Bound By A Contract

SORAYA’S POV

“Fuck, you feel so good,” my husband groaned, slamming into me like a beast, who was chasing something he’d never catch.

His eyes were open, devouring me with the hunger and desire in them. His brows drawn. That look of pleasure on his face was ever electrifying.

It would’ve made me feel beautiful—wanted—if I didn’t already know how good I was at pretending not to notice the way he avoids looking at me too long.

His thrusts hit deep, hard. The kind that makes you forget your own name. Our moans mixed in the air. The bed shook. The room felt hot, too hot, like even the walls were sweating.

My wolf purred from somewhere inside me, drunk on the way he touched us. Every stroke, every groan, every lazy drag of his mouth over my skin was sending me spiraling.

He bent his head, lips catching my nipple, tongue slow and warm and teasing. My legs locked around his waist. I wanted more. I wanted everything.

Times like these were very rare, it is not every day I get to experience this affectionate side of my husband. The last time I saw him this passionate was when we had sex last week. And the week before that.

As much as I ached for this to last forever, as much as I wanted this care and affection of his to not end the second he pulled his dick out of me, I knew it wouldn’t be possible.

Because that is just the kind of alpha I married.

I cannot remember waking up to him by my side. Then again, I do not ever remember him going to bed beside me either.

He was always off to handle pack duties, even on days when I was certain there was not anything requiring his urgent attention.

At some point it made me believe he was intentionally avoiding me. But why would he marry me if he did not even like me? It did not make any sense.

This was the question I asked myself for the past year of our marriage.

On several occasions I have tried to spice up our marriage, spark that love that I knew he held for me. Even if it was deep within stone cold heart.

On several nights, I stayed up late just to wait for his return so I could surprise him with his favorite meals. Or a decorated bedroom. Or something cute I got for us. Sometimes, even a lingerie.

But each time, he met those surprises with a blank stare. No joy. No surprise. No love. Nothing.

During the times that did not work, I had to resort to the one thing I knew would spark a bit of emotion in him.

Sex.

Just like now.

He loved fucking me. He loved kissing my face, worshiping my beauty, and gazing deep into my eyes with his cock buried inside me. Mostly, those were the only times he’d confess his adoration for me.

But I had something to tell him. Something important. Something I knew would melt the ice in his heart.

But how was I supposed to speak with his hands on me like this? With this kind of pleasure making a mess of my thoughts?

My fingers slipped from his hair to his jaw. His eyes slipped shut for a moment.

His pace got rougher. Harder. I cried out when he hit that perfect spot inside me, my body shaking as my orgasm built up—tight, hot, impossible to stop.

And then he moaned.

“Sorava…” He said it with longing, with desire, with greed. “I miss you so fucking much.”

Only—

That was not my name.

The air went dead. The world stopped. I stopped.

He froze too, body hovering over mine. His breathing ragged.

“What?” I whispered, the word catching on something sharp in my throat.

His eyes opened. Slowly. Finally. And the look in them made my chest twist with an unbearable realization.

Emptiness. Just… emptiness.

Like I wasn’t even here.

“What?” he asked again, calm. Too calm. His voice was back to that flat, careless tone I’d heard too many times during this marriage.

“What did you just say?” I asked, sitting up, my voice trembling, strained as I tried to contain the ugly thing tightening and stabbing right into my chest.

My whole body was burning. Not from pleasure anymore. Rather, it came from my wolf. A feeling too close to the agony of betrayal.

He blinked at me. Confused. Or pretending to be. That was worse.

“What do you mean?”

“Who is Sorava!” I snapped. I shoved him off me, my palm flat on his chest. He stumbled backward, naked, dazed.

Then, as if I were the crazy one, he frowned.

“Don’t do this right now, Raya. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My hands were shaking. My chest was tight. My throat felt raw. I wasn’t even sure if I was breathing anymore. My eyes stung, but I held the tears back.

I wouldn’t let him see them. Not yet.

“You moaned her name.” My voice was small, trembling. “You shut your eyes and said another woman’s name while you were inside me. You said you missed her.”

His face shifted. He stepped closer.

“You heard wrong, Soraya. I didn’t say anything. You’re being paranoid.”

He reached out to touch my face, gazing into my eyes — except his eyes held no warmth, no passion or tenderness. No love.

It felt like he wasn’t really looking at me, but through me. Like he was seeing someone else entirely. Like I didn’t exist at all.

Hurt, angry, betrayed beyond words, I did something I’d never done before. Not in this marriage. Not ever.

I slapped him.

Hard.

His head jerked sideways, his cheek already turning red. He looked at me slowly, eyes colder than I’d ever seen them.

But I didn’t stop.

I pointed at him, my finger trembling.

“Don’t lie to me, Ragnar. I heard you. Are you fucking her? Are you seeing someone behind my back? Why do you miss her?”

And then—finally—the tears came.

