Alpha's Wrong Bride:Seraphine

　　Dante's POV

　　"You'll marry her."

　　No morning hello. No how's-your-shift. Just that—like it was as instinctive as ordering me to pull out a heart on the operating table.

　　I didn't look up. Just kept tracing the rim of my glass, letting the silence hang between us like a third entity in the room.

　　"And if I don't?

　　He walked as always—measured, polished, cold. Predator in a suit. "You will. We don't pair at random, Dante."

　　I laughed, hard and acidic. "She's not my mate."

　　"Doesn't matter."

　　"It does to me."

　　"That's your human," he said to me, voice as smooth as rocks over marble. "We don't let the beast have its way. We tame it."

　　And there it was. That Volmore mantra. The type of ideology passed from teeth to throat. My father was not a man. He was a wolf that'd chewed out his own heart for the pack.

　　He slid a file down the table. Thick. Surgical. Final.

　　Stella Virello's face leered back at me as if she knew. As if she hated it as much as I did.

　　"She ran," I said.

　　"And we found her," he replied, as innocent as sin. "That's what matters."

　　I finally caught his eye. "Why her?"

　　He blinked. Slowly. Unapologetically. "Bloodline. Legacy. Alliance. She's from a strong Alpha line. Their genes, our power. The future demands."

　　I settled back in my chair, lips twisting around the taste of it. This was no wedding. This was a breeding plan. Cold wolf intuition. No heart, no passion, just engineered bloodlines.

　　"This isn't the Dark Ages," I muttered.

　　"No," he said. "Worse. The Dark Ages ended. This never does."

　　He stood up. Done. As always. Volmores never beg. They command.

　　But before he went out, he hammered home one final nail.

　　"Fated mates are a myth, Dante. Real wolves build empires. They don't wait for stars to align."

　　And he was gone.

　　I sat there by myself, staring at her photo. Stella. A girl I was supposed to bind myself to in front of a pack of wolves who wore perfume and pearls but would tear your throat out if you blinked the wrong way.

　　This wasn't a union.

　　It was a leash.

　　And I was already gagging on it.

　　The clock on the wall ticks louder than my thoughts. I can hear every second crawl by, feel the weight of them pressing down. Forty-eight hours. Two days. The deadline's set, the deal signed, and the price has already been paid.

　　The chair groans beneath me as I stand, walking to the window. It should be peaceful. The way everything looks when you're too high to see the dirt. But the view doesn't settle me.

　　"Control," I mutter under my breath. "Control."

　　That's the game. Over the blood that wants to run wild. Over the wolf that wants to claw its way free and howl at the moon.

　　I don't want a mate. Never did. Mates are for weak wolves — wolves who can't command, wolves who think love will protect them from the darkness inside.

　　But it's not just about me. It's about bloodlines. The pack. The empire. The Volmore name is carved into history like a scar on this world.

　　Time's ticking, and it's suffocating me.

　　The wolf knows what I am. It knows what's at stake. A wife, a union, a life tied to another, bound by tradition. But my instincts scream — don't do this.

　　I squeeze my fists, digging my nails into the palms until it hurts.

　　"Focus," I growl, the word slipping out. "Stay human."

　　The air around me shivers like it's alive with that other world. The one I've buried deep. The one where the pack rules, where instincts reign.

　　I walk to the desk and pull open the drawer. Inside, there's a small silver vial. A reminder of what happens when I lose control. The wolf that's only been caged by will.

　　I put the vial back.

　　Stella isn't a mate. She isn't even a choice. But she's here. Now. In my world.

　　I feel the walls close in again. The hunger growls in my chest.

　　The pack is waiting for me to lead.

　　Cracking the still moment, a knock on the door.

　　I didn't look up. "Come in."

　　Enoch entered with his usual silent precision.

　　"She's here," he said, his tone as neutral as the rest of him.

　　I stood, slowly. A glance toward the window, then I turned back to face him. "And?"

　　"Grand Guest Quarters. She's staying there."

　　I nodded. The room felt still. The kind of stillness that comes just before something big changes.

　　I inhaled slowly. "Station the guards. No exits. I want her contained."

　　"Yes, Master," Enoch replied.

　　"Take her to the bridal shop in the morning," I say, voice smooth. "She will pick a size dress. I paused. Thought for a while, continued with a more serious tone. "Make sure she doesn't try anything... out of the ordinary."

　　Enoch nods.

　　"Make sure she doesn't spend more than two hours there," I add, the command a little sharper. "We're not dragging this out. Two hours. If she takes longer than that, you know what to do."

　　"She's not running again."

　　Enoch didn't flinch. "She won't."

　　I didn't have to ask how he knew. Enoch was always ahead of me.

　　"Good."

　　He bows slightly, that imperceptible gesture that tells me he's already two steps ahead.

　　He turns and leaves. The door closes softly.

　　Moment the door closed behind him, I whispered to the silence

　　"What if she runs again?"

　　And the silence answered with a question of its own:

　　What if she doesn't?

　　Two days have passed. The final nail has been driven. No exit, no new script. I stand before the glass, hands sunk deep in pockets, eyes tracing movement below. The estate looks like a kingdom on display — gleaming marble, iron gates, silver pennants waving as if they're proud of something.

