The Demon Alpha's Fated Seer

Chapter Four

Clara's pov

The first knock came at seven in the morning.

I had not slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the tall blond man who had walked into the bakery the previous evening. I could still remember the scar on his left cheek, the tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves, and the strange way his presence had stirred something inside me that I had spent twenty-two years believing was dead.

But more than his face, I remembered his scent. Cedar and smoke. The same scent that clung to the silver crest lying beside me on the bed.

I reached for it and held it against my chest, hoping the familiar scent would quiet the restless thoughts crowding my mind. It had helped me sleep when my visions became unbearable, though I still had no idea why. Now, with the wedding only hours away, the crest offered little comfort. My life had been decided without my permission, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

Another knock sounded, followed by a woman's impatient voice.

"Miss Clara? We need to get you ready."

I opened the door to find two women standing in the corridor. One carried a garment bag, while the other held a box of shoes and a small case of cosmetics. Neither looked particularly pleased to be there, but both wore the polished expressions of people accustomed to carrying out instructions without asking questions.

"The wedding dress?" I asked, although I already knew the answer.

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Dane asked us to have you dressed by nine."

Nine. The word settled heavily in my stomach. Less than two hours remained before I would become the wife of a man I barely knew, a man who had purchased my future by paying off debts that were never mine to begin with.

They entered my room and began preparing everything with an efficiency that made the situation feel even more unreal. The dress was beautiful, I had to admit. It was made of soft white fabric with delicate embroidery around the neckline, and its fitted waist was designed to accentuate every curve of my body.

I had spent years hiding beneath loose dresses, partly because they were practical for work and partly because I had never wanted anyone to pay too much attention to me. This dress did the opposite. It made me look like someone who belonged in an expensive photograph, someone whose future was filled with possibilities rather than obligations.

When I finally stood before the mirror, I barely recognized myself. The dress fitted my hips and waist, and the neckline framed my face in a way that made my brown eyes appear darker.

My hair had been brushed until it fell neatly around my shoulders, and a little makeup softened the tiredness beneath my eyes. For a brief moment, I looked like a woman who might have been getting married because she was loved.

The thought hurt more than I expected.

I wondered whether Dane had chosen the dress himself or whether he had simply told someone to find something suitable for the woman he was buying. Either possibility left a bitter taste in my mouth. I looked beautiful, but I did not feel beautiful. I felt like an object that had been cleaned, dressed, and prepared for delivery.

Once the women were satisfied with their work, they left me to pack. I had very little to take with me. A comb, two pencils, a few personal belongings, and my worn sketchbook went into a small bag. I hesitated before picking up the silver crest, turning it over in my palm as its familiar scent rose around me. I could not explain my attachment to it, but leaving it behind felt impossible. I wrapped it carefully in a handkerchief and tucked it into my bag.

When I turned, my mother was standing in the doorway.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. She looked at the dress, then at my face, and something moved behind her eyes. I wanted to believe it was regret. I wanted to believe that she had finally understood what was happening to me and had come to stop it. But she remained where she was, her hands empty at her sides.

"You look nice, Clara," she said quietly.

I swallowed the words that rose to my lips. Nice. That was all she could say while I stood dressed for a marriage I had never wanted.

She stepped closer and adjusted the collar of my dress, smoothing a piece of fabric that did not need fixing. Her fingers trembled slightly.

"Be careful, Clara. Please. Be careful."

I stared at her. "Careful of what, Mama?"

Her eyes met mine, and for one brief second, I saw a fear so deep that it unsettled me more than anything else that morning. She opened her mouth as though she intended to explain, but the words never came. Instead, she lowered her hands and stepped away.

"Mama, what do you mean?"

She turned and walked out of the room.

I stood still, listening to her footsteps fade down the corridor. Her warning lingered in the silence, but I had no time to question it. Someone called from downstairs, informing me that the car was waiting. I picked up my bag, took one last look at the room I had slept in for years, and followed them out.

The government office was nothing like the wedding venues I had seen in pictures. There were no flowers, no music, and no smiling relatives waiting to celebrate. The room was small and plainly furnished, with a desk at the front and a few chairs arranged against the walls. Dane stood near the desk in a dark suit, looking as composed as he had the previous evening. Two men from his household stood behind him, their expressions unreadable.

His gaze moved over me when I entered. He gave a small nod, as though confirming that I had arrived in the condition he expected.

"You look lovely," he said.

"Thank you."

He offered his arm. I stared at it for a moment before placing my hand on it, aware that refusing would only create another problem I could not afford. His sleeve felt smooth beneath my fingers, and he smelled faintly of expensive cologne. There was nothing familiar or comforting about him.

The officiant began speaking, explaining the significance of marriage and the promises we were expected to make. I heard very little. My attention kept drifting to the door, to the possibility that someone might appear and tell me this had all been a mistake. Perhaps my mother would come running. Perhaps Roy would change his mind. Perhaps the blond stranger from the bakery would return for reasons I could not understand.

