The morning of my wedding did not begin with flowers. It began with the cold, sterile touch of three silent women who entered my room at dawn.

    They moved like shadows, their faces devoid of emotion, as they scrubbed the grime of the cellar from my skin with scented oils that smelled of jasmine and sandalwood. I sat motionless on a velvet stool, my mind a fractured mirror. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard my father’s voice—She’ll play her part. I had been raised to be a weapon for the Monet Syndicate, but I realized now I was never the hand holding the blade. I was merely the steel being traded to the highest bidder.

    “Stand,” one of the women commanded.

    I stood. They draped me in a gown of heavy, cream-colored silk. It was a masterpiece of design, high-collared and long-sleeved, dripping in seed pearls that felt like tiny hailstones against my skin. As the corset was laced tight, I felt the air leave my lungs.

    This wasn’t a wedding dress; it was a shroud.

    I was led down the winding marble staircases of the Roux estate. The house was unnervingly quiet. No guests, no music—only the rhythmic thud of my own heart and the heavy footsteps of the guards following behind me.

    We reached the private chapel at the edge of the cliffs. The doors swung open to reveal Girard Roux standing at the altar.

    If he had looked like a predator in the cellar, he looked like a god of death now. He wore a black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the light. As I walked down the aisle, I felt that strange, magnetic heat again. It radiated from him in waves, an invisible force that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

    When I reached him, Girard took my hand. His skin was fever-hot, his grip possessive. He didn’t look at the priest; he looked only at me.

    “You look exquisite, Arielle,” he whispered, his voice a low vibration. “A pity you look as though you’re walking to the gallows.”

    “Isn’t that what this is?” I hissed back.

    “For you, perhaps,” he murmured, leaning closer.

    “For me, it is the acquisition of the only thing Marcel Monet ever owned that was worth taking.”

    The ceremony was a blur of Latin vows and heavy incense. When it came time for the rings, Girard didn’t produce a standard gold band. He held a ring of blackened silver, engraved with ancient, swirling runes that seemed to pulse with a faint, inner light.

    As he slid it onto my finger, the metal bit into my skin—a sharp sting that made me gasp. For a fleeting second, I saw a flash of something in his eyes. Recognition. Hunger.

    “With this, you are mine,” Girard declared, his voice booming in the small chapel. “Body, blood, and soul.”

    He didn’t wait for the priest to finish. He pulled me into him, his hand reaching around to the nape of my neck, tilting my head back with a raw dominance that left me breathless.

    When his lips met mine, it wasn’t a kiss of affection; it was a claim. He tasted of dark chocolate and smoke. In that moment of contact, I felt a strange sensation—a low, subsonic hum that vibrated from his chest into mine.

    It felt like a growl. For a split second, I felt as if I were staring into the eyes of a great beast.

    He pulled away, his eyes flashing a brilliant, molten gold before fading back to amber. “Welcome home, Mrs. Roux. Try not to scream when you see the cage I’ve built for you.”

The "cage" was a master suite that spanned the entire top floor of the west wing. It was a place of opulent torment-heavy velvet curtains, a fireplace large enough to roast a stag, and a bed that looked like an altar of silk and shadow.

    I stood by the window, watching the moon rise over the restless sea. The wedding dinner had been a silent affair. Girard had watched me eat with the focused intensity of a hawk watching a mouse. He hadn't touched his food; he had only watched me.

    Now, the door clicked shut. The sound of the lock turning sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my veins.

    "The dress," Girard's voice came from the shadows. He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

    I turned, clutching the silk at my throat. "I am not your plaything, Girard. You bought a name, not a willing woman."

    Girard crossed the room in three strides. Suddenly, he was inches away, his heat enveloping me like a furnace. "I didn't buy a plaything, Arielle. I claimed a mate. There is a difference."

    "A mate?" I laughed, a jagged sound. "You talk like an animal."

    "Because I am," he growled.

    He grabbed the back of my dress and, with a single, effortless tug, the heavy silk and the pearls scattered across the floor like rain. I cried out, spinning around to cover myself, but he caught my wrists in one hand. His grip was like manacles of heated steel.

    "Look at me, Arielle," he commanded.

