Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

The heavy restroom door swung shut behind them, and the suffocating pressure in my chest finally broke. A sharp rush of air flooded my lungs so violently I nearly choked on it.

I bent over, my fingers blindly searching for my heels on the tile. As I forced my feet back into the stiff leather, a fresh wave of agony shot up my legs. The raw, open blisters on my pinky toes burned as if I had sliced off the top layer of skin.

Every tiny shift in position sparked a white-hot sting that made me want to groan aloud. But I clamped my jaw shut, grinding my teeth as I buckled the narrow straps. Staying in this stall a second longer was beyond endurance.

Stepping out into the quiet hallway, I forced myself to walk right past the heavy double doors where Magnus and his entourage were holding court. A cold, bitter knot twisted deep in my stomach—partly resentment, partly fear, and partly a strange, hollow ache I couldn’t even put a name to. I simply didn’t have the emotional bandwidth left to look at him.

I refused to play my part in this twisted theater where I had been cast as the helpless, pathetic clown. My feet carried me down the winding staircase on sheer instinct, driving me away from the suffocating shadows of the third floor.

Reaching the main level, I was instantly swallowed by the surging crowd. Warm, alcohol-soaked bodies pressed against me from every side. The pounding bass slammed into my skull until my temples throbbed in rhythm with the music, and the heavy air—thick with sweat, spilled liquor, and conflicting pheromones—clogged my throat.

Fighting for breath, I shoved my way through the sea of dancers until I finally reached the coat-check counter.

I slid the plastic tag across the polished counter toward the attendant, keeping my eyes glued to the wood. I couldn’t bear to look up and catch the subtle flicker of mockery or condescension in his eyes. I knew what I looked like: disheveled, red-eyed, trapped in a floor-length silk gown that now felt like a ridiculous costume.

He fetched my leather backpack and set it on the counter.

Swallowing a hard lump of shame, I quietly asked where the nearest lower-level restroom was located. The guy gave a lazy, dismissive wave of his hand toward a side hallway, never once making eye contact—as if I were completely invisible.

It stung, even though it shouldn’t have. Why should I care about the opinion of a stranger working the cloakroom at midnight?

Getting to the restroom required another agonizing crawl through the packed dance floor. Stray elbows jabbed into my ribs, and heavy boots stomped on my feet, sending blinding flares of pain shooting through my raw blisters.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My mind was locked on a single, desperate objective: strip off this dress, put on my clothes, and get the hell out of this place.

The energy down here on the ground floor was a world apart from the VIP lounge upstairs. Up there, the air was quiet, calculated, and heavy with dominant territory control; down here, it was pure, unbridled chaos. People laughed, screamed, threw their heads back in wild abandon, and pressed against each other right in the middle of the floor, completely consumed by the bass and the heat of the night.

It all felt entirely surreal—as if I had stumbled into a parallel dimension governed by alien rules, leaving me as the only person unable to comprehend the game.

I changed back into my clothes inside a toilet stall, nearly groaning with sheer bliss as I pulled cotton socks over my aching feet. My sneakers still pressed uncomfortably against the raw blister on my pinky toe, prompting me to dig through my backpack in search of a bandage.

Empty.

Then I remembered.

I cursed under my breath. My old bag—the one Magnus had tossed into the trash like a worthless rag—would have been a lifesaver right now. It carried a small pouch stocked with essentials. I was hopelessly clumsy, constantly tripping, scraping myself, or suffering minor injuries, so I always kept antiseptics, bandages, and basic first-aid supplies on hand.

Stepping out of the club, I passed the security detail at the entrance. One of the guards—a towering male with thick tattoos creeping up his neck—let out a disgusted sneer, curling his lip as if I were something vile that had accidentally crawled into his line of sight. The gesture left a cold, uneasy knot in my gut.

Once outside, I expanded my chest and greedily inhaled the crisp, cold night air. At that exact moment, my phone burst into life with a loud ringtone.

I pulled it from my bag and stared at the unfamiliar number. I hesitated for a long beat, unsure whether to answer, but finally swiped across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Where are you?"

The cold, dark tone sent a violent shudder straight down my spine, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head.

Instinctively, I picked up my pace, walking rapidly away from the venue without caring where the street led—just anywhere away from him. Then reality hit me: I had no idea where I was going. Walking back to the dorms on foot in the middle of the night was impossible, and I didn’t have a single cent for a cab.

"I left," I forced out, trying to make my voice sound firm and composure intact, though it came out noticeably shaky.

"Lang, do not test my patience. Get back here now," Magnus warned.

Through the receiver, I caught the distinct sound of him drawing on a cigarette—a sharp, deep inhale followed by a slow, heavy exhale. I could vividly picture the thick smoke curling past his lips, and the mental image made my throat tighten.

"I’m not coming back. I refuse to be part of whatever circus you have going on in there," I stated. My voice finally found its footing, hardened by absolute resolve. I wasn’t going back into that club—dead or alive.

"Did I ever imply that your personal preferences were of any concern to me?"