The Alpha's Forgotten Bride

Wren's POV "Scrub harder," the head cook said, stepping over my bucket like I wasn't the one getting married in four hours. "Plates don't shine themselves, and the prince's table needs to gleam for the feast." I kept my head down, brush moving in tight circles against the stubborn grease. My hands already ached from the soap, but I pushed the bristles deeper. "Yes, ma'am. They will." Another kitchen girl clattered pots nearby. "You hear that? She still calls him prince. Like the title fits after everything." The first girl laughed, low and sharp. "Fits her sister better, that's for sure. Luna's the one who caught his eye proper. This one's just... leftover goods." I scrubbed faster. The water sloshed, cold against my wrists. Leftover. The word sat in my chest like a stone someone dropped without looking. My shoulders tightened, but I didn't stop. Never stop. That rule kept me breathing this long. "Pass the rinse water," I said to no one in particular. A pitcher slid across the counter. I caught it before it tipped. The head cook wiped her hands on her apron. "Grateful. That's what you should be. An omega at the bottom rung, and still someone wants you. Most packs would've sent you to the border huts by now." I dipped a fresh plate. Suds ran down my forearm. "I knew the Moon Goddess picked wrong the first time." The second girl leaned in, voice dropping but not enough. "Wrong? More like the prince woke up. Your sister has that fire. You? You're the quiet type who fades into the walls. Good thing the uncle stepped up. Saves face." I almost laughed at that. My sister burned hot enough for both of us, sure. But me? I carried water to put fires out. Always had. My fingers slipped on the plate edge. It nearly cracked. I caught it. Barely. "Careful there," the head cook snapped. "Break another and you'll scrub the whole hall before your vows." "Sorry," I said. The word tasted flat. I didn't feel sorry. Not really. My mind drifted to the serving dish from earlier. That kitchen girl swore she didn't drop it, but the crack pattern said otherwise. Clean break on the rim, like a nervous hand let go too quick. I knew. Instinct or whatever. Didn't matter. I kept it to myself and mopped the shards anyway. Someone else's lie. Not my problem today. The door banged open. Two more helpers burst in, arms full of linens. "They're setting the canopy outside. White flowers everywhere. Looks proper fancy for a second-choice bride." "Second choice?" I asked, voice steady. My stomach twisted anyway, low and sharp near my spine. Contradiction again. I hated the attention, craved the quiet, yet here I stood in the middle of it all. The taller helper dumped her bundle. "You know how it is. Prince wanted your sister from the start. Everyone saw. Now you get the ruthless one. Drummond. They say he snaps necks for breakfast." I set the plate aside. Water dripped. "They say a lot of things." The head cook crossed her arms. "And most of it's true. Cold as mountain stone, that alpha. You'll learn soon enough. Or break. Pack's betting on the latter." She said. Break. The word echoed in my ears. I wiped my hands on my skirt, leaving wet streaks. My reflection shimmered in the dirty rinse water. Thin face, tired eyes, hair twisted back tight. Who was that woman staring back? Not the bride anyone planned. Not the one the Moon Goddess marked. Just me. Still holding the scrub brush like it could anchor everything. "Betting?" I said. My voice cracked on the edge of the word. Awkward, too high. I cleared my throat. "Didn't know my wedding counted as sport." One girl snorted. "Everything counts as sport when the prince changes his mind. He rejected the bond, forced this switch. You think Drummond's happy about scraps?" Scraps. My jaw tightened. Heat crawled up my neck, but my hands stayed cold. I wanted to shrink smaller, disappear into the floorboards. Instead I reached for another plate. "Scraps can still feed a pack. Or so I've heard." The head cook grunted. "Practical. At least you've got that. Most omegas in your spot would be crying in the corner." Crying sounded nice. I didn't. My eyes stayed dry. Another contradiction. "Crying wastes water. And time." A sudden laugh from the back. "Time? You got four hours left as free as you'll ever be. After today, Drummond owns you. They say he keeps his mates in line with an iron fist. Literal." Owns. The word landed heavy in my gut. I straightened. "Line or not, vows are vows. Sacred." "Sacred," the second girl repeated, mocking the tone. "You really believe that after he cast you off for your sister? Prince practically announced it at the last gathering. 'Luna completes me.' Right in front of you." I paused mid-scrub. The brush hovered. My throat worked. "He did what he had to. The bond... shifted." Shifted. Nice word for shattered. My shoulders ached from hunching. I rolled them once, quick. The motion pulled something tight across my ribs. Not fear exactly. Something close, but twisted with this strange thread of relief. No more pretending to be the chosen one. Just survival. The door creaked again. A young boy poked his head in. "Wren? They want you in the dressing room. Dress is ready. And the alpha... he's already at the altar." Already. My pulse jumped in my wrists. I set the brush down. "Tell them I'm coming." The head cook waved me off. "Go on. Try not to trip over your own feet. Pack's watching." I left the kitchen without looking back. Hallways blurred past. Whispers followed like smoke. "There she goes... the replacement..." "Poor thing..." "Lucky thing..." Lucky. I nearly tripped on the hem of my simple shift. The dressing room smelled of lavender and nerves. Hands pulled at me, lacing the pale gown, pinning my hair with clumsy fingers. Too tight here. Too loose there. I stood still through it all. "You look... presentable," one attendant said. Her eyes darted away. "Presentable works," I answered. My voice came out softer than intended. An incomplete thought hovered. What if presentable wasn't… "Time," another cut in. Abrupt. They ushered me out. The ceremony space opened under the canopy. Pack members lined the paths. Eyes everywhere. I kept my gaze low, steps measured. The ground felt uneven under my slippers. One wrong step and I'd fall in front of them all. Then I stood before him. Gideon Drummond. Tall, broad, scars visible at his collar. His eyes locked on mine. Cold steel gray. Not the warm brown I'd braced for from years of rumors about his brutality. He looked at me. Really looked. The air thickened. "You," he said. His voice low, controlled. "Are not what they described." My breath held. I searched his face. "And what did they describe?" He stepped closer. The pack hushed. "A fragile thing. Breakable." His hand lifted, almost touching my cheek but stopping short. "Yet here you stand. Steady." Steady? My knees wanted to buckle. Instead I lifted my chin. "Steady enough for vows, alpha." A murmur rippled. Someone called out about the prince watching from the side. My former almost-mate. Gideon's jaw flexed. "Let him watch." He leaned in, words for me alone. “She is my mate now. My little wolf." The words hit like a spark in dry grass. My little wolf. Those six words that shattered every rumor, every warning. Nothing like the brute they painted. Something else entirely. Dangerous in a different way. My fingers curled into my skirt. What did that mean for the rest of this day? For us? The question burned as the officiant cleared his throat to begin. But Gideon hadn't stepped back. His gaze held mine, unblinking. And in that look, I sensed the first crack in everything I thought I knew about this marriage.