Alpha Went Crazy After He Killed Elf Mate

My name is Elara Vaelorien, last living heir of the Elf royal line.

By human reckoning I am one hundred and twenty-seven; by Elf standards I am still young — we live three thousand years inside the forest, and one year outside it.

Today is my three hundred and sixty-third day outside. In two more days, I will dissolve into light and scatter on the wind.

But I cannot die now. Because I have to kill a man, or — let him kill me.

Elves and wolves have spent two centuries killing each other. The wolves want our blood, which neutralizes any poison. They want our tears, which can purify wounds. They want our light-wings, the symbol of immortality.

We fear their claws, their fangs, the senseless strength they wield under a full moon.

But once every century, the Moon Goddess chooses a True Mate — two lives tied to the same thread. One dies, the other has seven days to follow. One feels pain, the other feels it too. One heart skips, and the other keeps its beat.

When I was seventeen, the Moon Goddess chose me and Damien Thorne.

He was nineteen that year, newly crowned Alpha of Thorne pack. Late summer, full moon, the edge of the forest, beneath an old oak with half its branches dead. He pressed a hand to the back of my neck and spoke the oldest of the words:

*"By the Moon who bore us, by the blood that binds us, I, Damien Thorne, claim you, Elara Vaelorien, as my mate, for this life and the next."*

When he was done, he unhooked a dagger from his belt and held it out to me.

"I spent three years sharpening this," he said. "The core is cold iron. The blade is sheathed in silver. Cold iron is poison to elves. Silver is poison to wolves. This blade is the only thing in the world that can truly hurt either of us."

He looked at me, and gave a small, crooked smile.

"Elara — if I ever hurt you, use it. Kill me with it. That way, when I die, at least I die at your hand."

I cried the whole night through. Because I knew he meant it. And because there was something I had to tell him — something I had been holding inside me for five years.

The Thorne bloodline had been cursed for generations with a blood-borne poison, laid on them three hundred years ago by another pack.

Every Alpha died before thirty — past that one full-moon night, blood would seep from the eyes, the ears, under the fingernails, drop by drop, until the body emptied.

When Damien was seven, the curse erupted for the first time. No one in the North could save him. It was my father who carried me from the Elf Forest to his bedside, and told me:

"Elara, sacred Elf blood can save him. But once your blood enters his veins, you'll never get it back. Part of you will live inside him for the rest of your life. As long as he is alive, your blood will keep that poison sealed. If he dies — you die with him."

I said: save him.

Seven bowls. One a day.

On the seventh day, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was me — sitting at the edge of the bed, both wrists wrapped in seven layers of bandage, my vision blacking out from hunger.

He asked: Who are you?

I said: A neighbor's daughter.

He thought fate had brought him back. He didn't know that the moment he opened his eyes, I couldn't stand. My father had to carry me out of the room.

From that day on, part of his blood was mine. The elves call it a Blood-Sworn Tether. Older than a Mate Bond. Deeper than a Mate Bond. The only thing that can break it is my death.