Bound By Blood and Bite

Framed Omega

The scent of iron and judgment filled the Council Hall.

Rowan Blackwood stood barefoot on cold marble, his wrists shackled in silver. Every movement burned. The heavy manacles weren’t just for show—they were a message. Omegas weren’t meant to rebel. And if they did, they were made an example.

The seven High Alphas of the Supernatural Council sat in a crescent arc above him. Robes of shadow and fur billowed behind them, thick with magic, tradition, and silent hatred.

“You’ve been charged with treason against the Council,” droned Alpha Regulus, his voice like gravel sliding over bone. “Specifically, tampering with sacred territory sigils and conspiring to assassinate a seated Alpha.”

“I didn’t,” Rowan said flatly, the words thick on his tongue. “You know I didn’t.”

“You were found at the site,” said a witch elder from the side chamber, her voice cutting through the hall. “Covered in blood. Sigils broken. The Alpha near death.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. “It wasn’t mine.”

“You expect us to believe an unbonded Omega, without a pack, has enemies powerful enough to frame him?” Regulus scoffed. “You’ve always been trouble, Blackwood. A stray. A mutt born of no house, no legacy, no control.”

“I’d rather be a stray than a puppet,” Rowan shot back.

Gasps echoed. One of the Alphas stood—an older wolf with frost in his beard. “Your tongue is sharp for someone whose life dangles on the edge of exile or execution.”

“Then pick one,” Rowan spat, head high despite the burning shackles. “But don’t pretend this is justice.”

Silence.

Then, from the shadows of the hall’s farthest column, boots clicked—measured, slow, authoritative.

A tall figure emerged, draped in all black. Not ceremonial robes like the rest, but custom-tailored combat leather, reinforced at the shoulders and arms. His presence silenced even the Council’s sneers.

Lucien Virelli.

Alpha Enforcer.

The Council’s coldest weapon.

His eyes—a feral gray rimmed with gold—landed on Rowan like a predator scenting blood.

“The prisoner speaks with fire,” Lucien said as he approached, voice low and deep. “Useful… or dangerous.”

“Depends on the leash,” Regulus replied, watching him carefully.

Rowan stared at the Enforcer, unmoved. “So, this is it? You bring out your attack dog to finish what the Council can’t?”

Lucien smirked, a sharp tilt of the mouth. “No. I’m here to offer a solution.”

A hush fell.

Lucien turned to the Council. “The supernatural territories are fractured. Tensions between factions escalate daily. The rogue uprisings grow bolder. What we need—what the people demand—is unity.”

“Through what?” Regulus asked warily. “Another execution?”

“Through symbolism,” Lucien said. Then he turned and looked directly at Rowan. “Through mating.”

Rowan blinked.

Lucien’s voice dropped to a growl. “I’ll claim the Omega.”

The Council erupted. Voices overlapped. Magic surged. Rowan’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Regulus rose, snarling, “You would fake-mate a criminal?”

“No,” Lucien said. “I would redeem one.”

Rowan found his voice. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” Lucien faced him with the finality of a storm. “You will be bonded to me, in name. Appearances. Politics. Nothing more.”

“And if I say no?” Rowan snapped.

Lucien stepped forward, towering, the scent of musk and dominance crashing over Rowan like a tidal wave. “Then the Council rips you apart. Or banishes you to the outlands where feral packs will.”

Rowan bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood.

“Why me?” he asked hoarsely. “Why not any other Omega who wants the position?”

“Because none of them are you,” Lucien said.

There was something unreadable in his eyes. Not pity. Not mercy. Calculation. And something colder still.

“Agree,” Regulus growled, “and you’ll walk free. Under Virelli’s supervision. Defy, and we let your fate fall to the law of blood.”

Rowan’s entire body ached. His pride burned hotter than the manacles. But survival? That was a flame not even silver could smother.

He exhaled, then nodded once.

“I accept.”

---

They stripped the shackles from his wrists but replaced them with a thin bracelet etched with binding runes—subtle, but stronger magic than Rowan had ever felt. It would bind him to Lucien’s presence. Reinforce the illusion of a bond. And kill him if he tried to run.

Lucien didn’t speak as they left the Council Hall. He walked ahead, silent but powerful, every step precise. Rowan trailed behind, refusing to limp despite the burn in his ankles.

Outside, a sleek black car waited, engine purring low.

“I’m not sitting in the back like a prisoner,” Rowan said as Lucien opened the passenger door.

Lucien looked at him once. “You’re not a prisoner anymore.”

Rowan hesitated… and slid in beside him.

The door shut with a hiss. The air inside was cold, scented with leather and ozone.

As the car pulled away, Rowan turned slightly to face him. “So, what’s the real plan?”

Lucien didn’t look at him. “You pretend to be my mate. You attend appearances. You speak only when I say. You smile when I need you to. You stay in my home, by my rules. And you don’t touch anything sacred.”

Rowan scoffed. “And what do I get?”

Lucien finally looked at him. “Protection. Food. A roof. And your life.”

The silence stretched.

“Do we have to mark each other?” Rowan asked, quieter.

“No,” Lucien said. “The illusion of bonding is enough. Unless you become a liability. Then we might need… stronger ties.”

Rowan clenched his fists. “What if someone finds out it’s fake?”

“They won’t,” Lucien said. “Because you’ll convince them otherwise. You’ll make them believe.”

“And if I don’t?”

Lucien’s gaze sharpened, voice dropping to a lethal murmur.

“Try anything… and I’ll rip your throat out.”

The Virelli Estate

The Virelli Estate rose from the cliffs like a dark cathedral—stone walls, jagged spires, and iron gates flanked by wolf-shaped gargoyles. It wasn’t a home. It was a warning.

The sleek black car rolled through the wrought-iron archway, gravel crunching beneath its tires. Rowan sat stiffly beside Lucien, arms crossed and jaw set. The closer they got, the stronger the aura of power became—thick, old magic baked into the soil and stone.

“Charming place,” Rowan muttered. “Very ‘murder mansion meets Gothic mafia.’”

Lucien didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His energy filled the space like cold smoke—silent, dominant, and coiled.

The car stopped in a circular courtyard. A butler in a black waistcoat opened the passenger door, bowing slightly. Rowan stepped out, glancing around at the towering columns and statues of past Virelli alphas glaring down from above.

Lucien came around the car and gestured wordlessly toward the arched entranc