I'm sitting in front of a mirror, staring at another version of myself. A fine white dress clasps my lean, fragile frame. Makeup is light, and jewelry glimmers under the dim light.

So much for sending me off in the hands of the devil.

I look pathetic even though this is the first time I'm wearing a dress this beautiful.

The door creaks open. I didn't look to see who it was. I'm too lost to even think.

"It's Elena, dear."

Elena approache from behind, resting an assuring hand on my shoulder. She stays quiet for many beats.

"Maybe I should come with you."

I exhale, clutching the hem of my dress. "Don't worry about me, Elena. This is my fate, and I'm not dragging you into this."

Eleana crouches, reaching to hold my hand. "I'm so sorry, Isolde. I tried to talk to your father..."

Two guards swing the door open before she could finish.

"It's time," they snarls.

I meet Elena's worried eyes and give her an assuring nod. I follow the guards, my steps slow and heavy as my back still stings from the whipping I got last night.

Entering the Grand Hall, I keep my gaze to the floor, not bothering to look at anyone.

I can imagine the blank look on my father's face, the smirk dangling on the lips of my stepmom, and Beth's happy face as if she'd won a lottery. The guest are barely twenty in number as this is a secret wedding.

The silence in the hall is deafening. It's like everyone has their breath seized at Alpha Drogo's thick presence.

I can't bring myself to meet his eyes, not after last night's encounter. But I know his gaze is on me the whole time.

This pack-I had spent my whole life trying to prove my worth to them. To make them see me and not a girl born out of a false accusation of a perfidious act between my mother and a man that doesn't even exist.

But instead, they are marrying me off to save their asses.

The ceremony starts. The elder recites the wedding ritual like there's a sword pressed against his neck. He stumbles at some words as if his brain won't stop freezing.

I can't blame him.

I feel it too.

It's taking me a lot of effort not to bolt out the grand door. Drogo's presence is too thick, too powerful and choking to ignore. He is staring at me.

I mean, Starrrrring at me.

The kind of stare that you'd feel deep in your bones

I say my vow as the bride. I say it smoothly, like there isn't a storm beneath my rib.

When it gets to be his turn, he is quiet. So is the hall. One can hear a pin drop.

Still in panic, the elder repeats the vows, but he remains the same.

I hear someone takes a deep, measured breath somewhere. My father.

"Is there something wrong, Alpha Drogo?" He asks quietly, not coming closer.

I want to know too, but I still can't look up.

Is he changing his mind? I really hope he does.

Drogo steps closer, and I feel my heart ready to jump to my throat. For a second, I think he'll call off the wedding, announcing I'm too much of an outcast to be his bride. He doesn't.

Instead he reaches for my right arm, pulling it up gently. I couldn't help but look at him.

He staring at my arm. His tall frame looms over mine. He was wearing a fine dark suit that made him look unfairly hot and dangerous. His hair gelled backward, showing off his well chiseled sharp feature.

Drogo's jaw tightens. "Where did you get it?"

I trace his gaze to where a whip wound grazes my skin from last night. Red and glaring.

The makeup artist had been ordered not to cover my marks and scars, including Alpha Drogo's handprint on my neck from last night. The reason is to make me look pleasing in the eyes of the rogue Alpha.

My father's idea.

"I got whipped for enraging you, sir," I say trying to hide the loathe in my voice. I expect a smirk on his face, but instead he stays quiet.

His eyes meet mine again, and my knees weaken instantly. For a second I think he is going to say it wasn't enough, that I need more discipline. Instead his gaze goes to the crowd, settling on my father. Unreadable.

Without a word, he releases my arm.

"I do," he finally say.

The elder pronounces us as husband and wife after we exchange rings. No cheers. No purr. Just unbearable stares that want this to be over with.

My world crushes as the fact weighs on my shoulder. I am married to Drogo Elston.

I am married to the rogue Alpha.

He draws closer, gripping my chin gently, prompting my eyes to meet his again.

"I have a gift for you, Isolde," he says, tone soft. "Or should I say wife?"

The word 'wife' feels like a brutal punch to my guts. Our sudden close proximity fills my senses.

Is he going to k!ss me?

As I ponder what gift he might be talking about, he pulls out something from his pocket and points it to the crowd.

A pistol.

Five brutal shots echo.

Gasps ripple.

Screams pierce the air.

I turn sharply to the crowd and freeze. My father is on his knees, screaming. Blood spreading beneath him, his severed right arm lying on the floor.

I'm pretty sure everyone has the same expression in mine. Shock.

Drogo steps down from the podium, removes a cigar from his pocket. One of his men in a suit from the crowd lights it without being asked. He crouches before my father, smoke curling between them.

"How dare you!" Aldric roars, rage etched on every part of his face as he shakes in pain.

Whatever Drogo shot at him is coated in wolfsbane, as the wound didn't heal.

My father's men didn't even budge to help. Only then did I notice the several men in dark suits in the guests, like threats and warnings. Drogo's men.

"You should learn to follow simple instructions, Aldric," he says, voice low. "Especially when they concern what belongs to me."

Drogo straightens, flicks the cigarette in front of my father, and crushes it beneath his booth-a casual blow to my father's pride. "Losing an arm will help you remember."

He look at my shock frame at the altar and begin to leave. I take that as my cue because one of the men in suits approaches me and says,

"This way, Mrs. Elston."

The car is silent, save for the hum of the car engine as it drives down the pebbled path. I'm sweating despite the air conditioner being on.

I try not to think of the pistol, try not to think of the way Drogo's eyes burn when they land on the whip mark, and also try not to admit I feel a pang of satisfaction seeing my father in pain for the first time.