But the door remained closed.

When Dane was asked to repeat his vows, he did so without hesitation. His voice was steady, his expression calm, and his eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond me. He sounded like a man signing an agreement rather than promising himself to another person.

Then the officiant turned to me.

"Do you take Dane as your lawful husband?"

My throat tightened. I looked at the man beside me, searching his face for some sign that he understood what this moment meant to me. He finally glanced at me, but there was no tenderness in his expression. Only patience, as though he expected me to finish the formality so we could move on.

"I do," I whispered.

The words barely left my mouth, yet they seemed to seal something around me.

Dane slipped a ring onto my finger. It was too large, resting loosely against my skin, and I wondered whether he had even bothered to find out my size. When the officiant declared us married, Dane leaned forward and kissed my cheek. His lips were cool, the gesture brief and polite.

Just like that, I was his wife.

Outside, the morning air felt colder than it had when I arrived. I was following Dane towards the waiting car when I noticed a familiar figure standing near the building's entrance.

Mia.

She was nineteen and usually took pride in looking fashionable, even when she had nowhere important to go. Her hair was normally styled, her lips painted, and her clothes chosen with the sort of care that made even an ordinary afternoon feel like an occasion. Today, she wore an old gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. Her face was bare, her eyes swollen, and her hands were buried in her pockets.

She looked as though she had been crying.

I stopped walking.

"Mia."

She looked directly at me, and the pain in her expression nearly broke whatever strength I had managed to gather. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to hold her and ask why she had not come to the bakery yesterday, why she had allowed me to believe I was facing everything alone. But before I could take a step, one of Dane's men opened the car door.

"Madam," he said.

I ignored him and kept looking at Mia. She did not approach me or wave. She simply stood there, watching me with a helplessness that mirrored my own. I could not tell whether she was afraid of Dane's men or whether something else was preventing her from coming closer.

Dane's hand settled against my back.

"We should go," he said.

I turned towards him. "I need to speak to her."

"Another time, Clara."

"She's my sister."

"And you are my wife. Come along."

His tone was not loud, but it left little room for argument. I looked back at Mia, hoping she would say something, anything, but she remained silent. Then I climbed into the car, carrying the image of her devastated face with me as the door closed.

The car pulled away before I could look at her again.

For several minutes, neither Dane nor I spoke. He sat beside me, checking his phone while the city moved past the tinted windows. I kept my hands folded in my lap, staring at the ring on my finger. It slipped slightly whenever I moved, a constant reminder that even this small piece of my new life did not fit.

I reached into my bag for the handkerchief containing the silver crest. Something is beneath it, and I pulled out a folded piece of paper. My breath caught when I recognized Mia's handwriting.

Clara,

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't stop this. I tried, but I didn't know what else to do. Please don't think I've abandoned you. I haven't. I will find a way to reach you, no matter how long it takes.

Please don't give up on yourself. Eat when you can, sleep whenever you get the chance, and don't let anyone convince you that you are powerless. You have always been stronger than you think, even when you don't believe it yourself.

And please, Clara, be stubborn. I know you will want to keep everything inside and pretend you're fine, but don't let them take that part of you too.

I love you. I'll find you. I promise. Always, Mia.

My vision blurred before I reached the end. I pressed the note against my chest and tried to swallow the ache rising in my throat, but the tears came anyway. I turned towards the window, allowing them to fall silently where Dane could not see.

"What is it?" he asked.

I quickly folded the paper.

"Nothing."

He lowered his phone. "You are crying."

"It's just allergies."

"Allergies?"

"The flowers," I said, remembering that there had been no flowers at the wedding. The lie was so weak that I almost laughed, but the sound caught painfully in my throat.

Dane looked at me for a long moment. His gaze dropped to the paper in my hand, and I instinctively closed my fingers around it.

"You can keep it today," he said.

I stared at him, unsure whether I had heard correctly.

"After today, Clara, you won't need to hide things from me."

The quiet certainty in his voice frightened me more than anger would have. He did not demand the note, nor did he attempt to take it from me. He simply leaned back in his seat and returned his attention to his phone, as though the matter had already been settled.

"You belong to me now," he added. "I suggest you get used to it."

I looked down at Mia's note, holding it so tightly that the edges creased beneath my fingers. Outside, the familiar streets were giving way to roads I had never travelled, and every mile carried me farther from the only people who had ever made me feel that I belonged somewhere.

I had been forced into a marriage with a stranger, separated from my best friend, and taken to a home whose doors I had never seen. I did not know what Dane expected from me, what he would demand once we were alone, or what my mother's warning had truly meant.

All I knew was that I had survived twenty-two years of being unwanted, overlooked, and underestimated.

I would have to find a way to survive this, too.