C2

"My name is Chika Whitmore. If the legend of the Afolayan Dominion holds any truth regarding your honor, then we can seal our fates and bind our bloodlines today," I stated, my voice echoing through the Silverfang Ceremony Chamber with a clarity that defied the chaos of my shattered engagement.

The gathered wolves of the Afolayan syndicate gasped, the sound like a collective intake of air before a strike. Dozens of high-ranking enforcers reached for their phones, capturing the sight of a Whitmore heir standing before the most dangerous Alpha in the modern underworld.

"Master Whitmore, have you lost your mind or simply your sense of survival? Look at this chair. Look at these legs," Lucien Afolayan rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He gestured to the reinforced steel of his throne-like wheelchair. "I am a broken king. I cannot lead a hunt, and I may never provide the dynasty you think you’re buying into. Think carefully before you tether your soul to a ghost."

"I have never been more certain of a kill in my life," I replied, my eyes locked onto his stormy gaze.

"I am Lucien," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he reached out, his hand clamping around mine like a vice. His skin was burning hot, the mark of a powerful internal beast. "I fear the regret will taste like silver in your mouth before the moon sets."

I didn't blink. I didn't pull away. "I’ve spent three years chasing a dog like Ronan Blackwell who didn't know the meaning of loyalty. At this point, the name of the man I bind myself to doesn't matter, as long as he has the teeth to bite back."

We didn't waste time with the Elder’s flowery prayers. We retreated to the inner sanctum of the Moonveil Grand Hall, signing the blood-parchment with serrated pens that drew our own essence onto the page. By the time the ink dried, the law of the werewolf mafia recognized us as one. Chika Whitmore was no longer a disgraced runaway groom; I was the consort to the most feared Alpha in the territory.

A strange, cold relief washed over me as I gripped the leather-bound copy of our marriage contract. Ronan had tried to bury my dignity, and my father, Cedric, was likely already planning to sell my sister Bianca to the Blackwells to fix the mess. Let him try. He didn't have a son to sell anymore. He had a rival.

"You’re staring at that paper like it’s a map to a treasure you don't want," Lucien said, interrupting my thoughts. "Are you already mourning the fact that your husband can't walk you across the threshold?"

"I’m thinking it’s the best tactical move I’ve made since I learned to shift," I said, stepping behind him to grip the handles of his chair.

Lucien offered a sharp, predatory smile, though his eyes remained cold, swirling with the distrust of a man who had been betrayed by his own blood. He clearly thought I was a puppet, a temporary actor in a play that would end in fire.

He needed a spouse to satisfy the Council of Elders and prevent a coup while he recovered his strength. I needed a fortress. We were using each other, and that was the only honest thing about this union.

I helped guide him into the back of a blacked-out, armored SUV. We drove deep into the heart of the city’s restricted zone, arriving at a sprawling estate protected by high walls and snipers in the trees. This wasn't a home; it was a command center. There were training pits, a tactical garden, and enough security to repel a full-scale invasion.

As the wheels of his chair hit the thick, dark rugs of the main hall, I realized exactly how much weight the name Afolayan carried.

"Alpha Afolayan, you’ve returned," a man in a sharp tactical suit said, bowing low. "And this... is the replacement?"

"This is Chika Whitmore, my husband. He is the master of this house now," Lucien announced, his tone leaving no room for debate. "My original bride, Seraphina Vale, decided a disabled Alpha wasn't worth the risk. She fled to the Southern borders like a coward."

"The Lady Seraphina vanished on the day of the Blood Moon?" the butler, Malik Arden, asked, his eyes wide. "The Vales were desperate for this alliance. To humiliate you like this... it’s a declaration of war."

"It’s a mistake they won't live to regret," Lucien said flatly.

Malik looked at me, his gaze softening with a hint of respect. "Sir, it seems the Moon has a strange sense of humor. You’ve brought home a Whitmore. Perhaps the strength you needed wasn't in the bride you lost."

I looked down at Lucien. The man had been the pinnacle of the werewolf mafia, a legendary enforcer whose business strategies were as lethal as his claws. Now, because of a silver-trap accident a year ago, the world treated him like he was already dead. I knew that feeling of being discarded.

I stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't let their small minds bother you. We are bound now. I will handle the front lines while you command the shadows. We’ll protect each other's throats."

Lucien’s posture stiffened. He stared at my hand as if it were a poisonous snake. "A lifetime of care, Chika? You barely know the color of my wolf. Save the sentiment for the Blackwell pup."

Without another word, he spun his chair around and rolled toward the heavy doors of his private study.

"I apologize, Master Chika," Malik whispered. "The Alpha hasn't been the same since the ambush. His temper is as sharp as his pain."

"I’ve dealt with worse than a grumpy wolf, Malik," I replied, waving it off. "Show me where I can change. I need to get out of this suit."

Inside the study, the air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and old blood. A massive, scarred man named Vinny Bailey stood by the desk, lighting a thick cigar for Lucien.

"Seraphina has crossed the border into Hunter territory. The Vales have already cashed the tribute we sent—forty million in untraceable diamonds and three major shipping ports. They think they can rob a crippled Alpha and walk away," Vinny growled.

Lucien took a long drag of the cigar, the smoke curling around his face like a shroud. He stood up from the chair, his legs shaking slightly but holding his weight as he moved toward the window. The wheelchair was a prop, a shield to make his enemies underestimate him.

"If I don't rip the hearts out of the Vales, the rest of the Syndicate will think I’ve turned into a lapdog," Lucien muttered. "But first, we deal with the new variable. What do we have on the Whitmore boy?"

Vinny tossed a thick dossier onto the desk. "Chika Whitmore. Second son. He’s a lead cellist in the Metropolitan Lycan Orchestra. No criminal record, no kills, but his father, Cedric, has been using him as a bargaining chip for years. He was supposed to marry Ronan Blackwell today to settle a territory dispute."

"A cellist?" Lucien laughed, a dark, dry sound. "He married me for the protection of my name and the depth of my vaults. He’s a pampered bird looking for a stronger cage."

"There’s more," Vinny added. "The groom, Ronan, ditched him at the altar for Sienna Okafor. Chika didn't just leave—he declared a blood-feud on his way out. He might have married you just to have a bigger gun to point at the Blackwells."

Lucien turned back from the window, his eyes narrowed. "A man driven by spite is more dangerous than a man driven by greed. I don't care if he wants my money, as long as he stays out of the way. If he plays the part of the loyal spouse, it makes the transition of power easier. If he tries to bite me, I’ll put him down myself."

Upstairs, I sat on the edge of a massive silk-covered bed, my phone buzzing incessantly. The underworld news feeds were exploding. The headlines were savage: “Whitmore Heir Snaps: Marries Crippled Alpha After Blackwell Jilting” and “The Blood Moon Wedding Scandal: Revenge or Desperation?”

I scrolled through the comments. The pack members were mocking me, calling me a "gold-digging omega" and a "pitiful replacement." They even posted a video of me playing a solo at the Blood Moon Gala last year, mocking the "softness" of my wolf.

I was about to throw the phone against the wall when it vibrated with an incoming call. The name on the screen made my blood run cold.

"Where the hell are you, Chika?" Ronan Blackwell’s voice snarled as soon as I picked up. "I’m at the tower. Sienna is safe. Stop this temper tantrum and get back to the Silverfang Chamber. We can still salvage the alliance if you apologize to my parents."

"Apologize?" I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Ronan, you left me bleeding on a marble floor to go chase a woman who hates your guts. The alliance is dead. And so is whatever pathetic bond you thought we had."

"Don't be dramatic. You’re a Whitmore; you have nowhere else to go. You’re nothing without the Blackwell name protecting you."

"I’m not a Whitmore anymore, Ronan. And I definitely don't need your protection," I said, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I’m an Afolayan now. And if I were you, I’d start checking your perimeter. My husband doesn't like it when other wolves call his property."

I hung up before he could respond, my heart racing with a terrifying, exhilarating rush of power. I wasn't the victim anymore. I was the wife of a monster.