To Marry a Monster

“Stay where you are, Ronan! If you walk out of this Silverfang Ceremony Chamber right now, there is no coming back. Do you understand the blood-debt you’re creating?”

I reached out, my fingers digging into the heavy fabric of Ronan Blackwell’s ceremonial sleeve. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped beast. Around us, the air was thick with the scent of pine, musk, and the underlying tension of five hundred high-ranking wolves of the Blackwell Pack and my own Whitmore Bloodline.

“Sienna is on the ledge of Ravencrest Tower, Chika,” Ronan snarled, wrenching his arm back with such force that I stumbled, my ankle snapping with a sickening pop. “She’s spiraling. Her wolf is clawing at her mind. If she jumps, her blood is on your hands for forcing this union.”

“Forcing? We signed the blood-pact three moons ago!” I gasped, clutching my leg as I hit the stone floor. The cold marble bit into my skin. “The Elder is standing right there, Ronan. The vows are half-spoken. You’re the Alpha heir—you cannot leave your Luna at the altar for a woman who sold your pack secrets to the Hunters last winter!”

“Keep Sienna’s name out of your mouth,” Ronan hissed, his eyes flashing a dangerous, predatory amber. “You don’t compare to her. You never did. You’re just a political placeholder, a pawn the Whitmores traded to settle a turf war. She’s my soul’s tether.”

“She’s a distraction!” I yelled, my voice cracking as the gathered wolves began to growl, the sound vibrating through the floorboards. “If you leave, you humiliate the Whitmore Bloodline. My father will call for a Blood Hunt. Is she worth a war between the Mafia syndicates?”

“Let him call it,” Ronan growled, already turning his back on me, his cloak billowing like a shadow. “I’d rather fight a thousand wars than lose her tonight.”

“Ronan! Look at me! We are seconds away from the ring exchange!”

“The ring means nothing without the bond, Chika. And I feel nothing for you.”

He didn't look back. The heavy oak doors of the Silverfang Chamber slammed shut, the boom echoing like a cannon shot. Silence fell over the hall, heavy and suffocating, before the first whisper broke the dam.

“Disgraceful,” I heard my father’s voice, cold and sharp as a silver blade.

“Father, please,” I whispered, looking up at Cedric Whitmore. “He... he was manipulated. We can fix this.”

“Fix it? You let the Blackwell heir walk out on a Blood Alliance,” Cedric sneered, standing up from the front row. He didn't offer a hand. “You’ve weakened our standing in the Syndicate. You’re a liability, Chika. A wolf who can’t hold his mate is no son of mine.”

“Cedric, don’t make a scene here,” Helena Whitmore muttered, though her eyes were just as frigid. “The humiliation is already total. We’re leaving.”

“Wait! You’re just going to leave me here on the floor?”

“You’re pathetic, Chika,” my younger sister, Bianca, laughed, her voice carrying across the silent rows of guests. “Look at you. Crying like a pup in the dirt. I told Ronan you were too weak for a Mafia mantle. I guess he finally realized I was right. Enjoy the shame—it’s the only thing you own now.”

“Is the ceremony over, Elder Reed?” one of the Blackwell elders shouted. “If there’s no union, the territorial borders revert to the old status! This is a breach of contract!”

“The groom has fled!” another voice cried out. “The Whitmore boy must have some hidden taint. Why else would Ronan risk a blood feud to escape him?”

“He’s probably cursed,” a cousin whispered. “Did you see the way he fell? No grace. No Alpha spirit.”

I sat there, the white silk of my ceremonial suit stained with the dust of the floor, watching my entire family walk out of the side exit without a single backward glance. The Blackwells followed, their faces masks of contempt. Within minutes, the grand chamber was an echoing tomb of abandoned flowers and guttering candles.

“Excuse me,” I croaked, flagging down a lone servant who was beginning to snuff out the torches. “The man in the Moonveil Grand Hall next door... is his ceremony still going?”

“The Afolayan Dominion’s hall?” The servant paused, looking at me with a mix of pity and revulsion. “No, Alpha. It’s a mirror of this disaster. His bride, the Lady Seraphina, never scented the air. She fled to the Southern territories before the first bell.”

“So he’s alone too?”

“He is. But no one dares approach him. The Alpha Lucien is... difficult.”

I forced myself to stand, my sprained ankle screaming in protest. I limped toward the connecting archway that led to the Moonveil Grand Hall. If I went home now, I was a dead man—stripped of rank, exiled, or worse. The Mafia world had no room for a failed groom.

