Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

Everyone except Annie and Rolan had erased me from their lives. The guards had granted them a brief visitation, and Annie had tearfully recounted the horrible rumors spreading through the pack territories and our academy.

She swore on her life she didn’t believe a word of it. They had brought her in first—it turned out Rolan had to pull strings to get her released from police custody after she spent three days locked up for staging a solo protest in the city square.

She had been fighting for justice, searching frantically for Rolan, Adam, and even looking into Askold. But Adam and Askold had vanished into thin air, and while the prosecution was attempting to implicate Rolan as a co-conspirator, their charges weren’t sticking.

We had talked through the glass, and I told her the absolute, unvarnished truth.

Then I begged her never to return. And I told Rolan the same...

There was no sense in tearing our hearts out over a lost cause. It was better if I remained a fond memory in their hearts rather than a burden dragging them into the abyss.

I knew this entire struggle was just empty noise. I was a blind kitten thrown onto a ten-lane highway—no amount of desperate crying was ever going to stop the heartless machine bearing down to crush me.

I had no idea what to do next if he truly intended to claim me as his personal plaything.

That single thought had been spinning endlessly in my head ever since the words left his lips. I kept picturing his face—cold, detached, twisted into that terrifying smile. His eyes, devoid of everything except a freezing, hollow hatred. He loathed me. Truly, to the absolute core of his soul. And now I was to become his puppet, his trophy—a living vessel for him to vent that endless malice upon.

I wouldn’t survive it. Physically, mentally—I just wouldn’t. I couldn’t go on living knowing that every day and every night he would come to me, taking my body with disgust in his eyes, using me, humiliating me, breaking whatever was left of my spirit. That wasn’t a life. It was an execution stretched across years.

"Lang! Dinner!"

The sharp bark ripped me from my spiral. The heavy iron door burst open with a deafening rattle; my entire body jolted, my heart plunging into my stomach.

A guard stepped into the cell—a towering, broad-shouldered male with coarse features I hadn’t seen before. His expression was completely blank, stone-cold, as if I weren’t even a living being to him, just an object on a checklist. Without a word, he shoved a plastic tray into my hands and turned on his heel, not bothering to offer a single glance.

I took the tray on instinct. My hands reached for the food automatically—a primal reflex. Between the grueling interrogations and the endless visits with that useless defense attorney, I hadn’t eaten a single bite all day. Hunger pangs gnawed at my stomach, but the moment I looked down at the grey, unidentifiable mass on the plate, a wave of nausea washed back up my throat. Over the past few days, the sick feeling had become a constant companion.

Even the lightweight tray felt heavy in my hands. My wrists throbbed, raw and covered in deep, purple bruises and abrasions where the heavy metal cuffs had scraped against my skin.

I sank onto the edge of the cot, the rusty springs letting out a pitiful groan beneath my weight. I pulled the small roll from its plastic wrapping; it was hard, stale, and spotted with suspicious discoloration.

I broke off a small piece and forced it into my mouth, chewing slowly. It tasted of nothing—like dry cardboard. A chalky lump that caught in my throat. I grabbed the plastic cup to wash it down, drinking greedily to soothe my parched throat.

Only it wasn’t the watery, tasteless tea they usually served. It was some kind of juice—cloudy, dark red, almost burgundy, with an odd sediment floating at the bottom.

Strange. They had never served anything like this before.

I frowned, turning the cup in my hands and holding it up to the dim light. I took another, larger gulp, only to immediately wince, barely managing to keep from spitting it back out.

It was vile. Bitter beyond belief, with an acrid, chemical aftertaste that seemed to strip the lining from my tongue. It stung—a sharp, burning sensation searing the inside of my lips and the roof of my mouth.

Had it gone bad? Or was this even juice at all?

A sudden spike of alarm pierced my chest, but I tried to push it down. Paranoia. Just ridiculous paranoia after everything that’s happened.

I was about to set the cup aside when my throat violently, painfully constricted. It felt as though an invisible hand had wrapped around my neck, squeezing with crushing force. An agonizing spasm rippled through my body, twisting my internal organs into a tight knot. I doubled over, clutching my stomach as tears burst from my eyes.

I tried to draw a breath... but nothing came.

Nothing at all.

The air hit a solid wall in my throat.

Panic—pure, unadulterated, primal panic—flooded my mind. A searing fire erupted in my lungs, melting me from the inside out.

The tray crashed onto the concrete floor, food scattering everywhere as the cup rolled away, leaving a dark red stain in its wake.

I scrambled toward the cell door, trying to scream for help, to bang on the metal, but my legs gave out instantly. They turned to lead, and I collapsed heavily onto my knees before slumping onto my side. My shoulder and temple slammed hard against the freezing concrete.

The world blurred, losing all shape and clarity before spinning violently out of control. A deafening, unbearable ringing hummed in my ears, through which I could barely catch the sound of my own wet, gurgling rasps.

I clawed at my throat with both hands, digging my nails deep into my flesh in a frantic, desperate attempt to tear open an airway—to rip a path to oxygen and free my suffocating throat. I felt the skin break beneath my fingertips as something warm and sticky began to flow.

Blood.

Darkness pressed in with heavy, suffocating waves, flooding my mind and dragging me under.

In the doorway, a shadow materialized. A tall, distinct male silhouette. Someone was standing there, watching. He just stood motionless, observing as I choked and died at his feet.

It was the guard.

I tried to raise my hand, to reach out to him in a silent plea for mercy—to force any sound from my chest—but only a pitiful, rattling rasp bubbled past my lips.

Help me.

Please...

The darkness closed in faster. Consciousness slipped away like water through trembling fingers. Every drop of my strength was gone.

And the last thing—the absolute final sound I registered through the roaring in my ears and the consuming void—was a low, impossibly calm, and completely emotionless male voice whispering right above my ear:

"Such a shame... You were a beautiful breeder. But orders are orders, sweet cheeks."

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