The Cursed Mate

The Cursed Heart

Arlene’s POV

I didn’t believe in prophecies.

I had once believed in fate, in the bond that tied mates together, in the honor of my pack’s traditions. I had believed in fate as the rightful successor of the throne that my parents left me. And where did that faith in fate get me? Betrayed. Stripped of my birthright. Left to die in the snow.

Now, Liora was standing before and talking about destiny as if it were a gift instead of a curse.

“You’re wasting your breath, Liora. I don’t care about your prophecy.” I said to her, clenching my fists so hard that my nails were digging into my palms.

The High Witch remained composed, her violet eyes unreadable in the dim candlelight. “It does not matter if you care,” she said. “It will unfold with or without your belief.”

I scoffed. “Then why tell me at all?”

“Because you still have a choice.”

A choice. The words stung more than they should have.

Where was my choice when Carl had planned my downfall from the start? Where was my choice when my pack turned on me without hesitation? Where was my choice when the Demon of the Black Triangle branded my soul as his?

I had nothing left. No home, no power, no name. And now Liora wanted me to believe that my suffering was part of some greater plan.

No.

I came here because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Because the witches hadn’t turned me away like everyone else. That didn’t mean I owed them anything.

I turned toward the door, needing space, needing air. The walls of the temple felt too tight around me, suffocating. But before I could take a step, Liora spoke again.

“We saved you, Arlene.”

I stiffened, my back still to her.

“Not because we pity you. Not because we expect something in return. But because you are like us—cursed, hunted, lost.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No. But you needed it.”

Her words clung to me, sharp as glass, as I left the chamber and stepped into the open air.

The wind howled through the mountains, carrying the scent of burning herbs and old magic. The witches’ coven was built into the very stone, ancient and hidden, surrounded by cliffs and thick forests.

It was the kind of place you only found if you were meant to.

I was standing on the balcony overlooking the mountains, I hugged myself against the chilling air. I watched as the witches moved through the courtyard, their robes flowing like shadows against the firelight. Some carried books of spells, others practiced combat with daggers and whips of flame.

They were strong and disciplined. But I saw the cracks beneath the surface.

The way some of them hesitated before casting spells. The way the air around them flickered, their magic unstable.

Liora hadn’t lied. Something was wrong.

I heard the soft rustle of fabric before Liora joined me, standing at my side.

“Our magic is failing,” she said simply.

I didn’t respond.

“The royal witch crown has been passed down for centuries, binding our coven’s power. But now it is cracked, and the break is spreading.”

I turned slightly, eyeing her. “And what does that have to do with me?”

Liora sighed; the air from her mouth was visible in the cold air, “You may not believe in the prophecy, but your being here is not an accident. You are tied to this, whether you accept it or not.”

I looked back at the mountains, my jaw tightening.

“You don’t have to stay,” Liora said. “You don’t owe us anything as well. But if you walk away, know this—our enemies will sense our weakness. If the coven falls, so will the last sanctuary for those cast out by the world.”

A feeling of something, maybe guilt, stirred in my chest.

But before I could say anything, a horn sounded in the distance.

Liora’s expression darkened. “He’s here.”

I frowned. “Who?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and strode toward the entrance of the temple.

Curiosity warred with my exhaustion, but I followed.

The main hall was already filled with witches by the time we got inside, whispering amongst themselves as they lined near the entrance as if they were expecting royalty. The tension in the air was thick, expectant.

Then, the doors swung open.

He stepped inside.

A different chill suddenly filled up the hall but it was not from the cold mountain air, but it was from the sheer presence of the man who had just walked into the hall.

He moved with effortless power, each step he took seemed calculated and deliberate. Snow dotted his long black coat, and the fur around his neck made him look even more intimidating. He was tall with broad shoulders, his silver eyes cutting through the dimly lit chamber like shards of ice.

A Lycan.

No—not just a Lycan.

I felt it the moment our gazes locked.

My breath caught. The mate bond slammed into me with the force of a blade to the chest, winding me and paralyzing me.

No.

Not again.

I gasped slowly, I took in a quick breath but it did nothing to calm me. My heart slammed hard against my chest, and my pulse kept pounding in my ears, drowning out the murmurs of the witches around me. The air between us was suddenly tinged with tension. The kind of tension that was heavy and suffocating.

His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he had caught my scent—as if he knew.

I took a step back instinctively, my body screaming for distance, but it was already too late.

Recognition flickered across his face, followed by something sharper, more dangerous.

“You’re not just a witch, are you?” He said with a smooth voice that was laced with firm authority, and his words cut through the murmuring silence.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, feigning ignorance of what Acari was doing between us.

His gaze darkened. His eyes began to scrutinize me, trying to peel away the cold layers I had wrapped around myself.

Liora stepped forward then, her expression calm but firm. “Your Majesty,” she greeted, inclining her head slightly. “Welcome to the coven.”

A king.

The realization hit me like a second blow.

Solomon Li. The Lycan King of the North.

I clenched my fists, trying to steady my fist because my inside was raging with a storm.

A second mate.

I had barely survived the first.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.