As I entered the adjacent hall, I saw him.

Lucien Afolayan sat in a high-backed, motorized chair of dark steel at the head of the altar. He was facing the massive stained-glass window that depicted the First Moon. His shoulders were broad, his dark hair falling over a collar of midnight fur. He was the most feared enforcer in the werewolf underworld, a man whose legs had been shattered in a silver-bomb ambush a year ago, but whose shadow still kept the rival packs in check.

“Where is your bride, Alpha Afolayan?” Elder Solomon Reed asked, his voice trembling as he stood behind the seated man.

“She chose life over a broken King,” Lucien’s voice rolled through the room like distant thunder. “She won’t be coming.”

I watched him from the shadows of the pillars. He was being mocked by the silence of his own guests, just as I had been. He was a King without a Queen, and I was a soldier without a commander.

I wiped the blood and tears from my face, straightening my jacket. I didn't have love to give, but I had a burning, violent need for survival. I stepped out into the light, my boots clicking against the obsidian floor.

The few remaining guests gasped. A Whitmore in the Afolayan’s sanctum? It was unheard of.

Lucien didn't turn his head. “Who approaches the throne? I’m not in the mood for scavengers.”

“I’m not a scavenger,” I said, my voice gaining strength with every step. “I’m a man who just lost everything to a Blackwell’s cowardice.”

Lucien slowly turned his chair. His face was a masterpiece of lethal symmetry—sharp jaw, eyes the color of a stormy sea, and a scar that ran through one eyebrow. He looked at my disheveled state, my bruised wrist, and the desperation in my eyes.

“Chika Whitmore,” he mused, his voice a low purr. “The abandoned mate. You look like a stray dog caught in a rainstorm.”

“And you look like a King with a vacant seat next to him,” I countered, stopping just three feet from him. “My pack has disowned me. My groom has betrayed the blood-vow. In ten minutes, I’ll be an outcast with a price on my head.”

Lucien leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. The power rolling off him was suffocating, even in his seated position. “And what is that to me? I have my own borders to secure.”

“You need a bride to finalize your claim on the Obsidian Crown Plaza and the shipping routes,” I said, stepping closer, ignoring the growls of his personal guard. “The Elders won't let you lead the Dominion as a single male. They’ll use your injury as an excuse to trigger a leadership challenge by morning.”

“You’re well-informed for a failure,” Lucien said, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I’m a Whitmore. I know how the blood-money moves,” I said. I took a deep breath and extended my hand, palm up—the universal sign of a pact offering. “I heard you’re in need of a bride. My groom just left me for a ghost. I have the lineage, I have the motive, and I have absolutely nothing left to lose.”

Lucien looked at my hand, then up at my eyes. “You’re proposing a merger? Here? In the ruins of our reputations?”

“I’m proposing we give them something else to talk about,” I said, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “Marry me, Lucien. Let’s show the Blackwells and my father what happens when two broken things become a weapon.”

The silence in the hall was absolute. Even the Elder held his breath. Lucien reached out, his fingers cold and strong as he gripped my hand. He pulled me toward him until I was leaning over his chair, our faces inches apart.

“You realize what this means, Chika? In the Afolayan Dominion, we don't do divorces. We only do funerals.”

“Then let’s start digging some graves for the people who left us here,” I replied.

Lucien’s grip tightened, and for the first time, I saw a spark of genuine interest in his dark eyes. “Elder Reed! Stop shaking and get over here. It seems the Moon has provided a replacement.”

“But... Alpha... the protocols! The blood-testing!” the Elder stammered.

“Fuck the protocols,” Lucien growled. “The boy wants a war. I’m going to give him an empire. Start the vows.”

I stood tall beside his chair, my hand still locked in his. I could feel the power of his wolf humming through his skin, a dark, heavy energy that promised protection and peril in equal measure. I looked back at the doors I had just crawled through, thinking of Ronan and my father. They thought they had destroyed me.

They had no idea they had just handed me to the devil.

“I, Lucien Afolayan, take this wolf to be my shadow and my blade,” Lucien’s voice filled the hall, no longer a whisper but a command that demanded the world’s attention.

“I, Chika Whitmore, take this Alpha to be my strength and my vengeance,” I responded, my voice steady as stone.

As the Elder began the ancient incantations, I knew the modern werewolf world was about to burn. And I would be the one holding the torch.