Chapter 3 His bride to be

"Lena, flee!"

Her mother's voice rang out, desperate and broken.

"No, Mother! I will not leave you! I will take you with me!" Lena's hands shook violently as she reached for the woman who had given her life.

"You must!" Her mother gasped, breath shallow, strength failing. "Promise me you will survive. No matter what happens, you must live. Do you understand? Live, even if it means losing everything."

A burning log crashed down across her mother's back, and the ground shuddered under the impact. The fire roared around them, ravenous, swallowing everything in its path. Her mother's cry vanished beneath the flames.

Lena screamed, a raw, torn sound, as the one person she loved was consumed before her eyes.

"Seize her!"

The voice cut through the smoke, sharp and commanding. Lena spun, eyes blurred with tears, and saw a figure step out of the fire. A gold mask covered half his face. One eye was ice blue and piercing. The other burned like a blood-red ember.

A wicked laugh rolled out of him, and the world seemed to stop.

Then she woke with a violent start, the thud of carriage wheels over uneven ground and a dull ache in her skull dragging her out of the nightmare.

"What do you think will become of her when we reach the pack house?" one of the men outside sneered.

"They will show her no mercy," the other muttered. "Kara will be tormented."

The carriage jerked to a stop and threw Lena off balance. Her heart skipped.

Footsteps approached, steady and deliberate.

She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself as the carriage door swung open with a creak.

"Out," a voice barked.

Rough hands seized her arms and hauled her down with no concern for her footing.

"Here she is. Lydia's spawn!" a man crowed, laughing.

A ring of women stood before her, their eyes hard with contempt.

"By the Gods, I can already feel the hatred," one spat. "Look at her, standing there like a little bitch."

"Take her inside," another ordered, her voice distant, as if Lena were nothing more than an object to be discarded.

No kindness. No pity. Only disdain.

Lena stumbled, caught herself, and let the guards drag her through the vast hall. Her feet scraped across the stone, a reminder of how unwelcome she was, and she could feel the scorn burning into her from every side.

"She will not last the week," someone whispered.

A low chuckle came from behind her. "Alpha Darius will break her."

Massive double doors loomed ahead, like the gate to an unknown fate.

"Present her," a woman's voice commanded from within.

The guards thrust her forward before she could steady her breath. Her knees struck the marble with a harsh crack, and pain shot up her legs.

Silence settled over the room, thick with expectation.

At the far end, on a throne of black obsidian, sat Alpha Darius.

He overshadowed everything. Darkness seemed to cling to him, his face lost in shadow, his form barely visible. The air was heavy enough to choke on.

Then his voice broke the silence, low and commanding.

"Lift your head."

Lena hesitated, but defiance had no place here. Slowly, she raised her chin.

And the world crumbled.

Cold seeped into her bones. His gaze pierced her, one eye frozen blue, the other a fiery ember. The mask. That mask. Her breath hitched. No. It could not be.

Half his face was hidden behind gold.

The man who had burned her village.

The monster who had killed her mother.

The one who had marched her into slavery.

Darius rose and descended from his throne, his steps measured, predatory. He circled her like a wolf eyeing its prey.

"So. You are my bride?"

Lena's eyes snapped to his. "Bride?"

A low, guttural laugh.

"Do not tell me she was unaware," he sneered. "Poor, deluded thing."

He caught the edge of her hood and tore it away, exposing her face to the crowd.

Hatred erupted around her.

"Traitor's spawn!"

"Unworthy harlot!"

"Vile wench!"

Darius paid them no mind. His gaze never left her.

"Take her to my chambers," he said, final as a closing door. "Prepare her for the wedding rites."

Before Lena could process the words, the guards seized her again. Her mind screamed in revolt, but her body would not obey.

The curses followed her out.

"She deserves worse!"

"Make her feel pain!"

The corridors blurred as the guards marched her deeper into the castle. At last they stopped before a pair of ornate doors, threw them open, and shoved her inside.

The chamber was vast. Sconces flickered along the walls, throwing long shadows over the stone. At its heart stood an enormous bed hung with heavy dark fabric, and the air smelled of cedar and leather.

Lena's stomach knotted.

His chamber.

The doors slammed shut behind her.

Two women waited beside a basin of water, faces unreadable. Servants.

"Disrobe," one said.

Lena's heart thudded. "What?" Her hands curled into fists. "I cannot. Please."

"You have no say." The woman glared at her, fury in her eyes.

The two stood motionless, watching. With trembling hands, Lena unclasped her cloak and let it fall. Her dress followed, pooling at her feet.

They wasted no time. They led her to the basin and washed her once more, their movements swift and impersonal. Then they draped a silk gown over her shoulders, rich crimson that flowed like blood and clung like a second skin.

A wedding gown.

Her breath caught. For years she had dreamed of freedom, of breaking the shackles that held her. Now she was to be bound in another way entirely.

The doors groaned open.

Darius stood in the threshold, his presence filling the room like a weight. For a long moment he said nothing. He only watched her.

Then: "Kneel."

She obeyed without hesitation.

"Kara Voss," Darius said, approaching, his voice a sharpened blade.

"I am not..." The words broke off in her throat. She tried again. "I am not..."

Nothing.

It felt as though something invisible were tearing the truth from her lips and strangling it before it could be spoken. Panic seized her chest.

Darius tilted his head. "You are not what?"

She forced herself to push through the grip of whatever held her, to say the words.

A searing pain ripped through her body. Agony seized her chest, and blood surged up her throat and spilled from her mouth, splattering across his face.

Dread flooded her. She heard Beta Lydia's voice in her mind: A witch has bound her tongue. She cannot speak the truth.

What had happened? Her thoughts scrambled through the fog of memory, and then it came to her.

The drink. That bitter, pungent liquid forced down her throat.

Beta Lydia, this will not be forgotten.

Silence pressed down on the room.

Darius stood still, jaw tightening. Without a word, he wiped the blood from his cheek, his movements slow and deliberate. Then he turned to the maids, his command absolute.

"Take her to the ritual grounds."

He swept from the room, his dark robe trailing behind him.