Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

Hearing Dean’s words, Magnus let out a dry, mirthless chuckle—a sound like a frozen branch snapping under a sudden weight.

He reached toward the stone table, his heavy fingers coiling around a crystal glass of amber liquid as if gripping the hilt of a blade. He took two slow, unhurried sips, his gaze locked directly over the rim at Nyland.

I watched silently as Dean stared back at Magnus, his eyes glittering with a sharp, bitter intensity. A quiet curiosity flared within me—what was the "everything" that was supposed to keep Magnus from ever claiming a breeder?

He hadn’t mentioned our fated bond to anyone in this room. Both of our marks remained completely hidden from the world—mine buried beneath gossamer silk, his concealed under the heavy cuff of his sleeve.

"Why do you give a fuck?" Magnus drawled softly, tilting his head slightly in my direction.

As he leaned in, his scent flared—darker, richer, and far more concentrated than before. Right here, in front of the entire room, he was silently marking his territory.

"You’re clearly not in the mood tonight, Magnus," chuckled the male who had remained silent until now, watching the interaction with practiced detachment. "I called us all here because a little bird dropped some interesting intelligence in my lap."

"What kind?" Dean flicked his eyes toward the speaker for a fraction of a second before locking them right back onto us—as if he were terrified of missing a single reaction, waiting for Magnus to finally snap.

"Word on the street is there’s a complete uproar in the Lower District," the male continued. "A young breeder managed to escape into the Upper District."

"Why should we give a damn about some random runaway, Ayden?" Sayan chimed in smoothly, swirling his glass. "Desperate Omegas try to break out of the slums every other day.

Just last week, some first-year idiot from the academy got thrown into a Lower District prison. The fool tried to smuggle a breeder up here using a forged bond mark. She paid him a fortune, but border patrol caught them red-handed."

I blinked, genuinely surprised. I hadn’t heard a single whisper about that on the news, even though the media usually loved publicizing and condemning those kinds of scandals. Falsifying a bond mark carried brutal legal penalties, especially if one of the conspirators hailed from the lower sector. They’d easily tack on a few extra years to his sentence.

The Lower District was primarily home to ex-convicts who had served their time but were permanently barred from returning to civilized society. Some of their families had moved down there to join them, alongside the deeply impoverished and homeless who simply couldn’t survive the brutal cost of living in the Upper District.

Then there were those who willingly followed an exiled mate. But most people spent their whole lives trying to escape—a feat that required official clearance papers that were nearly impossible to obtain.

It wasn’t a total wasteland, from what I understood, though no real photographs of daily life down there ever made it to the public. Everything was built on rumors.

I had heard that years ago, a pair of powerful, dominant packs held absolute order over the district, shielding the weak. But everything shattered when the Alpha of one pack was brutally slaughtered, plunging the territory into a bloodbath.

To make matters worse, the leader of the second pack failed to pass his mantle to his heir—the boy had been born human, terrified of his own shadow, and fled the territory entirely. Things had supposedly settled down since then, but again, it was all just whispered folklore.

"Because," Ayden paused for dramatic effect, "this particular ’runaway’ happens to be Pharean’s wife."

Magnus let out a dry huff at the name, taking another slow drink. "You’re sure about that?"

"Positive. The entire Lower District went into lockdown the second she vanished. Pharean put a massive bounty on any information regarding her whereabouts."

"Fascinating," Magnus drawled, his tone utterly indifferent.

Seeing the men pull out heavy cigars, I decided it was my cue to leave. I refused to let thick smoke coat my skin, my hair, and expensive silk. I already had to scrub myself raw and wash every stitch of clothing after every single encounter with Magnus.

"I need to step out for a moment," I murmured, standing up and carefully smoothing down the silk of my dress.

"Where to?" Magnus asked, his hand shooting out to catch my wrist.

I froze, completely unsure of how to phrase it, feeling a hot blush creep up my cheeks. He seemed to relish my obvious embarrassment, offering a lazy, wicked smirk as he took another sip from his glass.

"I just... need to go," I tried to convey, but he played completely oblivious, putting on a performative show of confusion.

"Let the girl go powder her nose, dude. Nobody’s going to steal her out in the hall," Ayden snickered.

His grip loosened, and I practically fled the room on stiff, unsteady heels. I glanced around the dimly lit corridor until I spotted the restroom at the far end—blessedly marked with a clear sign.

Stepping inside, I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

Goddess... What in the world am I doing here?

Above the vanity hung a digital clock glowing red: 11:00 PM. At this hour, I should have been curled up in my cozy dorm bed, resting after a grueling week. Instead, I was trapped in a gilded den of apex predators.

I had zero desire to rush back to that room, so I ducked into one of the stalls and sat down on the closed toilet lid. Slipping off the agonizing heels, I pulled my legs up onto the seat. My toes were throbbing.

I carefully felt around, wincing as my fingers brushed raw blisters on both pinky toes; I had accidentally torn the skin on one of them.

This kind of footwear was definitely not for me. My skin was far too sensitive for stiff leather and narrow straps. Thank Goddess my backpack was locked away in the cloakroom with my worn-out sneakers inside.