Chapter 4 Chapter 4

What just happened?

My heart hammered against my ribs as I ran. Those eyes—dangerous, frozen, and commanding—haunted me. I didn't know his name, but the power rolling off him in that hospital room was unlike anything I had ever felt. He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't even moved. The air simply bowed to him.

Being judged by a man like that was more terrifying than any blow Uncle Michael could land.

Eight o'clock. The realization turned my blood to ice. Punishment was waiting.

Laughter erupted from the dining room as I slipped inside. The scent of roasted meat hit me like a physical strike, making my stomach cramp with hunger. Miracle’s plate was heaped high. Aunty Rebecca’s wine glass caught the light, sparkling mockingly. The laughter died the moment they spotted me.

"Did you finish the farm?" Uncle Michael’s voice was flat, his eyes fixed on his plate.

I stayed silent.

His fist slammed into the table, rattling the silverware. "Yes or no?"

I couldn't find my voice. I couldn't even breathe.

"Miracle," he muttered, his tone turning cold as a grave. "Lock her in her room."

"Please," I gasped, finally finding a spark of desperation. "I can finish it tomorrow—"

They turned away as if I were a ghost. Uncle Michael went back to his steak. Miracle stood up with a triumphant smirk.

My "room" was a hole beneath the staircase. It was so small my feet hit the wall if I stretched. Most nights, I slept on the kitchen tiles just to feel like I wasn't in a coffin.

"Talk to your father for me," I whispered as she shoved me inside.

Miracle leaned against the doorframe, her smile widening. "Why would I? You didn’t even clean my room properly."

"Wait," I reached out, catching the edge of the door. "Please. Just a piece of bread. I know I'll be stuck here for days."

The only answer was the heavy click of the lock.

The first day, I counted every crack in the wood. By the second day, the hunger was a living thing, twisting my insides until I felt hollow and heavy. My lips cracked. My thoughts blurred into fever dreams. I thought I heard my mother’s voice—soft and gentle, calling me back to the time before the scars.

I opened my eyes to darkness and the smell of dust. Hunger makes the past feel real and the present feel like a nightmare.

Suddenly, the bolt slid back. Miracle stood there, holding a tray with a bored expression.

"I forgot you were in here," she lied, dropping the plate.

Rotten rice. The smell hit me instantly—sour and sharp.

"It smells just like you." She slammed the door and locked it again.

I stared at the mess on the floor for a long time. Pride is a luxury for people who aren't starving. I ate every grain, washed it down with a cup of warm water, and fell back into a dark sleep.

Hours—or maybe days—later, the lock turned again. Uncle Michael stood there. He wasn’t wearing his usual look of rage. He looked... nervous.

"Get up," he ordered. "Follow me."

I stumbled out, blinking against the light.

"Miracle, get her your best dress," Michael snapped. "Now!"

My jaw dropped. He had never spoken to his precious Miracle like that. A cold fear began to settle in my chest. Being invisible was safe. Being valuable was terrifying.

They pulled a silk dress over my head—soft, expensive, and smelling of roses. Aunty Rebecca brushed my hair, her touch surprisingly careful as she painted my face with makeup. When I looked in the mirror, a stranger stared back.

"Do not embarrass me," Michael warned, his grip tightening on my arm as he led me to the car.

The ride was a heavy, suffocating silence.

"The council summoned you," he finally muttered, staring out the window.

We pulled up to a massive stone building guarded by soldiers in black. This wasn't a pack meeting. This was something else.

"Good luck, dead girl," Rebecca hissed as I stepped out. "I’ll miss having a punching bag."

They drove off before I could even turn around. The giant iron doors groaned open, and the guards gestured for me to enter.

The hall was enormous. Cold. The silence felt heavy, like a lung full of water. Every guard stood like a statue, their eyes fixed forward. My fingers curled into fists at my sides. I refused to let them see me tremble.

In the center of the hall stood a man with his back to me. Broad shoulders. A dark, suffocating presence. Then I saw the ink—the serpent tattoos peaking above his collar.

The man from the hospital.

He turned slowly. His expression was a mask of ice—controlled and utterly cold. Every eye in the room shifted to me, the weight of their gaze pinning me to the floor.

A dark smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Good day... bride."

My blood ran cold. His gaze didn't hold desire. It didn't hold kindness. It held the absolute certainty of a predator who had finally caught his prey.

I hadn't been summoned for a trial. I had been claimed.