Chapter 1: My worst Ink

Helena;

I leaned back in my creaky desk chair, the glow of my laptop screen the only light in my cramped Los Angeles apartment.

My fingers hovered over the keys, heart still racing from the scene I’d just finished. Chapter Two. The part where my Alpha male, brutal, scarred, and utterly merciless, finally cornered the sheltered princess and made her understand exactly who owned her now.

I loved writing that kind of thing. The way he would punish her for every defiant word, the obsession mixed with cruelty that made my pulse quicken. Morally grey men who took what they wanted and broke their women beautifully in the process. It was twisted, I knew that. But it sold. And more than that, it thrilled me.

I saved the document, a satisfied little smile tugging at my lips. Azalea and Valdman; my darkest story yet.

I’d poured everything into their characterizations this afternoon. The innocent but stubborn princess and the vengeful king who would make her suffer every horror he’d endured. Perfect enemies-to-lovers fuel. Now it was time to celebrate.

Today was my birthday.Titus, my fiancé, had promised dinner with Avi and her boyfriend. My childhood sweetheart, my best friend, the people who kept me grounded when the fictional blood and obsession got too real.

I changed into a sleek black dress, touched up my makeup, and headed out, the warm night air of Los Angeles wrapping around me like the best thing ever.

The bar was loud, filled with laughter and clinking glasses.

Titus pulled me into a hug when I arrived, his familiar cologne grounding me. Avi grinned from across the table, already halfway through a cocktail. For a while, everything felt normal. We laughed about old stories, toasted my birthday, talked about my writing side hustle and my day job at the fashion house. I told them I’d finally cracked the opening for my new werewolf novel. They teased me about my “dark and dirty” tastes, and I laughed along, the crazy, free part of me shining through.

Then Avi excused herself to the restroom. Titus followed a minute later, saying he needed to wash his hands. I didn’t think anything of it at first. But ten minutes passed. Fifteen. The nagging feeling in my gut wouldn’t leave.

I pushed back my chair and headed toward the restrooms, heels clicking on the sticky floor. The door to the women’s room was slightly ajar. I pushed it open.

And the world cracked open.

Titus had Avi pressed against the sink, her dress hiked up, his hips thrusting hard between her legs. Her moans were soft, breathy. His grunts were familiar, the same sounds he made with me. For a second, everything went silent except the rushing in my ears.

“You piece of shit,” I whispered.

Titus’s head jerked up. Avi’s eyes flew open in panic. She tried to shove him away, but I was already moving. My palm landed across her face with a slap that echoed off the tiles. She stumbled back with a cry.

“Helena wait—baby, it’s not what you think—” Titus reached for me, still exposed, ridiculous and pathetic.

Rage like I’d never felt before flooded me. My hand closed around a half-empty bottle of vodka on the counter. The glass felt heavy as I swung it with everything I had.

The impact was sickening. Glass shattered against his skull. Blood sprayed across the mirror. Titus staggered, eyes wide with shock, and his head slammed into the marble edge of the counter with a horrible crack. He slid down the wall slowly, leaving a bright red trail, and lay still.

Avi started screaming.

I stood there, chest heaving, staring at my hands. They were shaking. Blood; his blood, dotted my arms and dress. The metallic smell hit me hard, turning my stomach. This wasn’t one of my chapters. This was real. I had just killed my fiancé. My childhood sweetheart. In a public restroom on my birthday.

“Oh God… Titus?” I crouched down, fingers pressing against his neck. No pulse. Just warm blood and cooling skin. My vision blurred. Panic clawed up my throat, choking me.

Avi was crying, babbling my name, but her voice sounded distant. I backed away, glass crunching under my shoes. I had to get out. Had to run. The door slammed behind me as I bolted through the bar, faces blurring past. Cool night air hit my face. I ran blindly down the street, heels slipping, heart beating so hard it hurt.

Then headlights, a horn blaring and a truck coming out of nowhere.

