All Chapters of Branded by the Alpha, Claimed by His Brother: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The man currently burying himself inside me has no idea he is claiming a ghost. Burgundy silk sheets have come loose from every corner of the mattress. They twist and bunch beneath us, offering no grip for my knees and no anchor for my hands except the fistfuls of fabric I keep dragging toward myself, as though they might hold me together. Every thrust of his hips is heavy and crude, the savage drive of a beast that claims everything it touches. My nails dig into the mattress through the silk, and the headboard knocks against the wall in a relentless cadence that would almost be funny if it weren't the only steady thing left in the room. Tristan growls low against my neck, his breath scalding my skin, and I cry out in a voice pitched higher than mine, a voice that belongs to someone I'm only pretending to be. Clara. Clara. Clara. I chant it behind my eyes like a rosary, a name I stitch myself back into with every repetition, because if I let it slip even once, if my own name su

Burning flesh smelled like meat left too long in the summer heat. I knew I would remember that smell for the rest of my life. The Pack Ascendancy wasn't cancelled. Tristan made sure of that. He didn't want to humiliate me in private. He wanted the whole pack to watch. The great hall of the Ashenmoor Pack was packed to the walls, hundreds of Alphas, Lunas, and allied council members in their finest silks, all staring down at me as guards dragged me across the cold marble floor in nothing but a blood stained slip. The silver chains clanked against the stone with every step, pulling me toward the dais where Tristan stood in his ceremonial black and gold furs. He looked every inch the Alpha King. His eyes, though, were dead. Frozen over. There was nothing left in them I recognized. Beside him, an iron brazier glowed white hot, coals hissing as a guard pulled a heavy rod from the flames. The tip glowed an angry orange, and at the end of it sat the rune for Traitor, already shaped

The cabin smelled of wet earth, old leather, and cedar smoke. It was warm inside, almost too warm, heated by a stone fireplace that cracked and popped in the corner of the room. My head throbbed with every heartbeat, and each small movement pulled fresh pain across the blistered flesh on my forehead. I couldn't shift. I couldn't heal. I was left with nothing but the pain. Lucian carried me through the doorway without effort, as though I weighed nothing at all. He didn't drop me onto the furs stacked near the wall or leave me in a corner to fend for myself. He walked straight past all of it, toward a large iron tub near the fire, steam already curling off water someone, or something, had prepared before we arrived. "I'm going to set you down." His voice was gentle. He lowered me onto a wooden stool beside the tub. My legs buckled the moment my weight shifted onto them, but his hand caught my shoulder before I hit the floor. "I can do it," I rasped, my throat hoarse from scream

The bath had gone cold twice before I finally let Martha talk me into getting out of it. She helped me into a deep emerald velvet gown, the fabric cool and smooth against my skin, then patiently brushed the knots from my hair—more gently than anyone had in years. She didn’t ask about Lyra. She didn’t ask about the mark either, though I caught her looking at it more than once, something unreadable behind her eyes. “He’ll be back soon,” she said, setting the bone brush down. “He said before dark.” “Does he always do what he says?” Martha considered the question like it mattered. “Lord Lucian has many faults, child. Lying isn’t one of them.” She left me by the fire with a plate of food I barely touched. Outside, the light had turned that thin gray that comes right before the sun gives up for the day. I sat curled in the window seat, watching the tree line, and told myself I wasn’t waiting for him. I was lying too. The horse came through the gates just as the last of

The ring had gone from cold to burning in the span of a single breath. I only realized it because Lucian noticed first. His gaze dropped to my hand mid-sentence, and his entire body went rigid. "Seraphina," he said, his voice sharpening with immediate edge. "Your hand." I looked down. The silver band encircling my finger had darkened, the skin beneath it swelling tightly against the metal. A throbbing ache crawled up into my wrist, followed by a crushing pressure. It was a sensation I had woken up with every morning for the last three months—so familiar that I had long since stopped questioning it. Except now, it was no longer lingering quietly in the background. It was sharpening, worsening by the second. "It's nothing," I said, even as my fingers curled instinctively to shield the burning metal. "It's just—" "Don't." Lucian caught my wrist in a firm grip before I could pull away. "Don't tell me it's nothing." His gaze swept over the inflamed skin pressed against the band. "Wha