chapter 4

Lucian POV

My wolf was terrifyingly quiet inside me.

She didn't cry. She didn't howl in outrage or thrash against the iron bars of my despair. Instead, a strange sense of relief seemed to radiate through our shared bond. It was as if she were celebrating this tragic fate—thrilled that we were being forced into the orbit of this terrifying alpha, completely oblivious to the agony tearing my soul apart.

She might be happy, I screamed silently into the void of my own mind, but I am not!

I stood before the Lycan King, my knees knocking together beneath my thin tunic, my chest heaving with shallow, suffocating gasps. I summoned every drop of courage left in my hollowed spirit, forcing my mute, trembling lips to form silent, desperate shapes in the heavy air between us.

I don't want to be your wife! my hands signed in jagged, trembling motions, tears finally spilling over my lashes. I don't want any of this! Let me go!

The Lycan King didn't even blink. He looked down at my frantic gestures with an expression so cold, so thoroughly detached, it felt like a splash of ice water to my face.

“Do not confuse a political necessity with a holy union,” his baritone voice rumbled, smooth and deadly as polished obsidian. “You are not a real wife to me. You are merely an unwanted burden thrust upon my court by a twist of blood and fate.”

He didn't wait for my response. He turned his broad, fur-draped shoulders away from me, motioning toward a row of stoic, low-ranking omega servants waiting near the towering oak doors.

“Take her,” the King commanded, his voice devoid of a single drop of human warmth. “Prepare her for the ceremony. I want this charade over with before nightfall.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the head maid bowed low, her voice trembling under his oppressive aura.

I had no strength left to fight. My spirit was a bruised, battered thing, dragged along by the tide of events completely beyond my control. I shuffled behind the servant like a phantom, my feet feeling heavy as lead blocks on the cold marble floorboards.

They led me down a maze of dark, subterranean corridors, finally pushing open the heavy bronze doors of a lavish bathing chamber. The room was thick with steamy humidity, scented with lavender and crushed rose petals, but to me, it felt like a pristine, gilded cage.

The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the dam inside my chest broke. Scalding tears poured down my cheeks in a silent, uncontrollable torrent.

Why am I always the unlucky one? I wept in total silence, burying my face in my trembling hands, my mute throat convulsing with dry, pathetic hitches. Why does no one ever want me? What did I do to the Moon Goddess to deserve a life where everyone discards me like trash?

First, my stepsister betrayed me and stole my boyfriend. Then, my father stood by and handed me over to strangers without throwing a single punch. And now, the most powerful male in the world was treating me like a disease he was forced to wear around his neck.

One of the younger maids stepped toward me, reaching out her hands to unbutton my tunic. Her touch was businesslike, cold, and devoid of sympathy.

A sharp spike of residual trauma shot through me. I recoiled, slapping her hand away with a soft gasp. I raised my fingers quickly, my movements sharp and clear: I will take off my own clothes. I will wash myself.

The maid straightened, scoffing softly as she rolled her eyes. “Then be quick about it,” she warned, her tone laced with low disdain. “Do not make the King wait for us. His patience is thinner than a razor's edge today, and we will not take the blame for your hesitation.”

Fine, I signed bitterly.

I stripped out of my travel-stained garments, lowering my aching body into the steaming basin of water. I scrubbed my skin until it was raw and inflamed, desperately trying to wash away the scent of betrayal, the lingering touch of the hotel sheets, and the suffocating presence of the palace. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn't wash away the raised, burning crest carved into the side of my throat.

An hour later, I was dragged into the grand sanctuary of the Lycan fortress.

The royal cathedral was a breathtaking spectacle of ancient, dark grandeur. High vaulted stone arches rose into shadowy ceilings, illuminated by thousands of floating white candles. The pews were packed to capacity with the realm's highest nobles, warlords, and alpha pack leaders—all whispering in harsh, venomous tones as I was marched down the long velvet aisle.

I was dressed in a gown of heavy, dark velvet embroidered with intricate silver thread. I looked like a princess, but felt like a lamb walking straight into the butcher's den.

I took my place beside the Lycan King at the altar. He stood tall, imposing, and radiant in his royal dark armor, his broad shoulders squared, his jaw set in an unyielding line. He never once looked down at me as I stepped beside him.

I forced myself to stand straight. I swallowed my pride, fighting back the tears, and forced my face into a fragile, plastic smile. The kingdom was watching. My enemies were watching. If I was going to be humiliated today, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me break entirely.

The High Priest, an ancient wolf with blind, milky eyes and a staff of white bone, stepped forward. His ancient voice boomed through the echoing hall, reciting the sacred, binding vows of the Lycan throne. He spoke of duty, of bloodlines, and of the sacred bond that tied a ruler to his realm.

Every word felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest, slowly crushing the oxygen out of my lungs.

Finally, the priest reached the pinnacle of the holy ritual.

“And now, by the laws of the First Ancestors,” the ancient priest proclaimed, raising his hands toward the grand glass ceiling, “the King must seal this holy union with a mark of possession upon his Luna! Let the sovereign seal his court!”

An expectant, suffocating quiet fell over the massive congregation. Thousands of guests held their breath. Everyone leaned forward, waiting for the traditional, intimate moment where the King would lean down and plant his teeth or lips against my throat, claiming me before the eyes of the realm.

The King turned slowly to face me.

His face was an unreadable mask of absolute ice. His glowing silver eyes locked onto mine—cold, hollow, and utterly unfeeling.

He didn't reach for me. He didn't lift a hand to touch my trembling face.

Instead, he took a deliberate, shocking step backward, putting a clear, painful distance between us.

“I will not touch her,” the King declared.

His deep, powerful voice shattered the silence like a falling boulder, echoing off the stone walls and ringing in every ear in the building.

A collective gasp rippled through the grand hall. Shocked, horrified whispers instantly erupted from the pews. Nobles leaned into each other, eyes wide with disbelief. A royal refusal at the altar was an unprecedented, public execution of my dignity.

The King turned his broad chest toward the sea of stunned faces, his voice rising in a dark, ruthless decree that cut straight through my heart like a serrated blade.

“She may carry my name,” the Lycan King announced coldly, his glowing silver eyes sweeping over the crowd before sliding back to my pale, frozen face. “She may wear my crown, and she may sit upon my stage. But she does not carry my heart. She is my Luna in title alone—nothing more.”

My chest tightened so violently I thought my ribs would snap into splinters. The room spun around me. My fake smile collapsed, tears brimming in my eyes as the crushing weight of global humiliation washed over me. I was a parade specimen. A hollow puppet. An unwanted girl crowned in front of the entire world.

I lowered my head, accepting the finality of my tragic fate.

“Your Majesty!” a blood-curdling scream suddenly erupted from the front row of the noble crowd. “Look! Look at her neck!”

The sudden, panicked shout shattered the tension in the room.

Instantly, thousands of eyes pivoted away from the King and locked onto me.

Before I could even raise my hands to cover myself, a blinding, white-hot heat exploded along the left side of my throat. It didn't burn like pain—it surged like pure, divine electricity, radiating down my spine and bursting through every blood vessel in my body.

A sharp gasp echoed through the front row as the priest dropped his staff, the heavy wood clattering against the marble floor.

The King’s eyes blew wide, the icy composure melting from his face in a single, terrifying second.

Underneath the high collars of my velvet gown, the dark, carved mark on my neck was no longer static. It was flaring with an impossible, blinding silver light—pulsing in exact, perfect harmony with the furious, pounding heartbeat of the Lycan King.

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