Hot. Ugly. Real.

I hated it. Hated that he was the one making me feel like this.

His expression softened, the way it always did when I cried. He reached for my face again, gently this time, brushing a tear away with his thumb.

“You know I hate it when you cry,” he whispered, kissing my forehead. “I can’t stand seeing tears on that beautiful face. Stop overthinking. There’s no one else, Sora. Just you.”

I stepped away from him. Shaking my head.

He was lying. I knew what I heard.

“Get out.” My voice was low-pitched, but the steel in it was unmistakable. “I don’t want to see you.”

He opened his mouth like he had more to say, but I didn’t care. I turned away before he could say anything else.

Because if I kept looking at him, I might give in and run right back into his arms like a desperate puppy.

He stared at me, eyes turning hard and cold — those same damn icy cubes I’ve been trying to melt for a year now.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just turned around, pulled on his clothes quietly. And then, right at the door, without even looking back, he said it:

“I chose you, Soraya. No one else. I need you to remember that.”

And then he was gone. Just like that.

My knees buckled. I hit the floor, chest caving in with a cry so bitter it tasted like metal in my mouth. Like acid. Like betrayal.

Minutes passed. Or hours. I don’t know. Time stopped meaning anything.

How did something that started so sweet turn this bitter?

I didn’t even get the chance to tell him.

I didn’t get to say the words I’ve dreamed of for months—we’re going to have a baby.

After one whole year of marriage. After a year of one negative test after another. After months of whispering prayers to the Moon Goddess, wondering if she was even listening.

After pretending it didn’t crush me when the maids murmured that I was barren behind closed doors.

I thought today would be different. It’s our anniversary, after all.

This morning, something told me to try again. One more test. I almost didn’t—what was the point? I’ve taken over a hundred. All negative.

But this one?

Positive.

Just like that, everything changed. It felt like a miracle. Like the universe had finally cracked open and said here—you get to be happy now.

And all I could think about was him. Telling Ragnar. Watching his face when he hears the news.

I really thought this would be it.

That it would soften him. Bring us closer. Maybe even fix us.

That, just maybe, he’d finally love me the way I’ve been quietly begging him to.

I thought this would be the start of something beautiful. The beginning of our family. The start of us.

But now… not so much.

I clutch my belly. I’m shaking, sobbing, shoulders jerking with every breath.

What if I heard wrong? What if the mind-numbing effect of sex distorted everything?

What if I imagined it?

Ragnar’s never even looked at another woman. At least, not that I’ve seen. He’s always said he loved me. Maybe I was overwhelmed. Maybe the shock of the test… twisted reality?

No.

No, I heard what I heard.

But still, I need to know. I need to be sure. I need—something.

I got up without thinking, barefoot and cold, but I didn’t feel it. I just kept walking, like my body already knew where to go.

Before I realized it, I was standing in front of his office door. It’s open.

Which is strange. Ragnar always keeps it locked. Always.

“Ragnar?” I call out, peeking inside.

No answer. The room is low, just a soft glow from the desk lamp. It smells like paper and old wood, like it always does. Books stacked in obsessive lines. Files arranged like he measured the angles.

I’ve never stepped inside this room alone. But today, curiosity wins.

I walk behind his desk, scanning the papers — just boring pack documents, territory reports, contracts. I let out a sigh and shake my head.

I shouldn’t be here.

But then I see it.

A doorknob — partly hidden behind one of the bookcases.

My stomach drops. What the hell?

It’s a door. A full door, tucked behind the shelf like someone needed it to be kept a secret.

I’ve lived here for a whole year. How have I never seen this?

Why would he hide a door?

I glance back toward the exit… then at the hidden door.

I choose the door.

The shelf isn’t heavy. I shift it just enough to slide through. The door creaks open. And the moment I step inside, I know I’ve made a mistake.

The room is darker. Colder. The walls are black. Completely black.

One single bulb hangs from the ceiling, twisting the room into terrifying shadows.

It’s empty… almost. Except for one thing.

At the far end of the room is a curtain—luxurious, dark red, almost out of place.

I don’t know why I walk toward it. I just do. Something pulls me.

My heart pounds. My breath turns shaky. Still, I reach out and pull the curtain aside.

And I scream.

Behind it is a shrine. Candles. Blood vials. And a glass coffin.

Inside the coffin lies a woman—dressed in white, hands folded over her stomach, like she’s asleep.

But it’s not the dress or the setting that makes my blood freeze.

It’s her face.

She looks exactly like me.

No. This isn’t a mirror. It doesn’t look like a trick, either.

She’s real. A real body. A corpse?

Then I see it—carved into the glass at the base of the coffin:

Sorava.

My breath stops.

The name he had moaned.

“I was wondering when you would find her.”

A screech leaves my lips as I turn around to come face-to-face with my dear husband, Ragnar. He stood by the doorway, his expression cold as ice.

Hardened to stone.