His Unwanted Mate

The warm liquid splashes across my face, thick and metallic. Time slows to a cruel crawl as my brother's blood paints my skin crimson. My emerald silk gown – the one he'd teased me about just hours ago – drinks in his blood. I want to scream, to tear the world apart with my voice, to wrench my body into action, but horror has turned my muscles to stone. The late afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, making the bloodshed before me all too vivid.

I can only watch, trapped in this moment, as the rogue plunges his blade into my brother again and again. The silver ceremonial crown we'd placed on his head this morning falls into the trampled grass, disappearing among the wildflowers we'd decorated the field with for the ceremony. The metal catches the sunlight one last time before vanishing, like a cruel wink from fate. My whole body trembles, fine tremors building into violent shakes as reality crashes through my shock.

A piercing scream cuts through the chaos – maybe my own, I can't tell anymore. Before I can turn toward it, strong arms wrap around me, yanking me down and under the wooden ceremony platform where musicians had played celebratory songs just minutes ago. The sweet scent of crushed grass and fresh earth mingles with the metallic stench of blood as I'm pulled into the shadows beneath.

My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to break free, each beat a thundering reminder that I'm alive while my brother... The thought chokes me, and I thrash against my captor, desperate to break free, to help, to do something. The summer breeze carries screams across the field, a horrific contrast to the gentle wind that had carried flower petals during the ceremony's opening.

"Ivy, sweet girl, it's Helen!" The familiar voice breaks through my panic, gentle hands smoothing back my hair. My maid's lavender scent– the same smell that's comforted me since childhood – fights against the copper tang of blood in the air. The fighting continues above, but something far worse takes its place. I feel it, deep in my soul, where our pack bonds live: my brother's light flickering, dimming, going dark. Our connection, forged before birth, snaps like a thread cut by the Fates.

No. No, this isn't real. This is just my mind playing tricks, punishment for stealing his breakfast this morning before his coronation. He'd laughed, called me a 'little thief' with that crooked smile of his...

Another soul-deep pain rips through me, and my eyes fly wide. "Mom," I whisper, the word carried away by the wind. I surge forward, but Helen's arms – stronger than her flowered dress and gentle demeanor suggest – lock around me. Through gaps between the wooden planks, I see my mother's ceremonial robes whipping in the wind as she fights, her movements deadly and graceful until they're not.

Her head rolls across the grass, her eyes still fierce even in death, wildflowers crushed beneath her fall. The bond breaks and something inside me breaks with it. Tears burn trails down my blood-stained cheeks as another piece of my soul dies.

I won't wait for Dad's bond to join the growing void in my chest. I sink my teeth into Helen's hand, tasting copper and salt as I bolt into the open. The festival grounds, with its colorful banners snapping in the wind and scattered chairs knocked askew, spins around me as I turn in a circle.

Bodies litter the grass – wolves and rogues alike, their fur matted with blood. The golden afternoon light casts long shadows across the field, turning the scene into a grotesque painting. How did we get here? One moment, we were celebrating my brother's rise to future Alpha, crystal glasses clinking and pack bonds humming with joy beneath the open sky. Now I'm standing in a sea of death, watching rogues tear apart everything I've ever loved.

My mind screams for answers, for sense in this senseless slaughter. But there are no answers in the blood-soaked earth or the cooling bodies of my family. The wind tugs at my ruined dress, carrying the scent of death across what should have been a field of celebration.

My muscles burn with the need to shift, to fight, but there's nothing to answer that call. At thirteen, with my first shift still a month away, I'm trapped in this useless human form. James had teased me just yesterday, ruffling my hair and joking about how I might be the pack's first wolfless Alpha child. The memory of his laugh feels like glass in my chest now. I'll never hear his stupid voice again, never get the chance to prove him wrong about my wolf. The pain in my chest is physical, like someone's reached inside and is slowly crushing my heart.

No. Focus. I can't just stand here crying. I might not have my wolf yet, but I'm still an Alpha's daughter. And Dad – Dad's still alive. I can feel our bond, weaker but there, pulsing like a distant heartbeat. I have to help him, somehow, anyhow.

I close my eyes, focusing on the air around me. My wolf might still be sleeping, but my senses have been getting stronger with each passing day. Dad's scent – pine needles and winter frost – cuts through the metallic stench of blood. My almost-formed werewolf abilities are good for something at least.

I run toward his scent, trying not to look at the bodies I'm forced to dodge. Pack members I've known all my life lie broken in the grass, their ceremonial clothes stained dark. Bile rises in my throat with each familiar face I pass, but I swallow it down. I can't stop. Not now.

Then I see him – my father's massive black wolf, still fighting, still alive. Hope blooms in my chest like the first spring flower after winter. But as I sprint toward him, a scream tears through my soul, stopping me dead in my tracks.

"Next time, you'll consider my offer more carefully." The voice is calm, almost conversational. Its owner looks barely older than James, but his hand is buried deep in my father's chest. He pulls, and something in me shatters as Dad's heart comes free.

My chest caves in on itself, the pain of our severed bond driving me to my knees. No, please no. Not Dad too.

"Everyone's gone. They're all gone." The words tumble from my lips in an endless loop as my head spins, the world tilting on its axis. My fingers dig into the blood-soaked earth, anchoring me to a reality I don't want to face.

"No!" The scream rips from my throat as I launch myself at the killer, at this man who looks like he could have been James's friend in another life. Rage and grief make me reckless and stupid.

He catches me like I'm nothing, his hand wrapping around my throat. "What do we have here? A little pup?" His grip tightens, and my lungs burn, desperate for air. I claw at his hands, hatred, unlike anything I've ever known burning in my bones.

Then suddenly, his grip loosens. His eyes widen as they study my face, recognition flooding his features. "By the Moon herself. It's you."

I don't care what he sees. I lunge for his face, fingers curved like the claws I don't yet have. But something's wrong. The world begins to blur at the edges, my eyelids growing impossibly heavy.

"That was quick work, Serena. I didn't even have to ask." His voice sounds distant now, like he's speaking through water.

Darkness creeps in from the corners of my vision, but I catch his final words as consciousness slips away: "Ensure she wakes with no memory of my face. Let her keep today's horror, but when she wakes, make it the first time she's seen me."

"Your wish is my command, Your Highness," a woman's voice replies, following me into the dark.

7 years later

"There she goes again, playing warrior while we do real women's work," a maid whispers as she passes the training field, her pristine white apron a stark contrast to my dirt-stained training clothes. The morning sun beats down on my shoulders as I slam my fist into the practice dummy, its worn leather surface telling stories of my daily visits.

My enhanced hearing picks up their continued muttering, and I roll my eyes. Being a werewolf has its downsides – like hearing every bit of gossip and judgment thrown my way. But their words bounce off me now, unlike the early days when each whisper felt like a knife. Seven years of this has given me a thick skin.

Let them talk. In our world, she-wolves are expected to be docile, to cook and clean, and bear pups. But I couldn't care less about their precious traditions. Every punch, every kick, every moment of training brings me closer to my real purpose – finding the bastards who murdered my family and