    I looked, and the breath died in my throat. The moonlight hit his back, and I saw them-scars that looked like claw marks. Something was shifting beneath his skin. His muscles were rippling, expanding. A low, guttural sound erupted from his throat.

    Then, I saw his hands. His fingernails were lengthening into sharp, black talons. The hair on his arms thickened. His face... his beautiful, cruel face began to distort. His jaw lengthened, his teeth sharpening into serrated points.

    I screamed, scrambling backward until I hit the bedpost. "What are you? What are you!"

    "I am the curse your father invited into his house," the creature rasped.

    He lunged onto the bed, pinning me down. He was heavier now, denser, his body radiating a terrifying energy. He loomed over me, his eyes glowing like twin suns. He lowered his head to my neck, his hot breath ghosting over my jugular.

    I felt the sharp prick of his fangs against my skin-not biting, but tasting.

    "You are the daughter of a traitor," he hissed, his tongue licking the spot where his fangs touched. "And you are the only thing that can soothe the beast I've spent thirty years trying to cage. Do you feel that, Arielle? That pull in your blood?"

    To my horror, I did feel it.

    Amidst the terror, a traitorous heat was blooming in my lower belly. My body recognized him even if my mind was screaming in fear.

    "I'm going to break you," Girard whispered, his claws grazing the skin of my thigh, "until you forget you ever had a father. Until the only name you know is mine."

    He lowered his head, and as the moon reached its zenith, the shadows in the room seemed to come alive. I was no longer a princess. I was the property of a monster who didn't just want my body-he wanted to devour my soul.

I woke to the sound of a heartbeat that wasn't my own.

    It was a slow, heavy thrum that seemed to vibrate through the very mattress, a rhythmic pulsing that I felt in my own marrow. My eyes snapped open, the morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite, casting the room in a hazy, golden gloom.

    For a moment, I forgot. I reached out, my hand brushing against skin that felt like heated marble.

    Then, the memory of the night before crashed over me. The claws. The fangs. The terrifying, beautiful distortion of the man I had married.

    Girard lay beside me, propped up on one elbow. He was human again, but the air around him still crackled with that primal, predatory energy. His amber eyes were fixed on me, dark with a possessiveness that made my skin prickle. He was shirtless, the sheet draped low over his hips, revealing the corded muscles of a stomach that looked carved from stone.

    "You didn't scream when you woke up," he murmured, his voice a low, morning rasp. "That's a start."

    "I'm too exhausted to scream," I whispered, pulling the silk sheet up to my chin. My body felt heavy, aching in places I didn't know could ache. "What are you, Girard? Truly."

    He reached out, his hand tangling in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose my throat. His eyes dropped to the faint, red marks his teeth had left. "In your world, I am a businessman. A Don. In mine, I am the Alpha of the Roux Pack. A Loup de Sang. The blood of the first wolves runs through these veins, Arielle. It's why your father feared me. And it's why he sold you to me."

    "He sold me because he's a coward," I snapped, trying to pull away.

    Girard's grip tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me of the sheer power he held.

    He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

    "He sold you because he knew my blood was reaching its boiling point. He knew that without a mate to ground me, I would eventually burn his entire Syndicate to the ground. You are my tether, Arielle. My biological anchor."

    He slid his hand down to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. The heat radiating off him was intoxicating, a drug that my body was already beginning to crave. Despite the fear, I felt my pulse jump, my heart hammering against my ribs.

    "Rules, Arielle," he whispered, his hand sliding lower, a slow, deliberate claim. "Rule one: You do not leave this estate without me. Rule two: You do not speak to the other males of the pack unless I am present. Rule three..."

    He paused, his eyes flashing a sudden, brilliant gold. He flipped me over with a fluid, feline grace, pinning me beneath him. He was heavy, a solid weight that made me gasp.

    "Rule three: You are mine. Every inch of skin, every breath, every thought. If I find another man's scent on you, I won't just kill him. I will make you watch."

    "You're a monster," I breathed, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

    "I am," he agreed, his mouth dropping to the crook of my neck. "And you are the monster's wife. It's time you learned what that means."

    He didn't kiss me. He nipped at the sensitive skin of my shoulder, a sharp sting that sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity through my nervous system. I arched my back, a traitorous moan escaping my lips.

    The bond was waking up. And it was hungry.