The Good Girl's Revenge: Using the Alpha

Syria’s POV

“If you dare make a scene or run away from this wedding, your grandmother will pay the price.”

That threat was tattooed into my skull like a cruel spell, replaying over and over as I sat motionless in front of the mirror.

The reflection that stared back at me was a stranger, dressed in ivory with lips that were painted red.

Her eyes are dead.

The maid tugged at my corset strings until I couldn't breathe. "You're beautiful, Lady Syria."

I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Thanks.”

The door open behind me, and the stench of cigar smoke and cheap cologne spilled into the room like sewage.

“Is she ready?”

My spine stiffened.

Uncle Steven.

His voice was smooth, oily like the poison he fed me every damn day.

“Yes,” I said with hollow obedience.

He stepped inside, slow, each footfall like a drumbeat in my skull. He stopped behind me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and slid his fingers down to my palm. His nails scratched lightly along my skin, like a lover marking territory.

I wanted to vomit.

“You know the rules, Syria. Obey, and Granny lives. Disobey…”

“I know.” I yanked my hand away, but gently. Like prey pretending not to be prey.

He smiled like the devil himself. “Good girl.”

He snapped his fingers. “Get the car.”

The ride was silent. I stared out the window, but all I saw was blood.

When we arrived, the venue looked like a palace, tall, golden, and grand. But the beauty was just on the outside. Inside, it felt wrong. The place looked polished, but something about it felt sick, like the walls were hiding something dirty.

The air was thick and warm. It smelled of sweat, strong perfume, and wolf pheromones, all mixed together until it turned sour. It clung to my skin, heavy like oil, making it hard to breathe.

It didn’t feel like a celebration.

Outside the ballroom, I heard chaos.

Snarling. Screaming. The sound of bones compressing.

Two wolves were slaughtering each other. One had his jaw clamped around the other’s throat. Blood fountained out, gurgling and thick, soaking into the grass as the losing wolf writhed and clawed at the ground.

The victor dug his fangs deeper until he tore the trachea out with a sickening rip.

The crowd cheered.

They didn’t even flinch.

One woman in a lace gown clapped, laughing, blood splattered across her face like art. Others watched like they were at the opera, sipping champagne and placing bets while someone died in front of them.

Not far from them, half-shifted wolves fed like animals. Their claws dug into heaps of raw meat piled high in silver trays, lustrous organs, torn flesh, and balls of still-warm fat. One male yanked a spine out from the mess, licked it from end to end, then bit into it with a loud crack, chewing the marrow.

I stepped out of the car, and the world turned toward me.

The whispers started instantly.

“Is that her?”

“She smells divine…”

“She’s supposed to be a virgin. Do you think they’ll auction her later?”

“She’s the witch’s daughter.”

My chest tightened, but I kept my chin up. Let them stare. Let them rot.

Inside, the ballroom pulsed with music and desire.

Lust coated the floor thicker than blood.

On one end of the room, a couple were grinding shamelessly. His tongue down her throat, one hand up her skirt, fingers visibly moving in and out of her.

“Fuck! Ohhh!”

“Hmm, you like that?”

She moaned into his mouth while he fingered her right there in front of everyone, his hand buried deep beneath her dress. Her legs shook, spread wide, hips grinding against his palm like she didn’t care who watched. He didn't stop, just curled his fingers, making her whimper louder.

Then, with a growl, he turned her around, hiked up her dress, and shoved himself inside her. Hard.

She gasped, head thrown back as he fucked her from behind, gripping her hips so tight it left red marks. The sound of skin slapping echoed over the music. No one flinched.

He stared straight at another she-wolf watching nearby, lips parted, eyes dark with heat.

She walked over slowly, knelt beside the moaning female, and started licking her clit between thrusts.

One was moaning, one was grunting, the other licking like it was her last meal.

I tried not to look. I kept walking, eyes forward. But everywhere I turned, another scene unfolded.

Across the room, three she-wolves danced in nothing but sheer straps and nipple chains. Their sweat glistened like oil, nipples hard, asses swaying like bait.

One of them bent forward and let another spank her so hard it left red marks.

Males surrounded them, breathing heavy, and eyes glowing.

One licked the air. Another began rubbing his cock through his pants, growling low in his throat.

And no one cared.

Keep walking, Syria.

“Novene.” I spotted her in a tight white dress, lips red as blood, a tiara perched on her golden hair like she was queen of this hell.

She sneered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to deliver this.” I shoved the red velvet box at her.

Her eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Before she could say more, a group of male wolves approached, their eyes already devouring me.

"Lady Syria, daughter of Alpha Lucien? What an honor!"

“You should dance with us!”

One reached for my hand, his grip cold, fingers twitching. His eyes dropped straight to my chest and his nostrils flared the moment he saw it.

"I don't think..." I was about to finish my sentence when I caught Novene’s reaction.

She wasn’t buying any of this bullshit.

Her smile twitched. “Excuse us.”

She didn’t even give them a chance to respond. She yanked me away, her claws nearly piercing my wrist.

We reached a darker corridor and she shoved me against the wall so hard my skull cracked against the panel.

“What the fuck are you doing, bitch?” she spat. “You came here to seduce the guests? You came to steal attention from me?!”

“No, I didn’t—”

“Liar!” Her slap landed hard across my cheek. My face burned.

I staggered.

Then she shoved me again. This time I fell. My knees scraped raw on the tile, blood smearing across the floor.

“You’ll pay for this,” she snarled. “You want to act like some innocent lamb? I’ll make you bleed like one.”

She stormed to the nearby art room, grabbed my arm, and dragged me in.

“You’re going to paint my wedding portrait. Right now! And you’re not leaving this room until it’s done!”

The room stank of essential oil, rotting canvas, and something metallic.

Blood?

I turned my head. In the corner, a dead bird. Gutted. Its insides displayed like some sick inspiration piece. Flies buzzed around it.

“You don’t get food. You don’t get water. And if you try to scream—”

She showed me a thin blade she had hidden under her corset.

“I’ll cut out your tongue and make you paint with the blood.”

Then she locked the door.

I stood there in silence, eyes on the blank canvas, with my throat bone-dry.

My knees ached. My face stung. But the pain was nothing new.

Something in me snapped.

I picked up the brush.

And I painted.

Not love. Not joy. Not her fairy tale.

I painted the truth.

Blood-soaked gowns. Grooms with fanged mouths and hollow eyes. A wedding altar made from bones. Bridesmaids with torn stomachs, dragging their intestines like veils. The groom mounting the bride on a throne of corpses.

My hand moved faster than my mind. I dipped the brush deeper, harder, tearing at the canvas like I was cutting flesh.

I mixed the reds and blacks until they bled together, thick and viscous. The eyes I painted stared back, wide and lifeless. The flowers were rotting. The sky dripped gore.

A massacre.

And I smiled.

They wanted a masterpiece?

I’d give them one they’d never forget.