Chapter 3

I opened my eyes, my breath hitching in my throat as I waited for the blow.

I expected the rough grip of a guard, the cold steel of shackles, or perhaps just a shove back into the dirt where Julian felt I belonged. Instead, I saw the calloused pads of Rowan Kingsley’s fingers hovering just inches from my face. He didn't strike me. He didn't even look disgusted. He simply watched the way my chest heaved, his slate-grey eyes tracking the frantic pulse in my neck like a hawk watching a dying rabbit.

The silence in the Grand Hall was absolute.

"I accept," Rowan said.

Two words. That was all it took to shatter the remains of my life. He didn't look at the Council. He didn't look at Julian. He spoke the words into the air as if he were signing a death warrant, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that seemed to travel through the floorboards and settle deep in my bones.

"Rowan, wait—" Julian started, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp edge of uncertainty. He had wanted me gone, yes, but the look on his face told me he hadn't expected his uncle to claim me so effortlessly. He had expected a struggle, a negotiation, or a refusal that would leave me a nameless outcast.

Rowan ignored him. He didn't even grant his nephew the courtesy of a glance.

"The debt is settled," Rowan continued, his voice cold enough to frost the glass of the high-rise windows. "The Bennett girl is mine. Prepare the transfer of her status to the Enforcer Division records by morning."

Chaos erupted.

The Council began to argue in hushed, frantic tones, the elites in the crowd surged forward like a wave of hungry piranhas, and Camilla’s triumphant smirk wavered as she realized she had just handed the Butcher a piece of the Kingsley legacy.

Rowan didn't wait for the fallout. He turned on his heel, his heavy boots striking the marble with the finality of a gavel. He began to walk toward the exit, his stride long and predatory, leaving me kneeling in the center of the dais like a discarded doll.

Adrenaline, sharp and acidic, flooded my veins.

"Wait!" I scrambled to my feet, the ivory silk of my dress tearing at the hem as I tripped over the fabric. "Rowan! Stop!"

I ran. I didn't care about the cameras, the mocking laughter of the pack, or the way my sister’s eyes burned into my back. I sprinted down the aisle, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I caught up to him just as he reached the massive steel doors of the hall.

"You can't do this!" I gasped, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

The moment my fingers touched the black tactical fabric of his sleeve, he stopped. It was as if I had touched a live wire. He didn't move, but the air around him shifted, his Alpha aura flaring. Not with the flashy, performative heat of Julian’s, but with something dense, dark, and utterly crushing.

He turned his head slowly, looking down at my hand on his arm. I felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror, but I didn't let go.

"Refuse them," I begged, my voice trembling with a mixture of fury and despair. "Please. Tell them you don't want me. Tell them I'm useless. I’ll go to the slums, I’ll leave the city, I’ll vanish… just don't do this. Don't make me yours."

Rowan turned his full body toward me then. Up close, he was a mountain of muscle and suppressed violence. He smelled of rain-slicked asphalt and something primal, a scent that made my wolf whine in a way she never had for Julian.

"And why would I do that, Veda?" he asked. His voice was deceptively soft, a silk-wrapped blade.

"Because you don't love me!" I screamed, the words raw and jagged. "Because this is just a game to you! You’re taking me to spite Julian, to satisfy a debt, to have another thing to break in that fortress of yours!"

His eyes darkened, the silver in them swirling like a storm front. "Love is a luxury for those who don't have a kingdom to hold together. You were discarded. I am simply picking up what the future Alpha was too stupid to keep."

"I am not a thing!" I shoved at his chest, but it was like hitting a wall of reinforced concrete. He didn't even budge. "I am a human being! I am a wolf! I would rather die, do you hear me? I would rather walk into the forest and let the rogues tear me apart than be your trophy! I would rather be dead than belong to a monster like you!"

The insult hung in the air, vibrating with the force of my hatred. Behind us, the hall went silent again as the pack watched the spectacle. My chest heaved, my face flushed with the heat of my defiance. I wanted him to hit me. I wanted him to snarl. I wanted him to give me a reason to hate him even more.

Rowan’s expression didn't change. He didn't roar. He didn't raise a hand. Instead, he stepped closer, invading my personal space until I was forced to tilt my head back just to see his face.

"A monster?" he echoed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that only I could hear. "You have no idea what a monster looks like, Veda. But if you're so eager to meet one, I’m happy to oblige."

His hand came up, but he didn't grab my throat. Instead, he wound his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, his grip firm but not painful, forcing me to maintain eye contact.

"You think death is an escape?" he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. "Death is easy. It’s quiet. Living with me... that’s the hard part. That’s where the real work begins."

"I hate you," I spat, even as a traitorous heat began to curl in the pit of my stomach from the sheer proximity of him.

"Good," Rowan said, his thumb brushing over the sensitive skin behind my ear. "Hate is a much more honest emotion than the pathetic devotion you had for my nephew. Keep it. Use it. It’s the only thing that’s going to keep you alive in my world."

He let go of my hair, the loss of his touch leaving a cold void in its wake. He didn't say another word. He turned back toward the doors and pushed them open, the heavy steel groaning on its hinges.

"Move," he commanded, not looking back.

I stood frozen for a second, my hands clenched into fists. I looked back at the dais. Julian was watching me, his arm draped over Camilla’s shoulders, his face a mask of smug satisfaction. He thought he had won. He thought he had buried me.

I looked back at Rowan’s broad back as he stepped out into the rainy night. He was the most feared man in the city. He was the Butcher. And now, by the laws of the Goddess and the Council, he was my husband.

I followed him. Not because I was submissive. Not because I accepted my fate. But because if I was going to burn, I was going to make sure the man holding the match felt the heat.

We walked through the underground parking garage, a cathedral of concrete and high-end black SUVs. Rowan’s enforcers stood like statues, their eyes shielded by tactical gear, their presence a silent testament to his power. One of them opened the door to a matte-black armored vehicle.

Rowan stopped.

He didn't get in. He didn't signal for me to enter. He stood with his back to me, the rain-dampened air of the garage clinging to his dark hair. The tension in the air was so thick it felt like it could be cut with a knife.

Slowly, deliberately, Rowan turned back toward me.

He didn't speak. He just watched me, his gaze traveling from the tear in my dress up to the defiant glare in my eyes, as if he were memorizing the exact coordinates of my soul before he laid claim to it.

My heart skipped a beat, the fury in my chest suddenly warring with a new, terrifying realization.

Julian had thrown me away because he thought I was weak.

But as Rowan Kingsley looked at me, I realized with a jolt of pure panic that he hadn't accepted the arrangement because he thought I was a servant.

He had accepted it because he knew exactly what I was. And he was going to make sure I never forgot it.