The Blacksmith's Vow

My skull throbbed to the rhythm of a brutal, pounding heartbeat. 

The first thing I registered was the suffocating heat. My body felt as though it had been set on fire and left to burn from the inside out. The second thing was the scent, intoxicating waves of hot iron, woodsmoke, and a dark, primal musk that made my inner feline beast purr in exhausted satisfaction. 

I forced my heavy eyelids open. The memories hit me in violent, jagged flashes. 

The glass of champagne Regina had handed me last night. The sudden, paralyzing fever. Stumbling into the guest wing to find ice, only to be pushed into the dark by my own stepsister. And then… the man. The massive, calloused hands that had anchored me when the aphrodisiac tore through my veins, claiming me with a desperate, consuming hunger until the sun came up.

I turned my head. Sleeping beside me was the man I had given myself to. 

He was massive. A canvas of thick muscle and faded scars, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. Even in sleep, he radiated a heavy, suffocating dominance. But I knew exactly who he was by the soot permanently stained into the callouses of his knuckles. 

The Pack Blacksmith. The low-life peasant my step-sister, Regina, was contractually obligated to marry by noon today. 

Panic seized my throat. *Regina.* Before I could even scramble for the sheets, the heavy mahogany doors of the bedroom were kicked open with a deafening crash. 

"Look at her! I told you she was a filthy whore!" 

The shrill, victorious shriek of my stepsister shattered the morning silence. 

I yanked the blanket to my chest, my heart dropping into my stomach. Standing in the doorway was Regina, her face twisted in a mask of fake horror, though her eyes danced with vicious delight. Behind her stood our father, the Pack Elders, and Victor the Beta’s son, whose hand was resting entirely too comfortably on Regina’s lower back. 

"I can't believe this," Regina sobbed, burying her face into Victor’s shoulder. "Today is my wedding day! I was ready to do my duty to this pack and marry this… this dirt-covered peasant! And my own sister sneaks into his bed to spread her legs for him!"

"Liar!" My voice was raw, tearing at my throat. "You gave me that drink, Regina! You drugged me!"

"Silence!" my father roared, his face purple with absolute disgust. He looked at me not as a daughter, but as a stain on his bloodline. "You have disgraced this family, Amy. You have tainted a marriage contract with a filthy laborer. You are stripped of your name, and you will be thrown out of the pack lands by nightfall!"

Rage, hot and blinding, flooded my veins. It was a setup. Regina despised the marriage alliance. She had been secretly sleeping with Victor for months, and she used me—drugged me and threw me to a commoner—so she could play the victim and break the contract. 

I looked at the elders. I looked at my father. None of them cared about the truth. They just wanted a target. 

"Get up, peasant!" Victor sneered, stepping forward and kicking the edge of the bed frame. He glared at the man beside me. "Get your filthy hands off her, grab your rags, and get out of the estate."

But the blacksmith didn't flinch. 

He didn't cower, apologize, or beg for mercy as a low-born pack member should in front of royals. Slowly, deliberately, he sat up. The sheet fell to his waist, exposing the brutal, scarred expanse of his chest. 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by ten degrees. A heavy, suffocating pressure leaked into the air, making my breath hitch. My inner beast—usually so feral—whimpered, shrinking back against the sheer, overwhelming weight of his presence. 

He didn't look like a blacksmith. He looked like a god of war waking up for slaughter. 

He turned his head, his piercing, golden-amber eyes locking onto Regina. She instantly stopped fake-crying, taking a subconscious step backward, her face paling. Victor swallowed hard, his arrogant smirk faltering under the blacksmith's dead-eyed stare. 

Without breaking eye contact with the royals, the blacksmith reached out. His massive, calloused hand wrapped gently around my trembling shoulder, pulling me firmly against his warm, immovable side. 

"The contract stated I was to take a bride from this house today," his voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. It held absolutely no fear. Only cold, terrifying authority. "I don't want the screeching, used-up brat hiding behind the Beta's son."

Regina gasped, her face turning crimson with fury. 

The blacksmith looked down at me, his thumb brushing away a stray tear on my cheek. His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, staring at me like I was the most precious thing in the room—his little beast kitty. 

Then, he looked back at the furious elders. 

"I am taking this one," he stated, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "She is my mate. I will marry her."

For three agonizing seconds, there was absolute silence. 

Then, Victor let out a loud, barking scoff. Regina followed, throwing her head back and erupting into cruel, mocking laughter. Within seconds, the entire doorway of pack royals was laughing at us, wiping tears of amusement from their eyes. 

"You?" Regina sneered, pointing a manicured finger at his scarred chest. "A worthless, hammer-swinging beggar wants to claim my sister? Perfect! Take the trash out with you! You two nobodies deserve each other!"

They laughed, pointing and mocking the 'low-life' in the bed. 

They didn't notice the way the shadows in the room seemed to bend toward him. They didn't feel the lethal, bloodthirsty aura vibrating just beneath his skin. 

They were laughing, completely unaware that the man sitting in front of them wasn't a peasant at all. He was the Lycan King's sole heir, and they had just signed their own death warrants.