Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

Once, a long time ago, I read a novel about a man trapped in a time loop. His days bled into one another, repeating over and over in an endless, agonizing cycle until he finally deciphered the key to breaking free.

Sitting on a cold bench alongside the empty, mist-shrouded parking lot, I felt a chillingly similar sensation while waiting for Magnus to arrive so I could return his card.

I had spent hours wrestling with my thoughts as I dressed for the academy, but not a single voice of reason could sway my heart. I couldn’t keep it. I refused to live on blood money that wasn’t mine.

There was a time in my past when desperation had forced me to accept money from someone else. It had happened years ago, yet the memory left a lingering foulness in my soul. It felt like choking down charred, over-salted food—a vile dish that leaves a persistent, bitter aftertaste coating your tongue long into the next day, refusing to be washed away.

During my final year of high school—back when I had already lost a significant amount of weight—I accidentally left my lunch at home on a day when classes ran straight into the late evening. I was naive enough to ask my sister for a little spare change to buy a coffee and a sweet roll.

Naturally, I promised to pay her back the second we got home, though she smugly insisted I return double what I borrowed. I agreed without hesitation. Extreme hunger makes you agree to almost anything.

Except a massive scandal was waiting for me at home. To this day, I still don’t understand how everything spiraled so wildly out of control or what I had done to deserve it. My mother screamed at me with such violent rage that even the neighbors knocked on our door to ask if someone was being murdered. That was the first day a hand was ever raised against me. To make matters worse, they confiscated every single cent of my small earnings from my part-time job.

I paid for a single roll and a coffee with my entire life savings.

So no—I don’t take handouts. They cost far too much in the end.

A sleek car pulled into the parking lot, though it wasn’t the one I was waiting for. A tall, dark-haired Alpha wolf stepped out: Dean Nyland.

I only knew a few whispers about him. Word was he had transferred here a couple of years ago to stay near his sister, who attended the academy. Dean was the primary heir to his uncle’s pack—an uncle who had only sired a single daughter, sparking a massive internal power struggle. As a result, Dean stood to inherit two distinct packs across two different territories.

I didn’t care to understand the complicated political webs or clan wars. All I knew was that he was bad news. And his pack was tightly allied with the Rainn bloodline.

The guy walked past my bench, but suddenly halted, spinning on his heel to fling a razor-sharp, piercing glare right at me.

I hated it instantly. Our eyes locked, and I prayed that once he realized I had caught him staring, he’d look away. He didn’t. His gaze only intensified, turning into a heavy, suffocating weight. There was something deeply unsettling about him—something dangerous and predatory, as if he were sizing up prey to decide if I was worth the effort of a hunt.

Just as the tension threatened to snap, the familiar, violent roar of a tuned engine shattered the quiet. My eyes darted to the entrance as Magnus’s pitch-black beast rounded the corner. When I glanced back to where Dean had been standing a second prior, he had vanished into thin air.

A true Groundhog Day, I thought bitterly. Though I could only pray Magnus was in a somewhat rational mood today. Given how explosive our parting had been last night, however, that was a wild fantasy.

I pushed off the bench and approached his car as Magnus stepped out into the morning chill. Seeing him made a sudden, stupid blush creep up my neck. He was dressed casually today in a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. Wrapped tightly around his right wrist was the broad leather band, thoroughly concealing our shared bond mark.

"Thank you for the backpack and the groceries," I began softly, "but you really shouldn’t have."

He swept his gray eyes over me in total silence. It was a long, slow, calculating look, as if he were scanning every detail of my posture and searing it into his memory. I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out the unbranded debit card, and extended it toward him.

His gaze flicked down to the plastic, then back up to my face. His expression hardened instantly, turning cold and lethally sharp. Something dark flashed in his slate eyes that made my knees go completely weak.

"Please take the card back. I don’t need your money."

"Keep it," he commanded, his baritone quiet, smooth, and entirely non-negotiable. "You’re going to need it tonight."

"Tonight?" I blinked, staring at him in complete confusion as he tapped his key fob, chirping the car’s security system.

"Be ready by nine PM sharp," he said, the sheer finality in his tone sending a shiver cascading down my spine. "I figured since you’re so fond of night spots, you wouldn’t mind keeping me company for the evening."

For a full second, I just stood there, my brain stalling as I processed the audacity of his words. Then the reality slammed home.

"What?" I gasped, my stomach dropping into a pit of icy panic. "No. I am not going anywhere with you!"

He took a step toward me, and I instinctively recoiled.

"You’re coming," he said softly, leaning in until his shadow completely engulfed me. His scent washed over my senses—dark, heavy cedar laced with rich tobacco. "You were working in a lounge, which meant you liked the atmosphere. So tonight, you’re going to one with me."