BOUND TO THE RUTHLESS ALPHA

Decade earlier**

It was a stormless but haunting night when a woman with sweat plastering her face and chest heaving from what must have been a desperate run, stumbled into a secluded building tucked deep within the forest.

It was extremely old. The kind of place that looked forgotten by time and sanity. Webs coated the corners like aging scars, and the sharp chorus of crickets echoed beneath the silence. Every step she took was swallowed by the darkness.

Cradled against her chest was a newborn — barely three months old. The woman held her tighter, as though protecting her from whatever foul thing lingered in the air. She pushed open a heavy, creaking door and stepped into a room that could only be described as a nightmare.

Fur pelts were scattered on the floor and draped across broken furniture, some still damp with old stains. Skulls from both animal and uncomfortably human-looking — lined the shelves and hung from the ceiling like sick trophies.

Drawings of werewolves defaced with angry red slashes covered the walls, among other strange markings she didn’t recognize.

In the middle of the room stood a man. He was hunched over a desk, focused on carving or slicing what looked disturbingly like raw flesh.

The sickening sound of blade against bone echoed once before the woman’s presence drew his attention.

When he turned, he wasn’t startled. His surprise was brief but quickly replaced by a slow, unsettling smile. His hands, drenched in blood, still held the machete. The blade dripped onto the wood floor beneath him.

The woman clutched the baby tighter to her chest as if bracing herself. Whatever hope she’d been holding onto was quickly fading under the weight of that man’s gaze.

“Miranda. What are you doing here?” He spat.

Cornelius stared at the child with disdain and disbelief, as though her very existence was a personal offense.

“Cornelius please. I've brought your child.” Miranda pleaded for him to acknowledge the child, to raise her, to put an end to his darkness for the sake of their daughter.

“What child? I told you to abort that thing. Get the duck out of here.” He dismissed her with cruelty then dragged the machete slowly across the ground like a final warning.

“Cornelius please, I couldn't abort my baby. She's our baby, let's raise her together. I can't raise her alone. Please”

“Get out woman. Get that thing you cm a child out of here” Cornelius waved her off, visibly uninterested.

Miranda snapped. “You're a monster. What sort of man abandons his own child, huh?”

Cornelius didn't tell back. He simply raised the machete and brought it down with a sickening crack, splitting her skull open in one clean motion.

Blood sprayed the fur-lined floor, and she collapsed where she stood.

Without a flicker of remorse, Cornelius stepped over her body and took the child from her arms, scowling down at her as if repulsed by her very existence.

The baby writhed in his grip, her soft face scrunched with distress, tiny fists flailing. He hissed through clenched teeth and turned away from the bloodied corpse still slumped on the floor.

Crossing back to his cluttered desk, he dropped the child onto the stained wooden surface with a heavy thud.

The baby wailed piercingly. It echoed off the cracked stone walls like a siren in the night. Her small body jerked as if calling for the mother who could no longer answer.

“Shut up,” he snapped, his voice rough like gravel but the baby only cried louder.

He turned toward the open hearth where a steady fire crackled beneath a blackened pot. Grabbing the long, jagged knife still slick with past blood, he thrust it into the flames.

Sparks flared as the blade met the heat, and Cornelius stood over it, watching until the metal glowed orange-red.

Behind him, the child screamed louder, her cries frantic now as if some primal part of her sensed what was coming.

Without another word, Cornelius pulled the knife from the fire. The blade glowed with heat, red along the edge, smoke curling from its tip.

He walked back to the desk, but his body blocked the child from view. His back now faced the room, the glowing knife in one hand. On the desk, the baby’s cries reached a fever pitch.

Her small limbs kicked and twisted, as if trying to escape something unseen.

From behind, only his hands could be seen moving, one pressing the child down, the other steadying the glowing blade.