Bride of the Cursed Alpha King

I really should’ve known kissing the man the Alpha’s daughter was obsessed with would come back to bite me in the ass—I just didn’t think the bite would be fatal. “Ruby of House Tavarre.” The High Priest’s herald’s voice booms across the village square. I don’t react immediately, because surely there are other Rubys. Surely there are dozens of them. Unfortunately, the Goddess has never loved me enough for a miracle of that kind. Around me, hundreds of people release their breaths at once in a collective sigh of relief. They’re safe, at least until next year’s Harvest. “Ruby of House Tavarre,” the herald repeats. “You have been chosen as this year’s sacrificial bride to Alpha King Silas Mortain.” Oh. Oh, f**k. The piece of parchment burns away in the herald’s hand before I can even see it. How convenient. Now I have no proof whatsoever that my name was actually written on it. Maybe it said Lydia Tavarre, or Goat Number Three. Maybe it said Anyone But Ruby. Guess we’ll never know. “Come forth and accept your fate,” the herald continues. “Ruby of House Tavarre.” The crowd parts, but I don’t move until someone shoves me hard and I stumble forward. As I pass through the crowd, Lydia, the Alpha’s precious daughter, smiles venomously at me. “I could’ve stabbed you myself,” she murmurs, her breath smelling of berries and evil. “Or shredded you to ribbons with my wolf.” I stare straight ahead, ignoring her, because if I open my mouth, I’ll probably say something that’ll get me killed before the king has the chance. “But I didn’t want to dirty my hands touching wolfless filth.” Wolfless, filthy, worthless, broken—I’ve heard it all before. “The Cursed King has much better plans for you anyway. I heard he tortures his brides, starves them, and f***s them before he kills them.” My eyes drift across the crowd and land on Kael—Lydia’s precious crush. The boy I kissed, the boy responsible for approximately ninety percent of my current problems. His gaze meets mine and immediately drops to the ground. Coward. Not that it matters anymore… I kissed him because I liked him. And he kissed me back. Apparently, that was enough to earn a death sentence at the age of twenty-one. At least Lydia can’t hurt me after today. The High Priest’s guards grab my shoulders with brutal force, but I don’t resist. Last year, a chosen bride tried to run. My guts haven’t sat right since then. There wasn’t enough left of her to bury. I’ll walk. I’d rather die with all my pieces attached. The guards drag me onto the raised platform where Alpha Morgan stands waiting. He’s Lydia’s father, and my master—the man I’ve spent fifteen years serving. I’ve washed his floors, cooked his meals, and cleaned his chamber pot. I’ve endured his insults, his punishments, his fists. And now he’s smiling at me like this is the best day of his life. As the guards release me, I step forward and spit directly into his face. The entire square gasps. Worth it. Absolutely worth it. But only for one glorious second—then his hand connects with my face, and pain explodes through my skull. Suddenly, I’m kissing the wooden platform instead. A metallic taste fills my mouth, and my vision goes white. But even as I lie there, I grin. That’s the worst he can do. He can’t kill me anymore. I belong to the Cursed King now. The thought is strangely comforting. The next second, gentle hands grab my arms, helping me up. “You’re no better than that usurper!” The too-familiar voice yelps. “May the Goddess rain her wrath upon you!” No, no, no. “May she take the usurper king!” Harold—the only person in this entire miserable pack who has ever been kind to me. The closest thing I’ve ever had to a father. My eyes snap open and find his weathered face is red with fury, his hands still holding my arms. The Alpha looks murderous, and the crowd horrified. For the first time today, I feel truly afraid. “Harold—” I don’t get to finish as something wet splatters across my face. The old man’s body collapses, but his head doesn’t… because it isn’t there anymore. The square falls deathly silent. A scream lodges in my throat as Harold’s body hits the platform. Bits of him rain down around me—warm, sticky, and red. No. No. No. High Priest Malachar steps forward from the shadows. I’ve only seen him a handful of times during mandatory sermons. But every single time, I’d had the same thought: he’s far too handsome to be trusted. Always wearing dark emerald robes, perfect brown curls framing broad shoulders and a beautiful face—the face of a man who could convince you to hand him your soul and thank him for taking it. Well, guess that makes him the perfect High Priest to lead the Dawnbound. His unbothered gaze settles on me. Exploding heads seem to be a normal part of his day. I stare back, with bits of Harold’s brains dripping from my hair, my split lip throbbing, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. I stare back with a completely unhinged smile. One of Malachar’s brows twitches. I glance down at what’s left of the man who raised me, and start laughing. A full-bodied, hysterical, broken laugh. The crowd recoils, and the Alpha looks disgusted. “She’s lost her mind!” he claims. Malachar keeps staring. I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. Until the world finally goes dark.