Mark of Sin: Bound to the Cruel Alpha

The doctor gathered his equipment, and Magnus stood to escort him out. I listened to the muffled murmur of their voices echoing down the hallway, catching only fragmented phrases—...monitor her temperature... if the fever spikes again... call me immediately...

When he returned, I looked at the time. The phone on the nightstand displayed 9:00 AM.

"We’re late!" I threw back the duvet and tried to push myself up, pressing my palms into the mattress. My legs gave out instantly, trembling so violently that I grabbed the edge of the bed to catch my balance, but the entire room spun in a blur.

"You’re staying home today." Magnus strode over, catching my elbow to steady me. The immediate heat of his touch sent a ripple of sensation through my skin. "I’m leaving for a few hours. If anything happens, call me immediately. Do you hear me?"

"I have classes." I tried to wriggle my arm free, but his grip was unyielding—solid, firm, and immovable. "Magnus, it’s an important lecture today. I can’t miss it. They’re going over the exam material, and I—"

"I’ve already handled it," he interrupted, his tone laced with absolute Alpha authority that left no room for debate. "You’re resting today. I arranged for someone to record the lecture for you. I’ll give it to you tonight."

Stepping closer, he cupped my face in his large, warm hands, his calloused fingertips rough against my skin. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead—so tender and protective that an unexpected swell of warmth bloomed in my chest.

"Just rest," he murmured, sliding his fingers into my tangled hair to gently massage my scalp. "I’ll take care of everything. I promise. Just lay back down and sleep. Regain your strength."

I searched his face with deep skepticism, wanting to fight him, to demand my independence and prove I was fine. But my body betrayed me. Waves of exhaustion washed over me; my head throbbed, and my legs felt like lead. Even standing upright was a struggle.

Reluctantly, I gave a faint nod.

Magnus claimed my lips one last time—a brief, possessive kiss that felt heavy with intent, leaving a strange, dizzying knot in the pit of my stomach.

I sank back into the pillows, listening as the front door clicked shut behind him. I lay there for a while, trying to drift back to sleep, but my mind raced in circles—ruminating on the heats, the suppressants, and how my life had spiraled into a helpless trap with no clear way out.

The sticky film of sweat on my skin was suffocating, so I decided a hot shower was non-negotiable.

I stood under the streaming water with my eyes closed, letting the warm spray wash over my hair, shoulders, and back. Slowly, my tight muscles relaxed, the fog in my brain lifted, and I could finally draw a deep breath.

Afterward, I pulled on a pair of soft shorts and a clean tee—clothing Magnus had bought for me that felt comfortable against my skin. I worked a towel through my damp hair to squeeze out the excess water, then stepped out into the living room.

That’s when I noticed the clutter.

A few books lay scattered across the coffee table. A mug with the dark residue of cold coffee sat precariously on the leather armrest of the sofa, leaving a faint ring behind. In the kitchen, dirty dishes sat piled in the sink.

I surveyed the room. Since my fever had broken and I felt halfway human, cleaning would keep my mind off things before another wave of heat could strike. I gathered the books and arranged them neatly on the shelf. I brought the mug back to the kitchen.

Next, I decided to dust. A faint gray layer coated the shelves, the tables, and the window sills. I searched for cleaning rags—opening kitchen cabinets, peering under the bathroom sink, and digging through drawers—but came up empty.

Then my eyes fell on one of my old t-shirts sitting at the bottom of the laundry hamper. It was frayed, washed out to a dull gray, its seams fraying along the sides. It was well past its prime—a perfect candidate to sacrifice for a dust rag.

I tore the old t-shirt into several pieces, putting my strength into it where the fabric was reinforced along the seams. Popping an earbud into one ear, I switched on my music and began wiping down the furniture, rhythmically moving to the beat.

I was totally lost in my own thoughts, realizing that Sunday was just around the corner. Yesterday, Rolan and I had discussed a major new client who wanted maintenance for a large facility. Taking on that cleaning contract would provide stable employment for several homeless individuals, giving them decent earnings—enough to buy food and stock up on essential medicines.

I felt a quiet joy for them: for Askold, who had adopted Peachfuzz and clearly had no intention of turning the rabbit into stew, and for all those people who would finally be able to afford proper meals.

I wiped down every piece of furniture in the living room, watching the grain of the wooden coffee table darken under the damp cloth. I cleaned the chair legs, the doorknobs, and even the mirrored frame in the hallway. A sense of quiet satisfaction settled over me as the apartment grew spotless.

Heading into the bathroom, I rinsed the rag, squeezed out the excess water, and tucked it neatly behind the sink where it remained out of sight.

Dancing lightly into the kitchen to the rhythm in my earbud, I flipped the kettle switch and pulled a mug from the cupboard, reaching for the tea leaves and sugar. Three spoons of sugar sounded perfect... and maybe baking a pear tart would make the afternoon even better. Magnus had certainly devoured the apple pie last time.

"What do you think you are doing?!"

The shrill demand shattered my mood. Standing right beside me was an older woman—around sixty years old—clad in a tailored gray knee-length dress, her silver hair pinned into an immaculate, tight bun. Her sour face was etched with deep lines that seemed to radiate pure disdain. She pounced on me immediately, her harsh, screeching tone slicing through the air.

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