　　The staff is a whirl of activity. Drivers. Florists. Suits. Strategists. Wolves in wedding dresses. All preened and primed, waiting for their own royal bloodbath in sheep's clothing as a wedding.

　　They don't see the chains.

　　I do.

　　And then I feel him. That presence. Heavy, contained. Quiet like death in winter.

　　The door clicks open.

　　"Father."

　　He strides in that familiar silence, in black all dressed out. No tie. No softness. Only the man who tempered the Volmore name into steel.

　　He says nothing at first.

　　Instead, he moves to walk beside me, the two of us standing over the window together, watching the ceremony go on as if generals over a battlefield.

　　"You held the line," he says finally, low-pitched. Gravel and wise. "You didn't flinch."

　　I remain silent. Flinching will see you gutted. That's lesson number one.

　　"Your brother would've made a mess of this," he continues. "Too much heart. Not enough spine."

　　"Good thing I've got neither," I snarl.

　　A moment's silence. Then, something that might be pride crosses his face. Almost.

　　"I don't say this often," he says, turning to face me now. "But I'm proud of you."

　　It hits like a strange tongue. As if something that was intended for me to never know. My jaw tightens.

　　"You did what wolves do," he goes on. "You chose duty. Legacy. Blood."

　　I glance away, eyes meeting his. "Did I have a choice?"

　　"You had a hundred," he says. "You just picked the right one."

　　There is silence between us like a wound.

　　You step out there today," he says to me, "you're not just a son. You're not just Alpha. You become the bond that holds this family. You are the future now."

　　I nod once.

　　And then he puts his hand on my shoulder — heavy, quick— and takes off with nothing more.

　　I adjust the cuff of my suit again.

　　It's almost time.

　　But nothing feels right.

　　The car rolled to a stop like a hearse.

　　Not a peep in there. Just me and the quiet and the weight of every step hanging in front. I glanced at my own face in tinted glass — hard suit, gleaming shoes, and dead eyes. The face was on.

　　I came out.

　　Sunlight shone on me like a spotlight, and all eyes turned. The estate courtyard had been transformed into an excess cathedral — imported white marble pillars for the occasion, silk flags suspended between silver rods, flowers erupting like sacrifice, and wolves in designer clothing, grinning with their teeth.

　　Music filled the air — something soft, orchestral, staged. Too beautiful to be real. Too practiced to possess any soul.

　　I pushed through the crowd, nodding, shaking hands, smiling at the surface but not at my core. They did not desire Dante. They desired the Volmore heir, the perfect Alpha in a suit.

　　And then I saw them.

　　The Virello family. Her pack.

　　They stood there, admiring velvet and vanity. Her father wore an arrogant smile as if sewn on his face. Her mother held a silver purse heavier than her heart. One of them looked at me and discreetly nodded.

　　A deal was made. A daughter. exchanged cows in a marketplace. A legacy purchased with wombs and promises.

　　I moved on.

　　The altar lay before me, draped in white lilies and golden braid. The officiant remained immobile, hands together, waiting for the pomp to begin. Every seat was filled by the powerful, the feared, the beautiful and brutal. Packs from across the continent — all assembled to witness the Volmore crown push a little deeper into my head.

　　I stood at the altar, spine straight, breathing calm, the wolf within me coiled like a spring. Not moving. Not fighting. Just waiting.

　　The music shifted.

　　There was a hush of silence over the throng.

　　This was it.

　　The moment when the beast within recognized that it had been confined forever.

　　The bride was arriving.

　　The hall had never stood so quiet. Not even with a death sentence.

　　All stood, heads turning toward the large cathedral doors, bathed in warm white-gold light from stained glass. Music wafted through the air—an elegant, over-rehearsed choice made by the Virellos. Regal. Tasteless. Phony.

　　My fists were hard at my sides, hard enough to shatter a bone. I stood at the altar, jaw clenched, as the heavy doors groaned open.

　　And then,

　　She entered.

　　The bride.

　　Wrapped in white, laced from throat to ankle, veil drawn over her face like a ghost trying to betractive. Her step was practiced, lovely, the kind of step bred into a human being who had been trained to be watched.

　　The moment she took the first step forward, my stomach responded like electricity down a wire.

　　Something was not right.

　　The veil—precisely cut, fine stuff, but too transparent. I could see her face.

　　Just a little.

　　Just enough.

　　My heart did not stop.

　　It recoiled.

　　That's not her.

　　My breath thinned. My ears rang. Each step she took closer caused the world to tilt sideways.

　　She looked like Stella—but not quite. Not the same cheekbones. Not the same mouth slant. The picture in the file was still burned into my mind, burned behind my eyes. And this girl?

　　No.

　　It wasn't her.

　　Not even close.

　　I blinked, hard. Told myself it was the light, the pressure, the occasion. But then I saw them—Stella's parents. Front row Smiles slipping away... replaced by curiosity, surprise, shock?

　　Their eyes didn't gleam with pride. They sparkled with confusion.

　　My nostrils flared, catching scent, that unmistakable, unavoidable sign of what someone is about.

　　And what hit me wasn't Stella's perfume.

　　It wasn't even a wolf.

　　It was human.

　　Human.

　　I moved ahead without deliberation. My heart thumped once, twice, harder and harder. A growl rumbled at the back of my throat—still, held prisoner behind clenched teeth.

　　Who is this?