Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

Annie walked beside me as if the entire city belonged to her. Balancing on the curb like a tightrope walker, arms outstretched, she even managed to bounce on her heels as she went. She moved with an effortless, carefree grace—as if she were entirely weightless, devoid of bones, fear, or the crushing weight of anyone else’s expectations.

"Why the long face...?" she drawled, squinting against the sunlight. "Ugh, right, yeah..." She rolled her eyes theatrically, answering her own question. "Don’t stress so much. Your Awakening will happen! It’s just, you know... what’s the word...?"

She stopped in her tracks, snapping her fingers in the air as she hunted for the term, before pointing an index finger sharply at me like I was a puzzle she’d just solved.

"A late turning. That’s it! A late bloomer."

I stayed silent.

It wasn’t because I didn’t want to fight back. No, I wanted to scream, to argue so desperately it made me ache, as if words alone could tear this day from the calendar and drag time backward.

I stayed silent because my tongue felt heavy, anchored to the floor of my mouth. It felt as though a pack-bound seal had been branded onto me: do not speak. Don’t give it a voice, or the reality of remaining human will become final.

My wrist burned, even beneath the thick fabric of my sleeve. The mark pulsed in tandem with my footsteps, sending flashes of blinding white light across my vision whenever the pain spiked.

I caught myself limping slightly, cradling my left arm close to my chest like a wounded animal. And I had no goddamn clue why it hurt so badly.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. A calling mark only flared under three conditions: when it first appeared, when you locked eyes with your fated mate, or when he was drawing his last breath.

But hell, I hadn’t met anyone, and the agonizing ache of a dying mate was supposed to feel entirely different from the sting of a fresh branding—at least, according to the werewolf forums. Why mine felt like a raging wildfire, I didn’t know.

I hadn’t told Annie about the mark.

I’d already had enough of a reality check from the pack doctor.

He had been unyielding. Not downright cruel, but worse. He was bitter. He carried himself with the absolute certainty of a man who viewed my life as nothing more than a line item in a pack manual, holding the stamp that dictated whether I was allowed to exist or not.

"Concealing a calling mark is a crime. You are denying some powerful alpha the chance at a true bloodline family. Getting this mark is a blessing. You should consider yourself lucky."

Lucky.

I had nearly laughed right in his face. Not from amusement, but from that fragile, hysterical sensation you get when your entire world is fracturing inside, but you can’t dare let it show.

Because if you break, they will crush you even more. The clinic had reeked of bleach and something starkly metallic, a scent that felt like it was soaking into my very pores.

"You’re just a foolish little girl who doesn’t understand the blessing of being claimed."

Right. Sure.

With my luck, my "fated mate" would turn out to be anyone but a decent man. The harder I tried to cling to the desperate hope of maybe this will be okay, the faster it disintegrated, like dry paper dissolving in water.

By the time we reached the academy, evening was bleeding into the sky. The sun hung low, casting a thick, amber glow over everything. It felt like a trap—nature trying to trick us into believing everything was peaceful, normal, unchanged. But the axis of my world had already tilted. I could feel it the way you feel a shifting foundation right beneath your feet.

I hitched my bag onto my shoulder, the strap digging painfully into my collarbone. At that exact moment, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate.

Once. Then twice. Urgent. Relentless.

A sudden chill raced down my spine. Not goosebumps, but a deep, icy dread, as if someone had dragged freezing fingers straight down my vertebrae. My hands went cold, slick with a layer of anxious sweat. The corridor suddenly seemed darker, my entire reality narrowing down to the frantic throb in my wrist. I swallowed hard, my throat parched.

Please don’t let it be my parents.

I didn’t even realize I was praying. It was an instinctual, primal reflex—a plea whispered into the dark. But the darkness, as usual, offered no mercy.

The screen flashed: Mom.

I hit accept, forcing my voice to sound steady. "H-hi Mom? Is everything okay...?"

Instead of my mother, my father’s voice cut through the line.

He didn’t bother with a greeting. He never wasted breath on things he deemed worthless.

Like a useless daughter.

The moment the Alpha Council granted our family a house to support raising a proper breeder, they had exiled me to the academy dorms.

Out of sight, out of mind, so I wouldn’t ruin the family’s standing.

"Get home. Now. I’m giving you exactly thirty minutes to get from your dorm to this house."

The line went dead.

Along with the rhythm of my heart against my ribs.

I stood there staring at the black screen, unable to breathe. The air in my lungs had turned into a thick sludge of broken glass and ash. To take a single breath meant forcing it down by sheer, agonizing will.