II

My sigh hitched into a shuddering twitch. Fragments, fleeting glimpses of the earlier moment flickered across my mind before coalescing into a horrifyingly complete picture.

My father, stepmother, and Ronan, my stepbrother, stood before me. It all came flooding back.

"I have checked," my stepmother said, "she is still intact. Only if she had more time, we would have been in peril.”

Ronan’s voice, laced with a smirk, cut through the air. "She would have lost her virginity to the… dildo."

My father chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Thank you, Ronan. For finding it." He clapped a hand on Ronan’s shoulder.

I tried to stand, and the sudden movement brought a sharp sting of pain to my wrists. Bound. I was bound, tied to a chair. "What?" I muttered.

My father stepped close and whispered, "We have to keep you tied. A car has been sent to bring you down. I won’t sit back and watch you disgrace me before Alpha King Maguire."

"What!?" I exclaimed – it wasn't a question.

“Yes, you leave this house today.”

“And that is exactly what I will do,” I shouted. “I *will* disgrace you, Father.”

His hand shot out, connecting with my cheek with brutal force. Pain exploded in my head. It was a blinding white flash followed by a roaring, throbbing agony that stole my breath.

It wasn’t just physical; it was the crushing weight of his rejection, the years of silent abuse finally given voice in the searing sting across my face.

I slowly lifted my head. I wanted to cry, but I managed a ghost of a smile. "You have chosen a bastard over your own daughter, made him your heir. And you will soon regret this…"

Another slap landed, harder this time. It sent my head snapping to the side. Stars danced behind my eyelids, the world tilting precariously. The taste of blood filled my mouth, mingling with the bitter tang of my own humiliation.

"Now I believe in bewitchment, Father," I murmured. "You have been bewitched."

The third slap landed – a final, brutal punctuation mark to his rejection. I didn’t cry out; the pain was a dull roar compared to the searing ache in my heart.

"Onwards," my father spat. "I don’t want to ever see you again."

"They're here," my stepmother said, peering out through the blinds.

"Ronan, bring them up here," my father commanded. Ronan, eager to obey, rushed downstairs.

I lowered my head. The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over. It wasn’t the pain of the slaps that broke me; it wasn’t the humiliation of being bartered away like some worthless commodity. It was the crushing loneliness, the desolate emptiness that threatened to swallow me whole. The thought of being alone in the world, with no one to care for me, no one to love me – that was the true torment. All because I had no one to call mother.

If I’d been married to my fated mate, my wolf would have matured; I could have built my own pack. I could have had a future, a chance to carve out my own destiny. But now? I would be a pawn, used and discarded. And worse, it was the end of my meticulously crafted revenge fantasy – to have a pack and fight back.

Each footstep approaching on the stairs was a countdown to my fate. I knew what awaited me – a life of servitude and degradation, a fate far worse than death.

I would be married to Alpha King Maguire, a powerful man known for his cruelty and utter disregard for the feelings of others. A man whose reputation was enough to fill me with chilling dread. My dreams of vengeance would be extinguished. I would be broken by pregnancy and childbirth.

I closed my eyes, and a single tear traced a path down my cheek.

I heard the door open and sighed. “It is over,” I whispered to myself.

"Greetings, Alpha Prince Jonathan," I heard my father say.

"Welcome," my stepmother added.

"We're glad to have you," Ronan chimed in.

Jonathan, however, didn’t seem fooled. I heard his footsteps. He paced around the house. "You are glad to have us, really?" he questioned.

"Yes, my Prince." I heard my father’s voice.

Jonathan replied, "Families aren't usually so… cheerful when giving their daughters away as wives to my father. Why the happiness here?"

I realized the utter uselessness of my own family. They were happy sending me away as a sex doll.

My father cleared his throat. "Elara… is useless. Immoral. I'm doing her a favor by sending her to the most respected household in the clan."

I lifted my head slowly. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through my wrists. I wanted to unleash a torrent of curses, to tear into my father and the others, to expose their hypocrisy and cruelty. But my gaze was caught, snagged, by the sight of Jonathan.

He was breathtaking. The most handsome man I’d ever seen. Maybe a god. Tall and powerfully built, with long, lean limbs that hinted at both strength and grace.

His features were striking: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, eyes the color of a stormy sea, and a captivating mouth that was both sensual and serious. A simple, elegant tattoo encircled his neck, a testament to his heritage, his power, his identity.

He was the most handsome man I had ever seen, a vision that transcended the confines of the squalid room and the brutal reality of my situation. For the first time, a rebellious thought bloomed in my heart, a silent wish whispered to myself: *I wish this were him I was marrying, not his father*.

But logic reasserted itself, a bitter reminder that I was being traded, not chosen. He was the Alpha Prince; I would be the Alpha King’s bride.

"She's pretty," Jonathan commented, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary.

"But useless," my stepmother interjected.

Jonathan’s expression became serious. "Is she a virgin? If she isn't, Father will mail her back in pieces."

My father answered, "She is a virgin."

Jonathan’s gaze shifted back to me. "I will have to find out." He moved towards me. His long legs ate up the distance between us. Close to me, he bent. His powerful frame dwarfed my small, bound figure in the chair.

His hands, large and strong, rested on either side of me, and the rough fabric of his trousers brushed against my skin. He leaned closer, and I felt his breath warm against my ear.

From the close range, I could see his features. His eyes, when he lifted them to look at me, were soft, carrying a glint of compassion, I thought.

He heaved me up a bit, his touch light but invasive. He reached out a hand and his fingers dipped into my inner thigh, tracing the delicate curve of my leg.

I gasped. A sharp intake of breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was something far deeper, a shock that vibrated through my very being.

His touch felt… different. It felt like his hand was touching my very soul, like his fingers were brushing against something far deeper than skin and bone.

I’d read countless tales of destined mates, of the soul-deep connection that only true love could forge, and the strange energy that seemed to flow between such bonds. A feeling of recognition, of belonging, washed over me. I wondered if this was what a mate’s touch felt like, what it felt to be truly known, truly seen.

But my thoughts were abruptly cut short by his touch when his fingers shifted my pants and found my clitoris, brushing gently across its sensitive bud. Then, his fingers traced the seam of my entrance. I jolted forward, my body convulsing against the restraints. A gasp escaped my lips, raw and involuntary.

"You're wet," Jonathan murmured.

"Yes," I whispered.

He looked at me, his expression unreadable for a moment, before a slow, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.

There, I realized he had soft dimples.

"She is a virgin," he stated, his voice confirming my father’s claim, while a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes. "Pack her up. Let’s go." He addressed the two men standing silently behind him.

“I wish, I wish he’d rebel and have me for himself,” I whispered to myself.