4: The wedding ritual

Lena’s body trembled as they dragged her forward.

Her feet scraped against the rough stone, her arms wrenched in a bruising grip.

The metallic taste of blood clung to her tongue, thick and bitter.

No matter how much she swallowed, it wouldn’t leave.

The night air was sharp against her skin when they stepped outside.

The ritual ground stretched before her—an eerie, open expanse surrounded by towering black stone pillars.

The pillars loomed like sentinels, their surfaces carved with ancient runes that pulsed with an unnatural glow.

Fires blazed in massive iron braziers, their flames licking the air, casting long, flickering shadows across the space.

The scent of burnt herbs filled the air, thick and suffocating.

But beneath it, something fouler lingered.

Blood.

The pack stood in a wide circle, their faces twisted in anticipation.

Hatred.

Cruel delight.

Lena’s stomach knotted.

At the center of it all, the altar waited.

A massive slab of dark stone, worn smooth by time, but forever marked by the crimson stains of those who had bled before her.

Darius was already there.

He stood near the altar, bare-chested beneath the firelight.

The cruel glow illuminated the red runes painted across his skin.

His gold mask gleamed, the intricate design catching the light like a twisted crown.

His mismatched eyes locked onto her.

Lena’s breath caught in her throat.

The guards forced her to her knees before him.

She barely registered the jagged pain as stone bit into her skin.

"Begin," Darius commanded, his voice deep and final.

The words sent a chill through her bones.

A figure stepped forward from the shadows.

An old woman, cloaked in deep crimson robes.

Her gnarled fingers dripped with something dark.

A witch.

She moved with eerie grace, pulling a dagger from the folds of her robe.

The blade curved like a crescent moon, its black surface pulsing with an unnatural glow.

Lena’s heartbeat pounded in her ears.

A guard wrenched her wrist forward, exposing it over a ceremonial bowl.

She tried to pull back.

The grip tightened.

The dagger pressed to her skin.

Cold at first.

Then—pain.

A searing, merciless cut.

Blood spilled into the bowl, hot and red, pooling in its depths.

Lena gasped, her vision swimming.

The witch’s fingers smeared the blood across her forehead.

Her collarbone.

Her lips.

"The bond is sealed in blood," the witch intoned.

Her voice scraped like rust against stone.

"Bound by flesh. Bound by fate."

Lena’s body burned.

It wasn’t just a wound—it was magic.

Dark, binding magic.

Darius stepped closer.

He gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"You are mine now," he said, his voice thick with power.

The crowd roared in approval.

The witch lifted the bowl.

Slowly, she tilted it.

The remaining blood poured over Lena’s head.

It dripped down her face.

Soaked into her hair.

Stained her skin in crimson.

Then the witch turned to Darius.

She offered him the dagger.

His eyes never left Lena as he took it.

"Now, my bride," he murmured.

"Let’s see how much you can endure."

Lena barely had time to brace herself.

He cut his palm.

Blood welled, dark and rich.

He pressed the wound to her mouth.

"Drink," he commanded.

Lena froze.

The scent of his blood was thick, overpowering.

"Drink," Darius ordered again, his voice low, dangerous.

The pack was silent.

Waiting.

Expecting.

Lena clenched her fists.

Every instinct screamed to refuse.

To fight.

But the magic coiled around her throat like an invisible noose.

She couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t deny him.

Her lips brushed against his palm.

The warm, coppery taste flooded her mouth.

Bile rose in her throat.

But she swallowed.

A mistake.

Fire tore through her veins, searing, scorching, branding her from the inside out.

The pack howled in triumph.

Darius smirked.

"Good girl," he murmured.

His thumb brushed over her cheek, smearing blood across her skin.

"You learn quickly."

Lena’s breathing was ragged.

Her body trembled from the unnatural heat curling inside her.

It sank deeper.

Coiled around her bones.

A shackle, unseen but unbreakable.

The witch stepped forward again.

She held a chalice filled with dark liquid.

"The final seal," she announced.

Lena barely had time to react.

Darius took the chalice.

He held it to her lips.

"Drink," he said.

"And you are mine in body, mind, and soul."

His tone was almost mocking.

Lena’s heart pounded.

Escape.

She had to escape.

But her body refused to listen.

The magic forced her lips apart.

The liquid touched her tongue.

Agony.

A burning, all-consuming pain.

It tore through her.

Ripped her apart.

And then stitched her back together in the same breath.

Something foreign was being forced into her.

Binding her.

Lena fell forward.

Her body convulsed.

The pack cheered louder.

Darius crouched beside her.

He gripped her chin once more.

Forcing her to look into his mismatched eyes.

"Welcome home, wife," he whispered.

And darkness crashed over her.

---

A scream tore from Lena’s lips, raw and unrelenting.

The pain was unbearable—fire coursing through her veins, tearing her apart from the inside out. It wasn’t just pain; it was something worse. Something unnatural.

She writhed, her body convulsing as the magic took hold, binding her, reshaping her.

But no one came to help.

No one could.

At the far end of the pack house, inside his private chamber, Darius heard her cries.

And he smiled.

He gripped Scarlet’s hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he thrust into her.

“Turn your back to me,” he commanded, his voice dark with hunger.

Scarlet smirked, obedient as ever. She arched her back, pressing against him, her ass bouncing as she positioned herself for him once more.

Darius didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her, his grip bruising, and slammed into her again.

Lena’s scream echoed through the walls.

It was agony. Despair.

A sound that should have stirred pity in any man’s heart.

But not his.

Scarlet moaned beneath him, her cries of pleasure mingling with Lena’s torment.

“Yes, Alpha,” she gasped between ragged breaths. “Harder. Take me the way you like. Rough. Make me yours.”

Darius groaned, but it wasn’t Scarlet’s pleasure that spurred him on.

It was Lena’s pain.

Her cries were music to his ears, a twisted symphony that sent a dark thrill through him.

Lydia Voss’s daughter was suffering.

And that pleased him more than anything else.

He pounded into Scarlet harder, his thrusts ruthless, driven by the knowledge that somewhere in this very house, Lena was breaking.

And she would continue to break.

Again and again.

Until there was nothing left of her but pain.