Alpha's Cursed Bride

Talia’s POV

 

“Eleazar, no!”

The scream burst out from the depths of my soul...

It was raw and desperate, louder than the thunder crashing above our heads. The rain came down so heavy it blurred everything, but I could still see him—my brother, my shield, my only friend—struggling against the current that was pulling him away. His arms stretched toward me, his lips moving as if calling my name, but the water swallowed every word.

 

I reached for him, my fingers clawing at the air, the river dragging me under. He had jumped in after me, without hesitation, because that’s who he was—always saving me, always stepping between me and the pain of this world. But the flood was too strong, the river too wild, and all I saw in the end was his head going under, his hand slipping from sight.

 

And he never came back up.

 

That was ten years ago, yet every night since then, I relived it as if the water still roared in my ears. I had been replaying that moment in my head, day and night, asleep and awake, because it was the day everything ended. The day Eleazar died trying to save me. The day I lost the right to be called a princess.

 

They never found his body. No grave, Just water that carried him away and a silence that hollowed me out.

 

To the pack, he was a fallen heir. To me, he was everything. And from the moment the river claimed him, I was no longer Talia the princess, no longer the Alpha’s daughter—I was a curse. The bad luck they whispered about had finally proved itself. The same bad luck they said killed my mother the moment she gave me life. My father never let me forget it. Not a day passed without his words cutting through me: *you cost me the only two people I ever loved.*

 

I woke with a sharp breath, my chest heaving as though I had really been dragged under the flood again. My eyes adjusted to the darkness around me, the cold, damp air settling heavy in my lungs. Stone walls pressed in on every side, wet with condensation, stinking of mold and rust. The cell. My latest punishment.

 

All this—for breaking a vase.

 

A glass vase so old it had been nothing more than dust waiting for an excuse to fall apart. If it had been anyone else, it would’ve been brushed off. But because it was me, the cursed daughter, I had been dragged down here like an animal. Existing was crime enough.

 

The sound of boots echoed down the corridor, heavy and deliberate. My stomach tightened even before the key scraped in the lock and the iron door creaked open.

 

“On your feet.”

 

I didn’t move quickly enough. They didn’t wait. Two guards stormed in, their hands like iron shackles clamping around my arms, dragging me across the stone floor. My bare feet scraped the ground, stumbling as I tried to keep up, their grip biting bruises into my skin.

 

By the time they pulled me into the courtyard, daylight was already spilling over the pack grounds. The sun was merciless, too bright, but still a crowd gathered.

 

Cold water struck me without warning. A bucket poured straight down over my head, soaking me through. I gasped, choking as the icy wetness clung to me, my hair plastered across my face. My nightwear clung tighter than skin.

 

It wasn’t even a proper dress, not anymore. It had once been decent, years ago, but like everything I owned it was a disgrace now. Worn thin, stitched and re-stitched with scraps of old blankets, seams tugged in to fit my frame after I’d outgrown it. Threadbare patches showed skin, and no matter how much I tried to mend it, the fabric sagged and hung in shame. I had no luxury of new clothes, no coins to buy them, no kindness from anyone who would offer them. Everything I wore was a reminder that I was unwanted.

 

Now, drenched, it clung to me like a second humiliation.

 

The pack was all there—men, women, even children. A sea of faces staring at me under the sun, their expressions more curious than cruel, as though I were some spectacle brought out for their entertainment. Some smirked. Some whispered. None looked away.

I wasn’t treated as a maid or a slave, I was treated as worse.

A plague

 

I cried for years, until it became something normal. Until there were no more tears to be shed.

As I stood, held bond by the ropes, everyone stared, their gazes seemingly amused at the sight before them. No one, out of the sea of thousand faces cared to plead my case. No one cared.

It used to hurt, but now... It’s just what it is.

The first lash came.

 

The crack of leather on soaked skin echoed through the day, and I staggered forward with a sharp cry before I could bite it back. Pain tore across my back, hot and stinging, blooming like fire in my flesh. Another strike came, sharper, louder. Then another. Each lash landing harder than the last until I could no longer hold my breath against it.

 

Each soldier had been commanded to give me one hundred lashes. Two had already finished their share. My back burned and bled, but they didn’t falter. The crowd didn’t flinch. The children stood wide-eyed, learning their lesson—that I was cursed, that pain was my birthright, that mercy was for others.

 

Through blurred eyes, I saw him.

 

Not Eleazar. Never Eleazar. He was gone with the flood, gone with the last piece of me that had ever been safe. The man standing there now was my stepbrother—the Alpha’s new heir, born of the woman my father took after my mother was gone. He had never been my blood, but he was always the one allowed to raise his hand against me. Always encouraged. Always praised for it.

 

The whip rested in his hand, his mouth curved in a smile that curdled my stomach.

 

He stepped closer.

 

The lash cracked against my skin, sharper, crueler than that of the guards. He knew exactly where to strike—the raw flesh, the open wounds. My lip split as I bit down hard, tasting blood, refusing to give him the scream he wanted.

 

 

The crowd roared. Some laughed, others whispered, but none came forward to help.

 

Then a movement caught my eye.

 

One of the guards—one I’d often seen stationed at the gates—broke from the line. His steps were quick, urgent, almost hesitant as if he knew the weight of what he carried. He leaned close to my father, his head bowed, his voice low enough that even the nearest soldier couldn’t catch the words.

 

I watched my father’s face.

 

For a moment he was stone, unmoving, unshaken, the Alpha who never faltered. But then—something cracked. His jaw tightened. His hand clenched at his side. And then, slowly, his eyes widened.

 

Not in anger. Not in triumph. But in fear.

 

Raw, undisguised fear.

 

Then my father moved, his steps like he was fighting to maintain composure.

 

He leaned close to my stepbrother, his lips near his ear, whispering something too low for the crowd. I couldn’t hear it. But I saw the change.

 

The whip slipped in his hand. His face drained of color. His eyes widened in a way I had never seen before.

 

For the first time in ten years, it wasn’t me who looked haunted.

 

But then, my curiosity piqued.

 

What could they have heard that left them in such horror?