#Chapter 2: The Mark

Madison’s POV

“Oh my goddess,” I gasp, shoving the stranger away with all my strength. He releases me instantly, but the moment his touch vanishes, a deeper torment sears through me.

I stumble back, clutching my chest, breath ragged. Who is this man? And why is my mate bond screaming for him?

I dig my nails into my palm, clinging to the sharp pain to stay calm. It takes every fiber of my being not to throw myself back into his arms. "What are you doing in my room?" I ask, my voice still unsteady.

He watches me with a faint frown, as if he knows exactly what’s happening. Goddess, he’s beautiful. Sharp jaw, dark eyes, hair that falls across his forehead like ink-dipped silk. A dark prince summoned from my fantasies.

“Your room?” His voice is like dark velvet, laced with a dark amusement that suggests my question is utterly ridiculous.

I don't want to admit it, but the sound of his voice alone sends a fresh wave of heat through me. Fighting the dizzying arousal, I force my eyes open, desperately trying to focus on the room. It's far larger and more opulent than the suite I share with Dylan. At the foot of the bed lies a half-open suitcase with a neatly pressed men's shirt inside.

The fever clouding my mind slows my thoughts, but the realization finally dawns on me: I'm the one who walked into the wrong room.

"I'm sorry..."

Every rational thought screams at me to get up, explain this mistake to the stunning stranger, and return to my rightful place awaiting my fiancé. But a war rages inside me. My wolf, Talia, is deep in the throes of the heat, clouding my mind with a frantic need to submit to the dominant male before me.

Sweat beads down my skin, soaking the neckline of my dress. A soft whine escapes me before I can stop it. The man rises, pulled toward me as if my sound is a leash.

Shame should flood me. Instead, all I feel is need. My body aches, throbs, begs.

“Touch me,” I whisper, not even sure the words are mine. “Please.”

He steps closer, lips parting, eyes locking onto mine with a hunger that mirrors my own. His palm grazes the curve of my neck, brushing the mate mark branded into my flesh. Instantly, it ignites.

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that makes my thighs clench.

I seize his wrist and drag his hand lower, beneath the thin fabric of my dress, across the burning mark. He doesn’t resist, though his eyes search mine, dark and unreadable.

My heart hammers. His thumb strokes lazily against my skin, a teasing circle that makes me shudder. When he stills, I almost cry out.

“Please,” I beg, desperate. “Please don’t stop.”

“You’re not in your right mind.”

“I am,” I lie. I feel drunk, dizzy, but none of it comes from the wine I shared with Charity.

Yet it all feels profoundly right. Talia lets out a low, approving rumble in my chest. In this moment, nothing else matters. My only desire is to melt against his palm.

He begins to pull back. Panic surges, and I launch upward, dragging his mouth to mine. Our lips crash together, messy and desperate. For a heartbeat, he resists—then the dam breaks. He kisses me deeply, taking control, his strength overwhelming mine.

When our lips part, the space between us is a breath apart. His mesmerizing eyes hold a lucidity that irrationally irritates me. "Poor little thing," he murmurs, his voice low. "Are you sure you want to continue?"

I don't recall my mumbled reply, nor care if he heard it. A flicker of frustration makes me nip at his lower lip, a silent demand to reclaim the bliss he'd just given me. I hear him sigh, but then his mouth finds mine again, giving me exactly what I crave..

The world blurs. Fire and heat swallow me whole. My memory unravels after that—just flashes of his mouth, his hands, my body burning against his.

When I wake, the sheets cling damp to my skin, heavy with the scent of cedar and smoke. My lashes flutter open, but the light streaming through tall, unfamiliar windows makes my head pound.

An unfamiliar ceiling swims into view.

My pulse stutters. The bed beneath me is too large, the ceiling too high, the air too still. I clutch the blanket to my chest, every muscle tight. The memories come only in broken shards—dark eyes, searing hands, the heat of a kiss that branded me from the inside out.

A cold wave rushes through me when I glance down. My dress is gone. My skin is bare.

“No,” I whisper, scrambling off the bed, the hardwood cool and unforgiving beneath my feet. My clothes lie in a heap by the wall, the delicate fabric torn as if shredded in someone’s fists. My heart plummets.

Goddess, what did I do?

Before I can process the panic clawing through me, a voice cuts sharply into my mind.

 Madison! Where are you?

Charity. Her mental voice trembles with urgency.

 Dylan can’t reach you either. He’s already searching the hotel.

Dylan. My mate. The man I should be with last night.

The blood drains from my face. He can never, ever know.

I quickly mindlink my location to Charity and beg her to bring me some clothes. She's clearly shocked, but the girl who knows me well picks up on the sheer desperation in my plea and agrees without a single question.

“I’ll explain later,” I rasp to no one, fumbling to gather the ruined dress, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold the fabric. The seams gape open, useless.

Minutes drag until a frantic knock rattles the door. Charity bursts in, her curls wild, her eyes wide with panic. She stops dead when she sees me.

“Madison.” Her gaze sweeps over me, the disheveled sheets, the torn dress clutched to my chest. “What happened?”

“I need clothes,” I whisper, raw and brittle.

She doesn’t ask again. Wordlessly, she pulls a bundle from her bag—jeans, a blouse—and presses them into my hands. I dress in jerky movements, every brush of fabric against my skin a reminder of last night.

Before I can breathe, the door creaks again. A waiter enters with a gleaming cart, the scent of fresh fruit and coffee filling the air. Crystal glasses catch the light, a lavish feast for just breakfast.

"Good morning. Your companion asked us to prepare this for you."

Charity blinks, stunned. “What in the goddess’ name—”

My throat tightens. I lunge forward, stopping the man before he can leave. “The guest who stayed here—where is he?”

He hesitates, gaze darting from me to Charity. “Miss, I… our policy doesn’t allow—”

“Please.” My voice cracks, desperation spilling through. “Just tell me if he’s still here.”

Something softens in his expression. “I’ll keep this confidential,” he murmurs. “But I can’t share more.”

It feels like a door slamming shut. My stomach twists. “Thank you,” I manage, though the words burn my tongue.

When he disappears, the silence between Charity and me stretches taut.

Her eyes narrow. “Maddie… did you?”

“I don’t know,” I breathe, shame and fear tangling until I can’t tell them apart.

Her shoulders ease slightly, as if she’s piecing together her own version of the truth. “It’s okay,” she says softly. “Probably just a last indulgence before your mating ceremony . If you can’t even remember him, then maybe it’s better this way.”

Her words strike like knives, but I don’t argue.

Dylan’s voice barrels through my head, raw with panic.

 Madison! Where are you?

I flinch. I’m fine, I force out. I drank too much with Charity last night, that’s all.

Are you sure? His suspicion brushes hot across the bond.

Positive.

When I open my eyes, Charity is staring. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Maddie—your mark.”

Cold dread seeps through me. “What about it?”

She spins me toward the mirror.

And I freeze.

The mate mark etched at the crook of my neck—familiar since the day it burned into my skin—is gone. In its place glows a new design, delicate and luminous, etched in gold. The light pulses faintly, alive.

He marked me without my permission.