The Cursed Alpha

Chapter2

The bond between us—between all of us—thrums softly. Steady. Familiar. It’s the quiet reassurance I’ve relied on my entire life, the invisible thread that tells me my pack is whole.

“This is a night of alignment,” Malachai says, raising his voice just enough to carry. “The Blood Moon strengthens what already exists. It sharpens bonds. It seals protections.”

The word blood echoes unpleasantly in my head.

I glance at him, searching his face for something I can’t name. A c***k. A hesitation. A sign that the unease crawling under my skin has a source outside my own instincts. I find nothing but composed patience. He’s been an elder longer than I’ve been Alpha. He stood beside my father. And my grandfather before him.

Trusting him is as instinctive as breathing.

That doesn’t stop my jaw from tightening.

“Begin,” I say, because hesitation would look like fear.

The pack quiets. Even the forest seems to lean closer, branches creaking softly as the moon finally crests the treeline. Red light spills into the clearing, thick and luminous, painting skin and stone alike.

Malachai begins to chant.

The words aren’t ones I recognize—not fully—but they follow familiar rhythms. Old magic always does. It curls around the bones, settles into muscle memory. The pack hums along instinctively, voices low, blending into something larger than any one of us.

I add my voice, grounding the sound, anchoring it.

The unease doesn’t leave.

It grows.

The hum beneath my palm deepens, vibrating up my arm. The altar pulses once—sharp and sudden—like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to me. My breath stutters.

I don’t pull away.

Across the circle, Rowan shifts, frowning. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and something twists in my chest. He’s watching too closely. I should have sent him back to the den. I should have—

Focus.

Malachai’s voice threads through the chant, steady and precise. He moves closer now, steps measured, his presence warm at my side. He smells faintly of ash and herbs, a scent I’ve always associated with safety, with healing.

“Place your other hand,” he murmurs, just for me.

I hesitate.

It’s barely a pause. A heartbeat. No one else would notice.

But Malachai does.

His gaze flicks to mine, and for the first time tonight, something shifts there. Not impatience. Not irritation.

Anticipation.

The thought is absurd. I shove it aside and place my other hand on the stone.

The altar flares.

Pain lances up my arms, sudden and blinding. I suck in a sharp breath, muscles locking as the magic surges—no longer a hum but a roar. The chant falters around me, voices breaking, confusion rippling through the pack.

“Hold,” Malachai says softly.

Too softly.

His hands close around my wrists, fingers digging in with unexpected strength. “This part is… intense.”

The moonlight burns brighter, the red deepening until the world seems submerged in it. I try to pull free.

I can’t.

My wolf slams against my ribs, snarling, panicked. This is wrong. This is—

“Malachai,” I growl, my voice rough. “Release me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he leans closer, breath warm against my ear. “It’s already begun.”

Understanding crashes into me like ice water. Not fear. Not confusion.

Betrayal.

The altar’s light surges again, and this time I feel it reach deeper, clawing into something old and vital. Blood sings in my veins, answering a call it shouldn’t recognize.

Around us, the pack shouts, the chant collapsing into chaos. I hear my mate call my name. I hear Rowan cry out.

I strain toward them, toward him, fighting against hands that are no longer gentle, against magic that coils tighter the more I resist.

Malachai’s voice rises, no longer woven into the pack’s harmony but standing alone, sharp and commanding. The words are clear now. Too clear.

This isn’t protection.

It’s a binding.

The moon hangs heavy overhead, red and unblinking, as the altar drinks deep. Something splits inside me—clean and brutal—and I know I will never be whole in the same way again.

Something shifts in the air. Not all at once. Not dramatically. It’s subtler than that. Like a room going quiet after someone says the wrong thing and no one knows how to respond.

Malachai’s voice changes.

At first, I think it’s my imagination. The chant continues, but the cadence is off. A syllable dragged too long. A pause where there shouldn’t be one.

My wolf snarls, ramming against my ribs hard enough to steal my breath.

I try to pull my hands from the altar.

I can’t.

The stone is no longer just cold—it’s alive. Not warm. Not breathing. Alive the way a wound is alive. The grooves beneath my palms glow faintly, red light seeping up through the carvings like blood through cracked skin.

“Malachai,” I say again, louder now. “Stop.”

He doesn’t look at me.

His eyes are fixed on the altar, pupils blown wide, expression almost reverent. He draws a symbol in the air with two fingers, quick and precise. It’s not one I recognize—and that terrifies me more than if it were.

The magic surges.

It slams into the pack like a physical force. Wolves cry out as they’re thrown backward, bodies hitting dirt and stone hard enough to knock the air from their lungs. The circle shatters, formation collapsing into chaos.

My mate screams my name.

Rowan.

I twist toward the sound, panic ripping through me, but the altar tightens its hold. Pain explodes up my arms, white-hot, blinding. I grit my teeth hard enough to taste blood.

“This isn’t—” I choke out. “This isn’t the rite.”

Malachai finally looks at me.

There’s no pretense left in his face. No calm reassurance. No mask of service or patience.

What looks back at me is intent. Focused. Hungry.

“It is,” he says quietly. “Just not the one you thought.”

The moonlight deepens, red turning almost black at the edges. Shadows stretch unnaturally across the clearing, bending toward the altar as if pulled by gravity. The air thickens, pressing against my lungs, every breath a fight.

I feel it then—the bind.

It coils around something deep inside me. Not flesh. Not bone.

Blood memory.

Lineage.

It digs in with deliberate precision, intimate as a lover’s touch and cruel as a blade.

I roar, the sound tearing out of me raw and uncontrolled.

And as the altar flares brighter and the barrier snaps into place between me and everyone I love, one truth slams into me with absolute certainty:

Whatever Malachai has begun tonight will not end with me.