The Alpha's Runaway Bride: Secret Twins

The wedding dress hits my bed like a corpse. I don't look up. My fingers keep moving—silver polish, circular strokes, years of muscle memory. The rag burns my skin. Cold seeps through the servant's quarter walls, crawls into my bones. The rain hasn't stopped for three days. It stinks of rot and mildew. "Half an hour." Margaret's voice could shatter glass. She stands in my doorway, arms crossed, pearls glowing against her throat. My mother's pearls. Her smile is a knife wound. I still don't look up. "I said—put it on. Twenty-nine minutes." "Where's Evelyn?" My throat is sand. I already know. I heard her screaming this morning. Throwing things. Refusing. "My daughter has a fever." Margaret steps closer. Heel clicks on stone. One. Two. Three. Each one punches through my ribs. "She can't marry a monster." The laugh rips out of me before I can stop it. Hollow. Broken. "So you're sending me instead." She picks up the dress—white lace, silk that costs more than this room in ten years. Holds it like a blessing. "The contract says the eldest daughter. You're the eldest. By blood, you were both born on the same day. No loophole. Isn't it perfect?" My hand stops moving. I look at her. Really look. The flush of victory on her cheeks. The same joy I saw the morning she poured my mother's tea. 'I know what you did.' Twelve years. I've never said it. I swallow it back. It sits in my stomach like a stone. "He kills people," I whisper. "They say he destroyed a family for looking at him wrong." "Good." Her smile widens, wet and cold. "Then he'll fit right in with the rest of us." She throws the dress in my face. The lace scratches my cheek. The fabric reeks of Evelyn's perfume—sweet rot, flowers left in the sun too long. "Twenty-eight minutes." She leaves. The door doesn't close. Through the c***k, I hear her humming. I strip out of my maid's uniform. The dress is heavier than a corpse. The corset crushes my ribs until I can't fill my lungs. The train drags behind me like a white scar. I stand in the cracked mirror. I don't recognize the woman staring back. 'White. I look like a sacrifice. A lamb dressed for slaughter.' My fingers find the pendant around my neck. Silver. Amethyst. My mother's. The only thing she left me before she— I don't finish the thought. My chest caves in. Air refuses to enter. Twenty-seven minutes. Two maids grab my arms. They drag me through the back halls. Past the kitchen where the cook pretends not to see. Past the garden where my father's roses rot in the rain. He's not here. He never is. Marco opens the limousine door without meeting my eyes. Face like stone. I climb in. The leather seat is freezer cold through the silk. The door slams. The lock clicks. I'm gone. The city dissolves. Buildings shrink. Roads curl into the forest. Trees grow taller, darker—branches twisting together like skeletal fingers. The rain doesn't reach here. It's too quiet. Even the engine sounds muffled, swallowed by the dark. I press my palm against the window. Frost bites my skin. 'This isn't a wedding. It's a funeral. And I'm the one being lowered into the ground.' I memorize every turn. Every landmark. A broken fence. A dead oak split by lightning. A bridge with no water beneath it. 'Survive first. Plan later.' The car stops. Blackwood Manor rises from the fog like a beast waiting in the shadows. Stone walls black with age. Towers that stab the sky. Windows like dead eyes watching. I can't move. My legs are frozen. My stomach clenches so hard I think I'll vomit. Marco opens my door. The air hits me—cold, damp, carrying a smell I can't place. Animal. Wild. Wrong. It coats my throat like oil. "Out." My legs move before my brain catches up. I walk toward the massive iron door. It's carved with wolves. Their eyes follow me. Their fangs gleam in the dim light. They're waiting. A man stands at the entrance. Tall. Scar from temple to jaw. He looks at me like I'm damaged goods. "You're late." "Where's Adrian?" The question slips out. He doesn't flinch. "The Alpha doesn't attend weddings he didn't choose." He turns and walks inside. I'm meant to follow. I do. The ceremony lasts ten minutes. Ten minutes. I stand in a hall so vast my footsteps echo into nothing. The ceiling dissolves into shadow. Candles flicker on iron stands—they don't light the room, they only deepen the darkness. The priest looks human. But he smells like wet dog. 'Wrong. This is so wrong.' His mouth moves. I don't hear the words. I watch Marcus—the scarred man—sign papers with a pen that scratches like claws. I should pay attention. But all I feel is the weight of eyes. Servants. Guards. Strange men in suits who smile too wide. They all smell the same. Animal. Musk. Damp fur. 'What the hell is this place?' "Sign." Marcus shoves a paper at me. My hand doesn't shake. I pick up the pen. 'Remember this. Every name. Every face. Every loophole.' I write: 'Vivian Sterling.' Not Wallace. Never again. The bedroom is bigger than any room I've ever seen. A four-poster bed with blood-red curtains. Fireplace crackling—logs smell of pine and something metallic. Windows barred. Door locks from the outside. I'm alone. I sit on the edge of the bed. The silk sheets are ice. The corset crushes my lungs. I don't take it off. Hours pass like centuries. The fire burns down to embers. Shadows grow long and jagged. I curl into myself, my mother's pendant pressed to my lips. 'Never let them know who you really are.' Her voice. I can still hear it. A sound cuts through the silence. 'Growling.' Low. Guttural. Coming from the other side of the door. I freeze. My blood turns to ice. 'No. No, no, no—' Bones cracking. Wet. Slick. Like a body breaking apart and reshaping itself. A wet snap. Another. The door explodes inward. He stands in the doorway. 'He's not human.' His eyes are crimson. Bleeding rage. Canines elongated—sharp, jagged, dripping with something dark. His hands are claws, nails black like steel. His suit hangs in shreds, fabric ripped where muscles bulged and shifted. He moves like a predator. One step. Two. The floor groans under his weight. I'm on my feet. Backing up. My heel hits the wall. Nowhere to go. "They sent me a human." His voice is wrong. Too deep. Too rough. Like rocks grinding together. "A 'human.' To mock me." He lunges. I scream. My back hits the wall. His hand—his claw—closes around my throat. Pressure crushes my windpipe. My vision blacks at the edges. I can't breathe. His face is inches from mine. Up close, I see the veins under his skin—black, pulsing. His breath is hot, ragged, carrying that wild animal musk. 'This is it. This is how I die.' A tear escapes my eye. Slides down my cheek. Lands on his thumb. His claw presses deeper. The skin breaks. A drop of blood wells up. And he— 'Stops.' His body goes rigid. His crimson eyes widen. He inhales—sharp, violent—like someone who's been drowning and just found air. His face drops to my neck. I feel his nose drag across my skin. Over my pulse point. Down my collarbone. Sniffing. 'Hunting.' But the pressure on my throat loosens. The growl stops. A sound escapes him. Soft. Broken. 'A whimper.' His hand opens. His claws retract. His fingers—human again—tremble as they trace the blood on my skin. He looks at me. And his eyes are no longer crimson. They're grey. Storm grey. Lost. "Who..." His voice cracks. "...who are you?" He collapses onto me. His weight presses me into the mattress. I'm trapped beneath him—his chest heaving, his breath hot against my ear. His lips brush my skin. "Who 'are' you?" I can't answer. I can't breathe. I can only stare at the ceiling, my blood roaring in my ears, my body shaking so hard I feel like I'm breaking apart. My mother's words echo in my mind. 'Never let them know who you really are.'