Then pain, bone-crushing, soul-tearing pain. Nothing.

~~~~~

Wake up.

The command drifted through dense darkness. My eyelids were heavy. Wrong. Everything felt wrong. I forced them open.

I was sitting at a long wooden table in a grand hall that looked like something from a medieval painting. Stone walls, flickering torches, rich tapestries. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the air, along with something wilder; fur, pine, and power. My hands rested on the table in front of me. Small, pale, and delicate. They were not mine.

What the hell?

A young man across the table snapped his fingers sharply. “Azalea? Are you well, my betrothed?”

Azalea. The name crashed into me like a freight train. My female lead; the sheltered eighteen-year-old Alpha princess I had created this very afternoon. The one I had written to be broken by Valdman Wolverton.

I jerked upright. The chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. My—her—body felt strange. Too light, buzzing with an energy I didn’t understand. Sounds were sharper. I could hear every heartbeat around the table. Smells overwhelmed me. And inside my head, another presence stirred; soft, frightened, confused. ‘Who are you? What’s happening to me?’ A fragile voice whispered.

Azalea was still here, sharing this body with me.

Panic rose faster than I’d imagined. I gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white. “This isn’t real,” I breathed, my voice soft and melodic, nothing like my own low tone. “I wrote this. The birthday dinner. The alliance with Baird’s family. The attack—”

“Azalea, darling, you’re frightening us.” The man at the head of the table, Alpha Wakefield, her father, frowned deeply. His golden eyes, so like the ones I now saw in every reflective surface, studied me with concern.

I stood abruptly, the heavy chair toppling behind me. My legs, Azalea’s petite legs, felt unsteady. “Listen to me, all of you! We have to leave right now. Alpha Valdman Wolverton and his Iron Bloodline are coming. He’s going to kill everyone. He’ll behead you—” I pointed at my father “—right in front of me. I wrote it. I made all of this happen!”

Whispers spread. Baird reached for my hand, his touch gentle and patronizing. “My love, perhaps you’ve had too much wine. There is no threat tonight. This is a celebration.”

“You don’t understand!” I yanked my hand away, voice rising. Inside my head, Azalea’s confusion and fear crashed against my own growing hysteria. This can’t be happening. I’m Helena. I’m from Los Angeles. I killed Titus. I got hit by a truck. The two of us fought for space in the same skull, her innocence disputing with my modern panic.

Before anyone could respond, the great wooden doors burst open with a forceful crash. A guard staggered inside, blood pouring from a wound on his head. “Alpha! We’re under attack! Iron Bloodline warriors, hundreds of them at the gates!”

Immediately, chaos broke out. Shouts, swords drawn. People scrambling. My father roared orders, but it was already too late. Dark-clad warriors poured into the hall like a tide of death.

And then he appeared.

Tall and broad-shouldered. Dark wavy hair falling to his shoulders. Piercing green eyes cold with years of hatred. Scars visible at his collar and along powerful arms. Valdman Wolverton. He strode through the fighting like a king claiming his due, his blade scraping the stone floor behind him.

I watched in frozen horror as he cut down defenders. My father lunged at him. One savage swing. Alpha Wakefield’s head separated from his body and rolled across the floor, eyes still open in shock.

An agonizing scream tore from my throat, both mine and Azalea’s. Tears burned my eyes. The pain of loss hit Azalea like a wave, and I felt every bit of it.

Valdman’s gaze locked onto me. Pure hatred burned there. He crossed the distance with purposeful strides, stepping over bodies, and halting in front of me.

His large hand fisted tightly in my long golden hair, yanking my head back. Pain flared across my scalp. I gasped, stumbling.

Without saying a word, he dragged me forward. My knees scraped painfully across the floor, then the harsh ground outside as he pulled me through the doorway and into the night.

Every jolt, every tear in soft skin, I felt completely. Azalea whimpered inside my head, terrified and overwhelmed. I cursed silently, my modern mind reeling. I created you. I made you this cruel. Fuck you!!