Branded by the Alpha, Claimed by His Brother

The man currently burying himself inside me has no idea he is claiming a ghost.

Burgundy silk sheets have come loose from every corner of the mattress. They twist and bunch beneath us, offering no grip for my knees and no anchor for my hands except the fistfuls of fabric I keep dragging toward myself, as though they might hold me together.

Every thrust of his hips is heavy and crude, the savage drive of a beast that claims everything it touches. My nails dig into the mattress through the silk, and the headboard knocks against the wall in a relentless cadence that would almost be funny if it weren't the only steady thing left in the room. Tristan growls low against my neck, his breath scalding my skin, and I cry out in a voice pitched higher than mine, a voice that belongs to someone I'm only pretending to be.

Clara. Clara. Clara.

I chant it behind my eyes like a rosary, a name I stitch myself back into with every repetition, because if I let it slip even once, if my own name surfaces instead, there won't be a version of tonight where I walk out of this room alive. Above the dresser, the mirror throws back a face that isn't mine — her face, the one I borrowed along with her side of the bed, her red lipstick, her laugh.

When he finally collapses over me, his chest pinning me beneath him, his heartbeat slows against my back, counting down the seconds.

If Tristan knew the real Clara was rotting in a shallow grave right now, he wouldn't be holding me like this. He would tear my throat out and paint his bedroom walls with my blood.

"I love you, Clara," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, his arm dragging me back against his chest and locking there like an iron shackle.

I forced my breathing to stay even. I forced my heart to stop hammering against my ribs.

"I love you too, Tristan," I whispered.

But my name isn't Clara. It's Seraphina.

Clara was my twin sister. The golden child. The perfect, fated mate to the Alpha King of the Ashenmoor Pack, the most feared pack in the northern territories.

I was the sister they kept hidden. The dirty secret. The spare parts.

When we were children, Clara was often sick. She was delicate, prone to fevers and weakness, and my parents decided it was my fault. I had been born first. In their eyes, that made me responsible for everything that happened to her. Like I had sucked the life out of her in the womb.

When Clara was ill, I was whipped.

When she complained about me, I was whipped.

Sometimes, they locked me in a room and left me without food for days, letting me lick condensation off the stone walls just to keep my throat wet. Clara was given the best food, the finest clothes, and every kindness our family could afford. I learned to survive on scraps. I learned to keep my back covered. I learned that if Clara cried, I would be punished.

When Clara died in a carriage accident three months ago, I heard the crack from outside the carriage. Her head snapped back, and then the screaming stopped. I didn't grieve. I ran. But I knew my family's reach. If I had stayed, they would have killed me to cover up the loss of their golden ticket. Even now, I couldn't explain how I made it out. Doors that should have been locked weren't. People who should have stopped me looked the other way. At the time, I was too desperate to question it. Later, I would wish I had.

So, I did the only thing I could. I took Clara’s clothes. I took her jewelry. I hid behind her identity because mine had never mattered to anyone.

I became the bride Tristan was expecting.

The perfect, blushing daughter of the Sterling family.

The Luna everyone wanted to see.

Tristan sighed and buried his face in the crook of my neck. He inhaled, his nose dragging rough against my collarbone.

Then, he paused. He took another slow, deep breath.

"You smell... different tonight. Sweeter. Like wild honey."

Ice shot down my spine.

No. No, please. Not now.

The scent masking potion. I had to drink the bitter, black sludge every twelve hours to mimic Clara's light, floral lavender scent. It tasted like old pennies and burnt herbs, but it was my lifeline. Between the endless wedding preparations, the hovering maids, and tomorrow's high stakes Ascendancy ceremony, I had completely lost track of time.

When was my last dose? Ten hours ago? Twelve? Fourteen?

Underneath the fake layers of Clara's lavender, my real scent was bleeding through. Cedarwood, crisp winter air, and the faint sweetness of wild berries. Tristan had never smelled it on his supposedly delicate mate before.

"Tristan," I gasped, trying to slip out of his arms, my skin slick with cold sweat. "I need to use the washroom. Let me up."

His grip tightened, his bicep pressing hard into my ribs. "Stay," he rumbled, his wolf surfacing in his voice. "The bed is cold without you."

"Just a minute, please," I pleaded.

That was my first mistake.

Clara never pleaded. Clara had never needed to. She asked, and people obeyed.

Tristan's eyes snapped open. In the dim moonlight, his golden gaze turned sharp.

He didn't let me go. He rolled over, pinning me to the mattress with the crushing force of his frame. His hands locked around my wrists, slamming them above my head into the headboard. His gaze moved slowly over my face, lingering on my eyes, my trembling lips, as if he could dig into my skin and find the lie written underneath.

Then, he leaned down. His nose brushed the skin of my collarbone, dragging slowly up the side of my neck.

I held my breath, praying to whatever gods were left in the sky. But a sudden heat flared in my chest. The magic of the potion was dissolving. I could feel it, a burning sensation spreading beneath my skin, like boiling water rushing through my veins as my real scent forced its way through.

Tristan went rigid.

The warmth left his eyes. Confusion crossed his face, followed by a dark wave of anger. He inhaled again, deeper this time, his chest expanding hard against mine.

"What is this?" His voice dropped into a growl that shook the bed.

"Tristan, please, you're hurting me."

He snarled, the sound deafening, rattling the glass of the bedside water pitcher. He let go of my wrists only to wrap his hand around my throat. He didn't squeeze, not yet, but his Alpha aura settled over me with enough force to pin me to the bed. It became harder to breathe.

"Your scent," Tristan whispered, his face inches from mine, his teeth bared, his eyes glowing gold. "You don't smell like Clara. You smell like a stranger. Who the fuck are you?!"

The bedroom door burst open. The heavy wood slammed against the wall, and three of Tristan's elite pack guards rushed in, claws drawn, their eyes scanning the room as they sensed their Alpha's sudden rage.

"Alpha! What's happening?" the lead guard gasped, his eyes landing on us tangled in the sheets.

Tristan didn't look back at them. His eyes remained locked on mine, burning with a promise of ruin.

"Get the high priest," Tristan roared, his voice shaking the walls of the estate. "And bring the silver chains. There is a monster in my bed."