chapter 3: Marrying a murder

Selena’s POV

They dragged me back across the yard by my arms.

I kicked. I twisted. I screamed until my throat went raw. None of it mattered. There were too many of them, and I had already used up whatever strength I had left in the run. By the time we reached the open courtyard at the center of the pack house, my feet were barely under me.

I knew what the courtyard was for.

Public discipline.

My father stood on the steps, watching as they pulled me toward the wooden post in the middle of the ground. His face was calm. Almost bored.

“No,” I said. My voice cracked. “You can’t do this. I’m still a pack member. There are rules—”

“You’re not a pack member,” he cut in. “We settled that last night. You’re a rogue on Blackthorn land. And rogues get handled however we see fit.”

The guards yanked my arms above my head and tied my wrists to the post. The rope bit into the open wounds from earlier. I hissed through my teeth and pressed my forehead against the wood, trying to breathe.

Blackthorn stood off to the side with his arms folded, bandaged hand resting against his chest. He looked patient. That was the worst part. He looked like a man who had all day.

My father’s footsteps circled behind me.

“This is what happens when you embarrass this house,” he said.

I heard the whip before I felt it.

The sound cracked through the air. Then the pain arrived — white and blinding and so sharp it tore a scream out of me before I could stop it. Salt. They had put salt on the leather. I felt it burning into the fresh cut immediately, sinking deeper than the surface.

“Stop,” I choked out. “Please—”

The second strike landed across the first.

My whole back caught fire. The salt worked its way into every split in my skin. My legs shook so hard the post rattled. I bit down on my own lip until I tasted blood, anything to keep from making that broken sound again.

“This is for the trouble you’ve caused,” my father said. His voice never changed. “For last night. For this morning. For thinking you had the right to say no.”

The third strike nearly took my legs out from under me.

I didn’t scream this time. There wasn’t enough air left. My vision started tunneling at the edges. Grey crept in from the sides. I could hear myself making a small, wrecked noise against the wood and hated it.

Fourth strike.

My body went slack against the ropes. The courtyard tilted. I was still conscious, but only barely. Everything hurt in a way that didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore.

Somewhere far away, new voices entered the courtyard.

“—on behalf of the Lycan Kingdom. We’ve been traveling the territories. Our king requires a willing bride before the next blood moon or the council will proceed with his removal—”

The words cut through the haze like a blade.

Willing bride.

I forced my head to turn. It cost me almost everything I had left.

Four men stood at the entrance of the courtyard in travel-stained coats. Different crest. A wolf’s head split by a crown. They had stopped dead the moment they saw me — tied to the post, back laid open, blood and salt running down my skin. Their faces had gone completely still.

I didn’t think. I just spoke.

“I’ll marry him.”

My voice was barely there, but the courtyard was quiet enough that it carried.

Every head turned.

“I’ll marry your king,” I said again, louder, dragging myself upright against the ropes even though my legs wanted to give out. “I’m willing.”

Blackthorn stepped forward at once. “She can’t. She’s already spoken for. The arrangement with Alpha Ashwood is done.”

I laughed.

It came out cracked and ugly and it hurt my back to do it, but I couldn’t stop.

“His wife,” I said, looking straight at the riders. “Look at me. Look at my back. Is this what he does to his wife? Is this what a Luna looks like where he comes from?” I turned my head toward Blackthorn. “Go on. Tell them I’m yours.”

His jaw flexed.

“The arrangement—” my father began.

“There is no signed contract.” The lead rider’s voice was calm and final. He didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to. “The woman says she is willing. That is all our orders require.”

“She is not free to choose,” Blackthorn said, a new edge in his tone. “She ran. She is being disciplined. When she is in her right mind—”

“Untie her,” the lead rider said.

Nobody moved.

All four riders rested their hands on their swords at the same time. Not drawing. Just resting. The message was clear enough.

My father looked at the crest on their coats. Then at the swords. Then at Blackthorn.

I watched Blackthorn do the math. I watched him realize this was not a fight he could win today without starting something bigger than he was ready for.

He stepped back.

My father exhaled through his nose. “Untie her.”

The ropes came off. My arms dropped like dead weight. Blood rushed back into my hands in a painful rush of pins and needles. I had to hold onto the post to stay standing.

The lead rider crossed the courtyard and stopped in front of me. Up close he looked older, weathered, with eyes that had seen too much and learned not to react to most of it.

He took in my face, my wrists, the state of my back.

“Can you ride?” he asked.

I let go of the post.

My legs shook. My back was pure fire. My vision still had grey at the edges. But I stood on my own feet in that courtyard, in front of my father and Blackthorn and every guard who had held me down, and I kept my head up.

“Yes,” I said.

I looked at my father one last time. He was already watching me the way he always had — like a problem he wasn’t finished solving.

I turned away from him.

“Take me,” I told the rider. “Right now. Before they change their minds.”

He offered his arm without another word.

I took it.

And I walked out of Blackthorn with my back still bleeding, my head high, and I did not look back. Not at the pack house. Not at the courtyard. Not at the man who had never once chosen me.

I was done looking back.