Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Brianna

The cheers rolled up from the crowd in waves, muffled, like sound heard from underwater.

Everyone out there believed we were kissing. Only I knew that beneath this veil, a single whisper had just severed my last road out of here alive.

My father's voice from last night came flooding back, unbidden. One lamp lit in the study. He slid this dagger across the desk without so much as lifting his eyes—

"If you're found out, kill yourself. Don't drag your family down with you. Least of all—your grandmother."

So it was never a threat. It was a eulogy. My family had written my last words for me in advance—because they knew, from the very start, that I would be found out.

Of course they knew. How could an Alpha this powerful fail to see through one worthless, wolfless girl?

My fingers trembled around the stems of my bouquet, the cold hilt biting into my palm. I opened my mouth. "I—"

Then the man actually leaned down toward me.

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice. But all he did was press the lightest kiss to my lips through the veil—and in the next breath, his voice grazed across the gauze, low and almost lazily soothing:

"Easy, little bride. I'm not going to kill you." A pause. "Yet."

Yet. The word started a countdown on my life.

He straightened and turned to face the cheering crowd. Through the veil, I watched his profile go dark in an instant—like a candle flame pinched out between two fingers.

The cheers below cut off mid-breath. A hall of hundreds fell so silent I could hear wax dripping down the candles.

He said nothing. He simply turned and walked, his cloak sweeping down the altar steps, leaving not a single word behind.

The two maids trailing him stepped up at once to "assist" me. Their fingers hooked into the crooks of my elbows with the precision of a matched pair of shackles.

Half escorted, half marched, I was steered through the side corridor and delivered into the chamber behind the altar.

The door closed at my back. The click of the lock was soft—and louder than all the cheering in that hall.

Cold seeped from the stone walls. He stood three paces away, his shadow stretched long by the firelight, falling clean across the sweep of my skirts.

He reached out and tore off my veil. Pain flared where the pins ripped from my hair, and the white gauze drifted to the floor.

The last layer of fog between us was gone.

"No wolf." He stared at me, biting off each word. On the altar, those eyes had still held a flicker of mocking warmth. Now there was only the cold of a blade leaving its sheath. "I smelled it from across the hall. You're empty inside."

He took a step closer.

"They dared send me a wolfless shell." Then he laughed—a short sound far more terrifying than no laugh at all. "Is this their idea of an insult?"

Two different men. The one on the altar who had drawled not going to kill you yet, and the one standing in front of me now—two entirely different men.

And this one meant it. This one was going to kill me.

Strange, then, that a cold calm settled over me instead.

Maybe there's a ceiling to how much fear a body can hold. Once the water closes over your head, it doesn't matter how much deeper it goes. And maybe the only way to survive fear is to turn around and look it dead in the eye.

Under the crushing weight of his presence, I raised my bouquet.

His gaze flicked to it on instinct—and in that half second, my fingers dove into the stems and pulled the dagger free.

White roses and lily of the valley scattered with a rush, breaking across our feet. I stood in the ruin of my own bouquet, blade in hand.

Wariness flashed through his eyes. But he didn't step back. Didn't so much as tilt his head.

The wariness sank as quickly as it had surfaced, and what rose in its place was derision—the look a predator gives cornered prey that has just bared its tiny claws.

Bold. And laughable.

I flipped the dagger around, hilt first, and offered it to him. With my other hand, I drew back my sleeve, baring my forearm.

"I don't know why you demanded a bride from my family. But I know there's something you want." My voice came out steadier than I had any right to expect. "I don't know what it is. But you can test one thing right now—I have something you want."

He glanced down at the hilt held out between us.

Then he said the last thing I expected.

"Prove what, exactly?" He didn't take it. His tone was flat, like a man declining a drink. "Do it yourself."

I froze.

I'd grown up on the stories. The bloodlust. The dead wives. The heads stacked like trophies on his battlefields. I thought bared steel and offered flesh would excite a monster like him.

But he just stood there, calm to the point of boredom, as if the last card I had—the one I'd staked my life on—wasn't worth the effort of reaching out his hand.

He seemed to read exactly what I was thinking. He actually leaned back, settling against the edge of the table, and spoke almost idly:

"You've heard my reputation." His gaze traveled from the blade up to my face. "And you still walked in here as a substitute bride. You've got nerve."

It wasn't a compliment. It was a dissection. He was weighing what my life was made of.

"When you have something to protect," I said, "there's nothing left to be afraid of."

And on the last word, I turned my wrist and set the edge against my own forearm—

—and cut. No hesitation.

The blade bit deep. A line of scarlet bloomed, and pain seared up my arm. I saw his body shift—his hand actually came up, as if to stop me—half a beat too late—

And then we both stood there, watching the wound.

The blood had barely welled up before the flesh began to close. The red line narrowed, sealed, smoothed over—within a few breaths, all that remained on my forearm was a smear of blood. One swipe of my thumb, and the skin beneath was flawless. Unmarked. As if the blade had never touched me.

The pain was still there. The wound was already gone.

The chamber was silent but for the crack and spit of the fire.

I raised my eyes. The mockery on his face was draining away, inch by inch. What replaced it sent a chill crawling up my spine—not admiration. Not greed. It was cold, absolute alarm.

He crossed the scattered flowers in a single stride and seized my wrist.

His thumb ground over the blood on my forearm, smearing it aside, dragging again and again across the unbroken skin—as if he could dig out a scar that wasn't there. His grip was crushing. I felt my bones creak.

He bent down, his face inches from mine, his voice dredged up low from deep in his chest:

"What are you—"

A pause.

"—a witch?"