Karma's Bride: His Until Death

“You were never the bride. You were always the fool.”

I whisper the words to my reflection in the stained mirror of the venue bathroom. My fingers tremble as I push the cheap plastic post of a fake pearl earring through my left lobe. The metal scrapes raw skin, but I do not flinch. Pain is the only thing keeping me grounded.

I touch my stomach absently, my palm pressing against the champagne-colored dress I spent three months of wages to buy. A dress meant for a bride. A dress for the life Lancelot promised me before Kara came back from Europe and took every single piece of my world.

The bass from the ballroom vibrates through the cheap tile walls. I smooth down the fake silk, my knuckles white. I came here to beg. I came to strip away the last scrap of my dignity, to crawl on my knees if that is what it takes to stop Lancelot from destroying what little life I have left. I am guilty of loving him, guilty of trying to hold on to a man who turned his back on the mate bond the second a richer wolf smiled at him. But I am not a monster.

I step out into the hallway, pulling my shoulders back against the heavy weight pressing on my chest.

The reception is a sea of silk, diamonds, and high-status pack members. I stand by the servant’s entrance, half-hidden behind a towering floral arrangement of white roses. The air smells like expensive champagne, sweet alpha cologne, and the sharp scent of my own humiliation.

In the center of the dance floor, Kara and Lancelot move together like they were crafted by the Moon Goddess herself. Lancelot’s hands rest heavily on Kara’s waist, his powerful alpha frame towering over her. Kara tilts her head back, her laugh ringing out clear and bright above the string quartet. Every cheer from the surrounding crowd hits my chest like a physical blow. I can still taste the metallic bitterness in my mouth from forcing myself to watch them say their vows an hour ago.

Lancelot lean down, kissing her softly for the cameras flashing at the edge of the floor. My wolf claws at the inside of my ribs, screaming, writhing in pure agony as the mate bond snaps and bleeds between us. He doesn't even feel it. He is lost in her.

I take a single step forward, intending to wait for the dance to end. I just need five minutes. Five minutes to tell him the truth about the missing funds, about the forged pack ledgers.

Suddenly, Kara’s eyes drift past Lancelot’s shoulder. She spots me in the shadows by the kitchen doors.

A slow, terrifying smile spreads across her perfect, painted lips. She doesn't call security. She doesn't throw a fit. She simply waves me over with a slender, diamond-encrusted hand, her expression pure silk and poison.

My heart hammers against my ribs. I take three slow steps out into the bright lights of the main hall.

"Lancelot, look," Kara says, her voice carrying over the low hum of the crowd. "She came."

Lancelot turns. The moment his golden alpha eyes lock onto mine, the warmth drains from his face, replaced by a cold, suffocating rage.

Before I can open my mouth to speak, the heavy oak doors of the grand hall slam open.

The music cuts abruptly, the violin screeching to a halt. A dozen police officers in black tactical gear flood the room, their boots heavy against the polished marble floor. Live-stream cameras from the media outlets lining the back wall pivot instantly toward the entrance, lenses zooming in.

The lead detective walks straight past the frozen crowd, his eyes fixed entirely on me.

"Precious Vance?" he asks, his voice booming through the silent room.

"Yes," I whisper, my throat dry as dust. "What is this?"

He doesn't answer my question. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and reads aloud, his voice echoed by the high ceilings.

"You are under arrest for attempted murder of a pack Luna, grand fraud, fabrication of official pack evidence, and dangerous forgery."

Gasping breaks out across the room. The entire ballroom goes dead silent.

My mind spins violently. Attempted murder? Evidence fabrication? I did bad things. I lied to keep my job, I hid the truth about my lineage, but I never tried to kill anyone. The evidence being cited must be impossibly complete, so precise and clean that it shuts down any defense before I can even open my mouth. Someone has systematically erased every loose end I ever left behind, framing me with surgical precision.

Kara screams, a high, delicate sound of pure horror. She buries her face into Lancelot’s chest. "No! Not Precious! Lancelot, tell me it isn't true!"

Lancelot steps in front of her immediately, shielding her body with his own. He looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes burning with pure disgust. For the first time since we were children, he looks at me like I am a parasite beneath his boot.

"Don't look at her, Kara," Lancelot growls, his voice laced with alpha command. "She is dead to this pack."

The detective grabs my arm, twisting it behind my back. The cold, heavy steel of the handcuffs clicks around my wrists.

Kara steps out from behind Lancelot’s broad shoulder. She walks right up to me as the officers pull my hands tight. She leans in close, her soft perfume filling my nose. To the live-stream cameras angled right at us, she looks like a heartbroken bride weeping for a fallen friend. But as her lips brush my ear, her voice is a razor blade.

"I warned you never to touch what was mine," Kara whispers, her lips barely moving.

She pulls back, letting a tear slip down her cheek for the flashing cameras. But as she turns back toward Lancelot, her eyes don't hold love or warmth. They flash with cold, ruthless ownership. She looks at him the way an alpha looks at conquered territory.

I see it clearly now. And Lancelot is too blind to notice.

The officers yank me around, dragging me toward the center aisle. I stumble, my cheap shoes slipping on the marble floor.

Lancelot stands motionless as I am paraded past him. The disgust in his gaze is absolute, but as my eyes drop to his side, I freeze. His left hand—the hand with the fresh gold band, the hand that once held mine in the dark when my mother died—is trembling violently.

He shoves it deep into his trousers pocket, clenching it into a hidden fist to hide the shake.

"Move," the officer growls, shoving me forward.

The media flashes blind me. Whispers explode around the room like wild fires. I am dragged down the long center aisle, my champagne dress catching on the edge of the guest chairs, ruined and dirty.

As we reach the massive double doors at the back of the hall, my eyes scan the crowd of cheering, furious faces.

Standing in the very back row, entirely separate from the mob, is a man in a tailored black suit.

He isn't wearing a wedding favor. He isn't clapping. He isn't crying.

He stands perfectly still among the chaos, holding a small leather notebook in his left hand. His face is carved from stone, sharp and dark, his eyes fixated entirely on me.

Our eyes meet across the crowded room.

He doesn't look at my handcuffs with shock. He doesn't look at my ruined dress with pity. He slowly raises his hand and gives me a single, deliberate nod.

Not at my arrest. At me.

As if he has been waiting for this exact second his entire life.