Bride Of The Cruel Lycan

The stranger from last night

JULIETTE

I wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains, my head pounding like a drum.

For a moment, I cling to the hope that everything about last night was just a dream, a figment of my imagination brought on by exhaustion.

But the dull ache in my body says otherwise.

The soreness between my legs begs to differ, and when I pull the sheet tighter around me, the truth is impossible to ignore.

I turn my head, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes land on him. The nameless man from last night is sprawled across the bed, lying on his stomach with the sheets barely covering his lower back. Tones muscles on full display.

His blonde hair is a tousled mess, strands falling across his face, and I can just make out the rise and fall of his chest. He looks peaceful, like he belongs to a different world than mine, one without responsibilities or broken promises.

For a moment, I let myself imagine staying here, freezing this fragile intimacy in time.

But the weight in my chest presses harder, reminding me that this is no place for me to linger.

There are bigger things at stake. Things I can’t run away from, even if I want to.

Quietly, I slip out of the bed and gather my clothes, careful not to make a sound.

My fingers tremble as I button my blouse, the reality of what I’ve done sinking in. One last glance—I allow myself that much before I leave. I pause by the door and look back at him, memorizing the way the sunlight kisses his skin, because I know I’ll never see him again.

The taxi ride home is agonizingly slow, every bump in the road jarring me back to reality. My stomach churns as I think about what’s waiting for me.

My father has never been a patient man, and today of all days, I can’t afford to test his limits.

It’s my wedding day. Already.

My stomach twists at the thought.

I don’t feel joy, not even a hint of it.

Instead, there’s only dread, a hollow ache that I can’t seem to shake.

By the time I step through the door, the house is already buzzing with activity. My stepmother gives me a sharp look, her disapproval evident, but I avoid her gaze. I can’t handle her scrutiny right now. My father is in the sitting room, barking orders at a servant, his voice booming through the house.

When he sees me, his expression hardens. “You’re late,” he snaps, and I lower my head in apology.

There’s no point arguing.

I go upstairs to change, slipping into the lilac dress that Jane had mocked for being “too plain” when it arrived. It fits perfectly, but it feels like a costume, like I’m playing a role in a play I don’t want to be in.

Hours pass in a blur, and before I know it, we’re at the palace.

The grandeur is overwhelming, the towering pillars and gold detailing so breathtaking they almost distract me from the weight pressing down on my chest.

Almost.

My family is ushered inside, and I follow, my steps slow and hesitant.

The grand ballroom is even more magnificent than I imagined.

Flowers line the aisle, their soft fragrance filling the air, and candles flicker gently along the walls. It should be beautiful.

It is beautiful. But all I can think about is what’s waiting for me at the end of that aisle.

The regent queen and her husband stand near the altar, their expressions regal but warm.

I force a smile as they greet us, the queen kissing both of my cheeks with practiced kindness. “The prince will be here shortly,” she says with a gentle smile. “I apologize for his tardiness, but he’ll join us soon, and then we can officially unite our families.”

I nod, my throat too tight to form a response. She returns to her place near the altar, leaving me to wait at the top of the aisle.

My hands tremble as I clutch the bouquet they’ve given me, the delicate petals trembling in sync with my uneven breaths.

Jane and my stepmother stand to the side, their expressions smug as they watch me. I know they’re waiting for me to falter, to make a fool of myself. I force myself to keep my gaze forward, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

Then, the doors at the far end of the ballroom swing open, and my heart nearly stops.

This is it.

The moment I’ve been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. The man I’m supposed to marry—the man who will be my husband, my partner for the rest of my life—will walk through those doors.

Or rather, be wheeled in.

I take a deep breath and turn my head, my eyes locking onto the figure being rolled into the room.

My eyes trail over his form starting from the soles of his polished black shoes.

The prince sits in a wheelchair, his posture regal despite the limitations of his body.

His clothes are rich and elegant, adorned with embroidery and stones that glint under the bright lighting. My eyes trail over him, taking in every detail, but when I finally meet his gaze, the air leaves my lungs entirely.

Shock replzcing every other emotion, as I lock gazes with the man I just saw hours ago.

The stranger from last night.