers’ charity gala. The comments all treated them like the perfect match. I stared at the screen until my hand went numb. I was begging for him from the edge of an emergency room while he stood under chandeliers beside another woman, looking as if he had already found the wife he wanted. By the time Adrian finally turned his phone back on, his staff officer’s voice was shaking. “Major Hayes... your wife and the baby did not make it.” And in that moment, Adrian went feral.