5

I'm sitting in front of a mirror, staring at another version of myself. A fine white dress clasps my lean, fragile frame. Makeup is light, and jewelry glimmers under the dim light.

So much for sending me off in the hands of the devil.

I look pathetic even though this is the first time I'm wearing a dress this beautiful.

The door creaks open. I didn't look to see who it was. I'm too lost to even think.

"It's Elena, dear."

Elena steps forward, resting an assuring hand on my shoulder. She stays quiet for many beats.

"Maybe I should come with you."

I exhale, clutching the hem of my dress. "Don't worry about me, Elena. This is my fate, and I'm not dragging you into this."

Eleana crouches, reaching to hold my hand. "I'm so sorry, Isolde. I tried to talk to your father..."

Two guards swing the door open before she could finish.

"It's time," they snarls.

I meet Elena's worried eyes and give her an assuring nod. I follow the guards, my steps slow and heavy as my back still stings from the whipping I got last night.

Entering the Grand Hall, I keep my gaze to the floor, not bothering to look at anyone.

I can imagine the blank look on my father's face, the smirk dangling on the lips of my stepmom, and Beth's happy face as if she'd won a lottery. The guest are barely twenty in number as this is a secret wedding.

The silence in the hall is deafening. It's like everyone has their breath seized at Alpha Drogo's thick presence.

I can't bring myself to meet his eyes, not after last night's encounter. But I know his gaze is on me the whole time.

This pack—I had spent my whole life trying to prove my worth to them. To make them see me and not a girl born out of a false accusation of a perfidious act between my mother and a man that doesn't even exist.

But instead, they are marrying me off to save their asses.

The ceremony starts. The elder recites the wedding ritual like there's a sword pressed against his neck. He stumbles at some words as if his brain won't stop freezing.

I can't blame him.

I feel it too.

It's taking me a lot of effort not to bolt out the grand door. Drogo's presence is too thick and powerful and choking to ignore. He is staring at me.

I mean, Starrrrring at me.

The kind of stare that you'd feel deep in your bones

I say my vow as the bride. I say it smoothly, like there isn't a storm beneath my rib.

When it gets to be his turn, he is quiet. So is the hall. One can hear a pin drop.

Still in panic, the elder repeats the vows, but he remains the same.

I hear someone takes a deep, measured breath somewhere. My father.

"Is there something wrong, Alpha Drogo?" He asks quietly, not coming closer.

I want to know too, but I still can't look up.

Is he changing his mind? I really hope he does.

Drogo steps closer, and I feel my heart ready to jump to my throat. For a second, I think he'll call off the wedding, announcing I'm too much of an outcast to be his bride. He doesn't.

Instead he reaches for my right arm, pulling it up gently. I couldn't help but look at him.

He staring at my arm. His tall frame looms over mine. He was wearing a fine dark suit that made him look unfairly hot and dangerous. His hair gelled backward, showing off his well chiseled sharp feature.

Drogo's jaw tightens. "Where did you get it?"

I trace his gaze to where a whip wound grazes my skin from last night. Red and glaring.

The makeup artist had been ordered not to cover my marks and scars, including Alpha Drogo's handprint on my neck from last night. The reason is to make me look pleasing in the eyes of the rogue Alpha.

My father's idea.

"I got whipped for enraging you," I say expecting a smirk on his face.

His eyes meet mine, and my knees weaken instantly. For a second I think he is going to say it wasn't enough, that I need more discipline. Instead his gaze goes to the crowd, settling on my father. Unreadable.

Without a word, he releases my arm.

"I do," he finally say.

The elder pronounces us as husband and wife after we exchange rings. No cheers. No purr. Just unbearable stares that want this to be over with.

My world crushes as the fact weighs on my shoulder. I am married to Drogo Elston.

I am married to the rogue Alpha.

He draws closer, gripping my chin gently, prompting my eyes to meet his again.

"I have a gift for you, Isolde," he says, tone soft. "Or should I say wife?"

The word 'wife' feels like a brutal punch to my guts. Our sudden close proximity fills my senses.

Is he going to k!ss me?

As I ponder what gift he might be talking about, he pulls out something from his pocket and points it to the crowd.

A pistol.

Three brutal shots echo.

Gasps ripple.

Screams pierce the air.

I turn sharply to the crowd and freeze. My father is on his knees, screaming. Blood spreading beneath him, his severed right arm lying on the floor.

I'm pretty sure everyone has the same expression in mine. I'm in shock.

Drogo steps down from the podium, removes a cigar from his pocket. One of his men in a suit from the crowd lights it without being asked. He crouches before my father, smoke curling between them.

"How dare you!" Aldric roars, rage etched on every part of his face as he shakes in pain.

Whatever Drogo shot at him is coated in wolfsbane, as the wound didn't heal.

My father's men didn't even budge to help. Only then did I notice the several men in dark suits in the guests, like threats and warnings.

“You should learn to follow simple instructions, Aldric,” he says, voice low. “Especially when they concern what belongs to me.”

Drogo straightens, flicks the cigarette in front of my father, and crushes it beneath his booth—a casual blow to my father's pride. “Losing an arm will help you remember.”

He look at my shock frame at the altar and begin to leave. I take that as my cue because one of the men in suits approaches me and says,

"This way, Mrs. Elston."