Chapter 2: Forced Betrothal Orders
964 Words
“Step forward," barked the officer in ivory armor, standing atop a glacial platform inside Northreach Command.
Amber's boots echoed across the ice-polished floor as she approached the central table. Her breath misted in the sterile air, nerves crackling like static under her skin.
“Amber Sheel, human pacifier, ID 771–Gamma–Delta," the officer read aloud. “Effective immediately, you are assigned to High Security Protocol 9-0-8-C."
A different officer handed her a thick stack of papers bound in red thread. “Sign and seal, please."
Amber flipped through the pages. “This is a marriage contract."
“Yes," the first officer said briskly. “With Commander Raven Blackfang, Supreme Alpha of the Northern War-Wolf Legions."
She stared at them. “You're joking."
“We are not." The officer leaned forward. “Three elite harmonizers have failed to stabilize his berserker state. You are the only known pacifier whose frequency shows a 72% resonance. That's the highest on record."
“Seventy-two isn't good enough," she snapped. “I'm not a match."
“Doesn't matter. The council has deemed you a Strategic Asset."
Amber's voice shook. “You want me to marry a genetically unstable Alpha known for killing his own soldiers?"
Another officer stepped in, this one shorter, with emotionless eyes behind rimless glasses. “Let me rephrase: You will. Or we'll revoke your citizenship, freeze your rations, and auction your DNA profile to the Research Syndicate."
Amber flinched. “That's coercion."
“It's policy," he replied smoothly. “The Alliance cannot risk losing Commander Blackfang. If your presence keeps him operational, then congratulations—you're a national hero."
Her eyes swept the room. No one met her gaze.
“This is madness," she muttered.
The officer in glasses stepped forward and gently placed something on the table. A delicate silver choker—threaded with micro-circuitry and a small engraved seal shaped like a wolf's fang.
“Biometric tracking collar," he said. “Doubles as your wedding band. Also functions as a frequency amplifier and neural pulse monitor."
“I'm not a tool—"
“You're a pacifier," he interrupted. “Your job is to calm the monster. This ensures you do."
The door slid open behind them. Two female attendants entered, one carrying a garment bag, the other holding a pair of gloves and a tablet.
“Your ceremonial uniform," the taller one said, unzipping the bag. A stark white gown shimmered beneath. “Fabric is laced with audio-sensitive threads. Your whistle's pitch will be broadcast through the fibers."
Amber took a shaky step back. “You can't make me wear that."
“You will," said the officer with glasses. “The starfighter departs in twenty minutes. Commander Blackfang is waiting."
“Does he even know?" she demanded. “Does he want this?"
“He doesn't need to," the first officer replied. “He's under sedation until final clearance. Your arrival will be... the trigger event."
“The trigger for what?"
They didn't answer.
One of the attendants gently held out the gloves. “Please. If you resist, the collar activates your stun cuffs."
Amber looked down. Thin silver bracelets had been attached to her wrists at some point. She hadn't noticed.
A silent threat. Polite violence.
She took the gown.
---
Twenty minutes later, she stood on the boarding ramp of a starfighter flanked by six guards, the collar humming faintly around her neck. The wind whipped her hair as technicians scurried about, running diagnostics. Engines rumbled below her boots.
Her voice was low. “I don't even get a choice."
The pilot turned from the open cockpit. “Nobody gets choices in war, ma'am. Only orders."
Amber stepped inside the small cabin, eyes scanning the dim steel walls. There were two seats. One was hers. The other remained empty—chains embedded into the armrests.
She sat. Buckled in. Clutched the silver whistle against her chest.
“Status?" the pilot called.
“Cargo secure," replied a crewman.
She stared out the small viewport. The clouds looked like bruises smeared across a dying sky.
Then came the sound of boots on metal.
Her stomach clenched.
The cabin lights dimmed as the second passenger arrived—six foot five, muscles like carved stone, eyes covered by a blackout visor. Raven Blackfang.
He was manacled at the wrists with dull gray null-steel. Even drugged, his steps carried a terrible weight.
He turned toward her.
Their eyes met—hers full of fear, his flickering with something… broken.
For a long beat, neither moved.
Then his head tilted, and he exhaled a ragged breath that fogged the air between them.
“...You," he rasped.
Amber clutched the whistle tighter.
Raven lowered himself into the seat beside her. The chains creaked but held. His breathing was uneven.
Her pulse spiked. “Do you know who I am?"
“Pacifier. Strategic Asset." His voice was hoarse. “Bride."
“None of this was my choice," she said stiffly.
“Neither was mine."
The cockpit sealed shut. Pressure hissed around them. The pilot called back, “Thirty seconds to ignition."
Raven leaned closer. “You're trembling."
“No kidding."
His nose flared slightly, inhaling her scent. “Don't lie to me. I can smell fear."
Amber raised the whistle to her lips.
A single note spilled into the cabin—clear, high, trembling.
Raven flinched. His head jerked—but then his claws retracted, just a little. The red glow in his irises dulled to a flicker.
She stopped.
He blinked. “...Better."
She swallowed. “You're not going to kill me?"
He tilted his head.
“Not yet," he whispered.
The engines roared. The starfighter lifted into the night.
And next to her, the beast began to breathe in sync with her pulse.
- Writer
