Chapter 3: The Blood Pact

The invisible chain tightened around my heart, and I gasped.

 

Ronan's golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He released my bleeding hand and raised both arms to the crowd, his own blood still dripping from his palm. The pack howled their approval, their voices merging into a single primal scream that shook the very air.

 

I remained on my knees, staring at my hand. The cut wasn't deep—a ceremonial wound, meant to symbolize unity—but it burned like fire. Or maybe that was the bond. Maybe that was the chain wrapping itself around my soul, anchoring me to this monster.

 

"Rise, Luna," Ronan commanded.

 

I rose on unsteady legs, and he pulled me against him, his bloody hand gripping my waist. The crowd cheered louder. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted to run. But Maeve's words echoed in my mind: Not yet.

 

So I stood there, frozen, while the pack celebrated my capture.

 

The drums started again, faster this time, and the crowd began to dance—if you could call it that. Wolves in human form moved with an animalistic grace, their bodies twisting and turning around the ceremonial fire. The flames leaped higher, fed by some oil or spell, and the night seemed to pulse with primal energy.

 

Ronan leaned down, his lips brushing my ear. "The blood pact isn't complete. There's more."

 

More. Of course there was more.

 

He led me to the center of the clearing where a large stone basin sat on a pedestal. The basin was ancient—carved with symbols I didn't recognize, stained dark with centuries of blood. Pack blood. Luna blood. Victim blood.

 

"The bowl of unity," Ronan explained, his voice carrying to the crowd. "Every member of Red River has bled into this bowl. Their blood mingles here, binding us together as one pack, one family, one unstoppable force."

 

He gestured, and pack members began approaching the bowl. One by one, they cut their palms and let their blood drip into the stone basin. Young and old, male and female, they came and bled and stepped back, their eyes glowing with fervor.

 

"Your turn will come," Ronan said. "But first—the Alpha's right."

 

He produced the ceremonial dagger again—the same one he'd used on the altar. It gleamed in the firelight, ancient and hungry.

 

"In some packs," he said conversationally, "the Alpha and Luna cut together. Equal wounds. Equal sacrifice." He stepped closer. "But Red River is not 'some packs.' Here, the Alpha takes what is his."

 

Before I could react, he grabbed my left wrist and flipped my arm over. The dagger moved so fast I didn't see it—only felt it. Fire exploded along my inner forearm as the blade sliced deep.

 

I cried out—I couldn't help it. The cut was nothing like the ceremonial wound on my palm. This was deliberate. Cruel. Deep.

 

Blood poured from the wound, running down my arm in rivulets, dripping onto the ground. Ronan held my wrist over the bowl, and I watched my blood—my half-blood, dirty blood—fall into the basin where it mingled with the rest.

 

"Now you're really mine," he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. "My property. My possession. My thing."

 

My thing.

 

Something inside me snapped.

 

Deep in my chest, where my wolf had always cowered and hid, a fire ignited. Not the warm fire of comfort or the bright fire of joy. This was a cold fire. An angry fire. A fire that had been smoldering for years, fed by every rejection, every whisper of "half-blood" and "dirty blood" and "mongrel."

 

My wolf raised her head.

 

For the first time in my life, she didn't cower. She didn't hide. She looked through my eyes at the monster holding my bleeding arm, and she snarled.

 

Kill him, she whispered. Tear out his throat. Bathe in his blood.

 

I felt my eyes begin to glow—that telltale sign of the wolf rising. My canines lengthened slightly, pressing against my lips. My fingers twitched, claws threatening to emerge.

 

Ronan felt it. His grip on my wrist tightened, and he looked at me with sudden interest—not fear, never fear, but something like curiosity.

 

"Ah," he breathed. "There she is. The half-blood wolf. The mongrel beast." He smiled, and it was the cruelest smile I'd ever seen. "I wondered when you'd show yourself."

 

I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. The wound on my arm screamed in protest, and fresh blood spilled into the bowl.

 

"Don't," he warned softly. "Don't shift. Don't fight. Don't even think about it." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear. "Because if you shift now, if you attack me in front of my pack, I'll have no choice but to put you down. And I'd rather not kill my new mare before I've bred her."

 

The words hit me like ice water.

 

I thought of Maeve, watching from the crowd. I thought of Elara, the frightened girl who had braided my hair. I thought of everyone who might have helped me, everyone who might pay the price if I failed.

 

My wolf snarled again, furious at my cowardice. But I pushed her down. I forced my eyes to stop glowing. I retracted my claws and canines.

