Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

Some boutiques displayed garish, neon rags practically screaming availability, while others carried rigid, eye-wateringly expensive formal suits.

Sticky, sickening desperation clawed at my chest. I felt like I was in a twisted Cinderella story—not late for a magical ball, but sprinting toward my own execution, minus the fairy godmother and with nothing in my pockets but stale candy wrappers. Honestly, a fairy godmother would have been really nice right about now.

Only one shop remained. The very last one. It was a small, unassuming boutique with dim lighting and pale mannequins posed in artistic, unnaturally fluid shapes.

I stood surrounded by racks of evening gowns, feeling like a ridiculous, lost creature from another dimension. Instinctively, my hand reached for the darkest, plainest, most modest dress on the rack.

"Can I help you find something, miss?"

The soft voice behind me made me flinch and withdraw my hand.

I spun around to find a young sales associate—she looked exhausted, but wasn’t much older than I was. Her eyes were so genuinely kind that a flicker of hope flared in my chest. There wasn’t a trace of that sharp, predatory judgment I had grown to despise over the last agonizing hour.

"I... I was invited to an event," my voice cracked into a whisper. "It’s my first time going to something like this..." The words tumbled out in a panicked rush, completely betraying my internal meltdown. "...and I have no idea what to wear. Can you please... help me..."

She raised a hand in a gentle, reassuring gesture. "Take a breath. Don’t worry, we’ll find something perfect. Are you looking for a dress, or..."

"A dress," I exhaled, the relief hitting me like a wave. A dress would be easier to take off and change out of later.

The girl nodded, taking a moment to study me. Her eyes swept over my figure, carefully hidden beneath the oversized, shapeless hoodie, before lingering on my flushed face. She tapped her chin thoughtfully for a few seconds, her eyes suddenly lighting up with the sharp thrill of a stylist who just spotted a diamond in the rough.

"Give me just one second. I think I have exactly what you need."

She glided toward the back of the store, disappearing behind a rack crammed with flashy, bright fabrics. For a second, my heart sank—I was convinced this was a mistake, that I was destined to embarrass myself tonight or just give up and face Magnus’s terrifying wrath.

But then, with the swift elegance of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, she emerged from the deep shadows of the rack holding a single hanger.

Draped from gossamer-thin, almost invisible straps was a floor-length gown. Pure, liquid black silk. A fitted, floor-length slip of a dress with a dangerously low, backless cut. I stared at it with deep skepticism.

It was too much. Too revealing. Too... not me.

Catching the hesitation in my eyes, the associate offered an encouraging, lighthearted smile.

"Just try it on first. I promise you it’s going to fit like a second skin. Trust me on this one."

I didn’t have the energy left to argue. Logic dictated that she knew far more about this than I did; my personal sense of style began and ended with oversized hoodies and worn-out jeans. I took the hanger. The silk felt cool, almost alive against my fingertips.

Inside the fitting room, beneath the unforgiving glow of the overhead lamps, I quickly shed my jeans and sweatshirt. Slipping into the dress, I felt the icy fabric glide over my skin, hugging my waist with unfamiliar precision. I turned toward the mirror.

A hysterical, bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. My reflection looked like an outright parody. A girl draped in an expensive black silk gown, sporting a messy, disheveled ponytail and bare feet. I looked like a crow trying to pass itself off in peacock feathers.

"I think... I look ridiculous," I called out weakly from behind the thick velvet curtain.

"May I step in?"

Before I could answer, she was inside the stall. I gave a mute, bewildered nod. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, sliding the elastic band free from my hair. My dark strands—wavy from being pinned up all day—tumbled down over my shoulders, cascading over the exposed curve of my bare back and framing my face. The transformation was instantaneous. I stared, paralyzed, at the mirror.

"Do you... do you happen to have any heels?" I whispered, almost allowing myself to believe in a miracle.

With a soft smile, the associate handed me a pair of sleek, black pointed-toe pumps resting on a delicate stiletto heel. Then she presented a small, wrapped parcel of sheer fabric.

Unfurling it, I found a pair of evening gloves—opera-length, reaching past the elbows, crafted from black mesh so impossibly thin it resembled spider silk. They weren’t plain, either; intricate, nearly invisible embroidery ran down the length, catching the light with subtle metallic threads.

Holding my breath, I pulled them over my hands. The weightless material clung to my arms, fitting flawlessly.

I slipped into the heels and took a cautious step forward. The height forced my spine straight, instantly altering my posture. Pushing the curtain aside, I took two tentative steps out into the showroom—not directly toward the main mirror, but just testing the space, trying to adapt to this alien, glamorous skin.

"It was made for you," the associate said softly. Her tone carried pure, professional satisfaction paired with genuine warmth.

"Really?"

I turned toward her, hunting for any trace of polite deception in her expression, but found only quiet admiration. And in that fleeting, fragile moment of unearned confidence, a voice cut through the silence from behind me:

"Yes. Really."

The world ground to a halt. The ambient sounds of the boutique vanished, replaced by a deafening, high-pitched ring in my ears. Fighting off a violent internal tremble, I slowly lifted my eyes.

Magnus was sitting in an armchair right beside the grand mirror.

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