I know, I know. I should be scared.

Terrified even.

This man... I mean, my husband shot someone at his own wedding. His father-in-law. Out of the blue.

It's a clear sign all the devious things they said about him were true.

He can't possibly have almost killed me last night and miraculously shoot my father because of the whipping I thought he had ordered.

That is absurd.

I try to focus on my twisted hands on my lap, knuckles white from the force I apply.

Drogo is sitting beside me. His presence engulfs the car space like smoke.

Finally, I risk looking at him. He is staring out of the window, one hand resting against his lap while his other arm is draped over the seat behind me. He hadn't said a word. Hadn't looked my way.

I cling to the side of the car seat as if wanting to disappear. I let myself not think about my life ahead or where I've been taken. Nor my mother, who is still trapped somewhere, and the reminder of my father's scheme against Dragon.

Soon, I doze off. Exhaustion and darkness take over.

I jerk forward, waking from the slumber as the car stops.

Drogo steps down first, not glancing my way.

I peek through the window, eyes widening at the sight beyond. A vast space with a tall, sleek building sitting in the middle.

Okay, it isn't what I expected.

A knock snaps me back to reality. The driver stares down with a raised brow.

I look at that car door. Do I press a button or what?

This is embarrassing for the first time in a car.

The door clicks open before I could touch it. Swallowing, I step down, my knees slightly wobbling at the lack of nutrients in my system.

The frigid air is sharp like blades against my skin, reminding me how empty I am, inside and out.

I didn't take a thing from the pack, except the wedding dress still clinging to my frame. There isn't much I have back there. Most of my clothes are too old or torn.

Drogo is already out of sight, leaving his men to lead me inside.

The interior screams wealth and power. I thought my father's Alpha mansion was the most guarded and beautiful building I had seen, but compared to this... it's like a rat against an elephant.

"Drogo's new bride."

A man in a white shirt approaches. His eyes rake over my face for a moment before he takes his jacket off and slides it around my shoulder.

"Welcome to the East City."

The east city? I heard it's the largest city in a country that consists of different species, mostly human. It had great resources and wild places with luxurious business exposure and tourism. I dream of visiting here one day.

Well, not in this kind of situation.

"I'm Bran, by the way. Drogo's right-hand man. Come with me."

I hesitate but force my feet to take a step and then another. I clutch the jacket around me tighter as we enter an elevator.

"First time?"

I blink at him.

Is it talking about being out of my pack the first time? Or the elevator?

"I hope the elevator isn't scary."

Why is he so nice?

I shake my head in response, lowering my gaze.

I follow Bran to what seems like the top floor of the building. He stops at the last room and opens the door.

I step into a cozy, simple room. Three times larger and cleaner than the tiny cold space back in my pack. A bed, marble tiles, and a window adorned by dark curtains.

Is this where I'm going to live now?

There's a meal already waiting at the table by the end. My stomach twists at the salivating aroma. A reminder I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon.

"You must be tired from the wedding and travel. Eat, freshen up, and change your dress. You need to gather enough strength. You look too pale and weak."

He didn't say it like an insult. In fact, his words sound more like a concern. Or maybe I'm delusional.

I nod and watch the door shut behind him.

I do what Bran instructs. I freshen up. Surprisingly the room has everything I needed, as if they've been waiting for my arrival. I wear a pair of pajamas already waiting on the dresser.

I eat the soup, small bread, and diced fruit set on the table. It's been a long time since I tasted something this good.

I fall asleep the moment my body sinks to the soft sheet.

A long, refreshing kind of rest I haven't gotten in a long time. Maybe here isn't so bad.

Waking up, the first thing my eyes lock with is a pair of green eyes watching me sleep.

For a moment, I wonder if I'm still dreaming one of those half-sleep nightmares that leave you panting by morning. But his gaze is too heavy, too sharp, to be anything but real.

I jolt upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. Moonlight slips through the window, casting his silhouette on the couch across from me, one finger drumming against the armrest.

"Uh... good evening," I swallow, trying to control the way I breath.

He rises, sliding his hands into his pockets.

I scramble off the bed, inching toward the corner, fidgeting with the hem of my dress.

He takes a slow, measured stride toward me, and I'm reminded of how large he is. How easily this man could crush me if he wished.

I almost shrink as his cold, deep voice slices through the tense air. "Rule number one: when I give you an order, you follow it. Immediately. No questions, no delays. That includes keeping your gaze down and your mouth shut unless I give you permission."

Quickly, I drop my eyes to the floor, my heart hammering as he moves closer.

"Rule number two," he says. "Here, you are just a stranger. A mere low, pathetic woman relocating. Your identity as my wife will remain hidden. Running your mouth about it is a good way of getting hurt."

His tone runs deeper. "Last but not least. Whatever you see, hear, or learn about me stays with you and follows you to the grave. Betray or side with anyone against me, and you won't live to regret it."

A shiver snakes down my spine. This is bad.

How am I supposed to save my mother now?

He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Wonder why I shot your father?" he asks.

His eyes darken, glowing faintly under the dark. "Because only I decide how you'll be tormented. How you'll sûffer, and how you'll die. I own you, Isolde. Body, mind, and soul."

My pulse falters. So that's why he shot my father. Not out of kindness, but to mark a claim. That my fate now rest at the palm of his hands.

"Strip."

I gape at him. "W-what?"

"Rule number one, Isolde." His voice drops deadly. "Surely, you haven't forgotten this is our wedding n!ght."

Wedding night?

Sounds more like: WELCOME TO A NEW HELL.