 

Ronan watched the transformation with something like disappointment. "Pity," he murmured. "I would have enjoyed the fight."

 

He released my wrist, and I stumbled back, clutching my bleeding arm. The wound was deep—much deeper than necessary—and blood continued to flow between my fingers.

 

One of the pack women rushed forward with bandages, but Ronan waved her away. "No," he said. "Let it bleed. Let everyone see what happens to those who think they can challenge me."

 

I stood there, bleeding into the dirt, while the pack watched. Some looked away. Others stared openly, their expressions a mix of fear and fascination. A few—a very few—looked at me with something that might have been pity.

 

Or maybe I imagined that. Maybe I just wanted to believe someone cared.

 

The ceremony continued. Pack members kept approaching the bowl, kept bleeding into the basin where my blood now mixed with theirs. The bowl filled slowly, the dark liquid rising inch by inch. And all the while, I stood there bleeding, my arm burning, my wolf pacing restlessly beneath my skin.

 

Let me out, she growled. Let me fight. Let me kill.

 

Not yet, I told her. Soon. But not yet.

 

Finally, when the last pack member had bled, Ronan approached the bowl again. He dipped his fingers into the blood—my blood, mixed with theirs—and turned to face me.

 

"The final step," he announced. "The mark of unity."

 

He stepped forward and pressed his bloody fingers to my forehead. The blood was warm, almost hot, and I felt something strange—a pull, a connection, a thousand invisible threads linking me to every wolf in the pack.

 

"The pack accepts you," Ronan intoned. "Their blood recognizes yours. You are one of us now."

 

No, my wolf snarled. We are not one of them. We will never be one of them.

 

But the threads were real. I could feel them—tugging at my heart, my soul, my very essence. Every wolf in the pack was connected to me now, and I to them. It was suffocating. Terrifying. Permanent.

 

Ronan saw the horror in my eyes and smiled. "Feel that?" he murmured. "That's belonging. That's family. That's mine."

 

He turned to the crowd and raised his arms. "The blood pact is complete! Red River has a Luna!"

 

The pack erupted into howls and cheers, and I stood in their midst with blood on my forehead and a wound on my arm and a wolf inside me screaming for vengeance.

 

As the celebration swirled around me, I caught sight of Maeve again. She stood at the edge of the crowd, her green eyes fixed on me, and this time she didn't mouth words. She simply nodded—a small, almost imperceptible movement—and touched her own wrist where a scar marked her skin.

 

An old wound. A ritual wound. She had been through this too. She understood.

 

And she was telling me something: You're not alone.

 

Ronan grabbed my hand—my injured one, making me gasp with pain—and pulled me toward the center of the celebration. "Now we feast!" he bellowed. "Tonight, we celebrate! Tomorrow, my Luna learns her true duties!"

 

The crowd laughed—a knowing, ugly laugh—and I felt sick.

 

Tables had been set up around the clearing, laden with food and drink. Wolves grabbed meat and ale, laughing and shoving and celebrating their Alpha's new possession. Ronan pulled me onto a raised platform where we could see—and be seen by—everyone.

 

"Sit," he commanded, pushing me onto a fur-covered seat. "Eat. Drink. Smile."

 

I couldn't eat. I couldn't drink. But I sat there, bleeding and broken, while the pack celebrated my imprisonment.

 

Hours passed. The moon rose high overhead, fat and full, and the celebration grew wilder. Wolves shifted and ran through the forest, their howls echoing in the night. Others paired off, disappearing into the shadows for more private celebrations.

 

Ronan watched it all with satisfaction, his hand never leaving my body—my shoulder, my arm, my thigh. Always touching. Always claiming.

 

Finally, when the fire burned low and most of the pack had stumbled off to their dens, Ronan stood and pulled me to my feet.

 

"Time for the final ritual," he said, and there was no mistaking the hunger in his voice now.

 

He led me away from the clearing, away from the dying fire, toward his den. My den now. Our den.

 

The word made me want to vomit.

 

As we walked, I saw Maeve one last time. She stood in the shadows near the tree line, watching. Waiting. As I passed, she raised her hand to her wrist—the scarred one—and then pointed toward the forest.

 

Run.

 

But how could I run? The bond pulled at me, the pack threads tugged at my soul, and Ronan's grip on my arm was iron.

 

Not yet, I told my wolf. Soon. But not yet.

 

We reached the den. Ronan pushed open the door and pulled me inside.