Marked by the Lycan King

Riven PoV

Three years.

 

Three years of being his wife. Three years of sleeping in a bed that felt like an icebox, breathing in the scent of a man who looked through me as if I were made of glass. 

 

The weeks since Lucan’s funeral had been a suffocating blur of grief, the cloying, floral notes of Mireya’s perfume, and the jagged edge of Finn’s screams. It was a waking nightmare that never seemed to end. But today, the date pierced through the haze like a silver blade.

 

Our anniversary.

 

Lucan had been the one to convince Corin to marry me three years ago. I’d stood at the altar in ice-blue silk, my heart hammering against my ribs, trying desperately not to look like the child bride I felt I was. He hadn’t married me for love. He hadn’t even married me for desire. I was a strategic move—a shield to protect him from an arranged mating with Veronica Ainsley, a she-wolf from Ashfang with a pedigree as perfect as her personality was stone-cold.

 

But back then, he’d been kind. After my fated mate rejected me at eighteen and left my soul in tatters, Corin had offered me a sanctuary. I’d said yes because I was drowning, and he was the only shore in sight.

 

Maybe it was all a performance. Maybe it still is. But after the funeral, the houseguests, and the endless, hollow nights, I thought—just maybe—today could be the turning point.

 

I smoothed the fabric of my dress outside his office door, my palms damp. No candles. No heavy perfume. Just me, offering a white flag.

 

I didn't knock. I just wanted to see him, to find a crack in that Alpha mask.

 

The door creaked on its hinges. I stepped inside, his name already forming on my lips—

 

And then I heard it.

 

That low, melodic purr. Mireya. The way she said *“Corin”* was a physical thing, like she was tasting a forbidden sweet.

 

My stomach did a violent somersault.

 

He was behind the heavy oak desk, his chair tilted back, eyes half-lidded in a trance of pleasure. His hand was wrapped around himself, moving with a rhythmic, desperate urgency. Propped against a stack of books, his phone displayed Mireya. She was reclined on a lounge chair, her sheer robe falling open to reveal the cream of her skin, her legs crossed provocatively, her lips parted in that practiced, sultry pout.

 

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that tore through me.

 

I froze, my blood turning to lead. I didn't know whether to bolt or scream. Before I could move, he finished, his body shuddering as he spilled across his own hand, her name breaking from his throat like a prayer to a dark goddess.

 

Then, his eyes snapped to mine.

 

“Riven!” His voice cracked, raw and panicked. He fumbled with the phone, nearly knocking it to the floor as he scrambled to cover his nakedness. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

“I didn’t know…” My voice was a ghost of itself. “I didn’t think I needed to knock for my own husband.”

 

“You do not enter my office unannounced!” He slammed the chair forward, shoving the phone face down and yanking at his belt, his movements jerky and frantic. “Ever!”

 

“It’s our anniversary.”

 

Silence crashed down on us—the kind of silence that rings in your ears until your pulse sounds like the beat of a war drum. 

 

His jaw ticked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He wouldn't look at me. His gaze was fixed on the desk, on his stained hands, on anything that wasn't my shattered face.

 

“I thought we could talk,” I said, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat. “Spend time together. It’s been so hard since Lucan, and I thought—”

 

“This is not the time.”

 

“Then when is?” I fought to keep the sob from breaking through. “It’s been three years. Three years of me waiting for you to see me, Corin. And now I walk in and find you—”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what? Say it out loud? You were—” I stopped, swallowing the bile. “You said her name. While you were… to her picture.”

 

“That is none of your business.”

 

I recoiled as if he’d slapped me. The air left my lungs in a sharp hiss. “I’m your wife.”

 

“And I told you—” He finally looked at me, and the shame in his eyes was being rapidly consumed by a dark, defensive anger. “You don’t get to look at me like that. Not when you…” He trailed off, tightening his belt with lethal precision. “Not when you barge in here.”

 

I stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time. He was making this my violation. My fault for witnessing the truth he couldn't hide.

 

“Fine,” I said, my voice turning to frost. “I’ll remember that next time.”

 

I turned before the tears could betray me. My hand gripped the doorknob, and I paused just long enough to throw the final blow: “Happy anniversary, Corin.”

 

I walked out, closing the door with a quiet, final click. I swallowed the scream building in my chest and marched past the guest wing, past the hall where Lucan used to bump his shoulder against mine just to see me smile. 

 

I reached the back porch and stepped out into the biting October air. I was barefoot, the cold stone stinging my soles, but I welcomed it. I needed the chill to freeze the fire burning in my lungs.

 

The woods were a jagged silhouette of silver under the moonlight. I leaned against the railing and let the tremors take me.

 

Three years of pretending. Waiting. Hoping for a man who would never want me. He wanted *her*. He wanted her enough to touch himself to her image on our anniversary, in our home, while I was just a room away.

 

And Lucan was gone. My protector was in the ground. How long before Corin brought her into his bed? The bed that was supposed to be mine? How long before I was forced to watch them play house in the flesh?

 

No more.

 

I wouldn't wait for the explosion. I wouldn't wait for permission to be free. 

 

I needed a plan.

 

I knew exactly who to call. Sloane. The lawyer I’d met years ago, right after my mate rejection. She’d seen the brokenness in me then. *“If you ever need a way out,”* she’d said, *“I’m the one you call.”*

 

I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I typed: *Need to dissolve a mating contract. Discreetly. Urgently.*

 

Her reply was almost instantaneous: *Call you in 10. Have your documentation ready.*

 

I stared at the screen, then up at the moon—cold, distant, and indifferent. 

 

Corin would never sign. The marriage was too convenient. It kept the Elders happy, kept Veronica away, and kept Mireya within arm's reach without the scandal. 

 

But he didn't love me. And I was finished being the ghost in his house.

 

The back door creaked open behind me. I didn't turn around. I didn't want to see his face.

 

“Riven.” Corin’s voice was cautious now, the heat of his anger cooled into something calculated. “We should talk.”

 

“Should we?”

 

He stepped up beside me at the railing. He was close enough that I could smell him—the scent of sweat and the lingering phantom of her perfume. He didn't touch me. He never did.

 

“I shouldn't have spoken to you that way,” he said. It wasn't an apology; it was a PR statement. “I was… surprised. Embarrassed.”

 

“Embarrassed,” I repeated, the word tasting like ash.

 

“That you saw…” He raked a hand through his hair, a gesture I used to think was charming. Now it just looked tired. “It won't happen again. The office… the behavior. I’ll be more careful.”

 

*More careful.* Not *I’ll stop.* Not *I choose you.* Just *I’ll hide it better.*

 

“I’d like that,” I said, the lie sliding off my tongue with terrifying ease. Agreement bought me time. “I’d like to believe things could be different.”

 

I felt him relax. His shoulders dropped an inch; he exhaled. He thought he’d won. He thought he’d negotiated me back into my box.

 

“Things will be different,” he promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”

 

He reached out, his hand hovering near my arm for a second before he pulled it back. 

 

“Goodnight, Corin,” I said.

 

He left. I waited until I heard the lock click before I pulled out my phone again. Sloane was calling.

 

I answered as I stepped off the porch and into the shadows of the yard. “Tell me how to get out of a marriage he won't end.”

 

Sloane’s laugh was low and sharp. “First, we find the leverage. Then we make him think the divorce was his idea. Are you free in the morning?”

 

“Completely.”

 

I looked back at the pack house. The windows glowed with a warmth that was a lie. Somewhere in there, Corin was washing the evidence of another woman off his skin.

 

They didn't know it yet. But tomorrow, I was going to burn it all down.