The Marked Bride
1607 Words
His weight crushes me into the mattress.
I can't breathe. Every rib feels like it's bending, splintering, collapsing inward under the pressure of his body. His chest heaves against mine. His breath is hot, ragged, wet against my neck—each exhale a shudder that crawls down my spine.
I don't move.
I can't.
My blood roars in my ears. My throat burns where his claw broke skin. The pain is dull now—numb, like frostbite. But I feel it 'deep', pulsing under the surface, sinking into my bones like poison.
'He almost killed me.'
'He stopped.'
'Why did he stop?'
His lips are still pressed to my throat. I feel them move—forming words that don't reach my ears. Just vibrations. Warm. Trembling.
Then he goes still.
The growling stops. His breathing slows. The heat of his body radiates through his torn shirt, through the thin silk of my gown, searing my skin like a brand.
I count my heartbeats.
'One.' Don't move.
'Two.' Don't scream.
'Three.' Don't let him see you're afraid.
'Four.' He's too heavy. I can't breathe.
'Five.' His hand is still on my hip. Fingers splayed. Trembling.
'Six.' His claws are gone.
I feel it before I see it—the shift in his weight, the loosening of his grip. He rolls off me, onto his back, one arm thrown over his face. The mattress groans. The air rushes back into my lungs, cold and sharp.
I gasp.
I scramble backward, my spine hitting the headboard. The silk sheets tangle around my legs, trapping me. My hand flies to my throat.
Wet. Sticky. But not bleeding.
'Not bleeding.'
I press harder. The wound is shallow—a scratch, a graze. But it 'burns'. Deep and hot, like something inside my skin is still bleeding, still screaming.
I look at him.
He's human now.
The bones in his hands c***k as they settle back into place. The veins under his skin pale from black to blue. His jaw—still sharp, still clenched—softens as the fangs retract.
He lies still.
Naked from the waist up. His chest is covered in scars—long ones, short ones, deep gouges that look like claw marks. Some are pale with age. Some are pink and fresh.
'He's been hurt.'
'He's been hurt so many times.'
I don't know why that thought cuts through me. I don't know why the air in my chest goes tight.
He pulls his arm away from his face.
His eyes are grey now. Storm grey. Empty.
But they're not looking at me.
He stares at the ceiling. His jaw works. His throat bobs as he swallows.
I whisper, "What... what are you?"
He doesn't move.
Seconds stretch into minutes. The fire pops. Ash floats in the dim light.
Then he speaks.
"Something you should pray you never have to see again."
His voice is flat. Dead.
He sits up. The movement is slow, heavy—like every joint is rusted. He swings his legs off the bed. His back is to me now. The scars on his shoulders catch the firelight—a map of violence I don't know how to read.
He stands.
He walks to a wardrobe. Pulls out a black silk robe. Slips it on. Ties the belt.
I can't move.
He doesn't look at me.
He walks to the door.
"Wait."
The word rips out of me before I can stop it. My voice is thin. Broken.
He stops.
His hand rests on the doorframe. His head turns—just enough for me to see the edge of his jaw, the shadow under his cheekbone.
"You are to remain in this room until I say otherwise."
His voice is cold. Final.
"Do not test me."
The door opens. He steps through. The lock clicks behind him.
And I'm alone.
I don't move for hours.
The fire dies. The room grows cold. Gray light seeps through the curtains—dawn breaking through the fog.
My body aches. My throat throbs. My chest feels hollow.
I push myself off the bed. My legs shake. My bare feet hit the cold floor. I stagger to the bathroom, gripping the wall.
The mirror waits.
I don't want to look.
I force my gaze up.
The woman staring back is barely recognizable. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles. Pupils blown wide.
My hand reaches for my throat.
The wound is there. Pale. Silver. A crescent moon etched into my skin—not a cut, but a scar. A mark.
I touch it.
It 'burns'.
White-hot, straight to my chest. My knees buckle. I grip the sink, gasping.
'What is this?'
'What did he do to me?'
I trace the mark with my fingertip. It's smooth. Cool. Like metal left out in the cold.
'It looks like a crescent moon.'
'It looks like the pendant around my neck.'
I lift the pendant to my lips. Silver. Amethyst. Pressed tight, like a prayer.
'Never let them know who you really are.'
But I don't even know who I am anymore.
The hours crawl.
I curl up on the bed. I don't sleep. I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see his crimson irises. I hear his growl. I feel his claw against my throat.
'He almost killed me.'
'He stopped.'
'Why did he stop?'
The door opens.
I jerk upright.
Adrian stands in the doorway. Dressed in a black suit. Hair slicked back. Jaw tight. Every inch the cold, untouchable CEO.
Behind him, two servants carry a tray.
They don't raise their eyes from the floor.
They set the tray on the bedside table. Silver dishes. Steam rising. The smell of eggs, bacon, fresh bread.
My stomach clenches.
Adrian doesn't sit. He walks to the window. His back is to me. His silhouette is sharp against the pale morning light.
"Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
He turns. His dark eyes pin me to the bed.
"That was not a suggestion."
His voice is steel.
"You are skin and bone. A weak bride is a liability."
He holds up a small medical kit. White. Sterile. A needle gleams inside.
My blood freezes.
"What is that?"
"A precaution."
He walks toward me. Each step is measured. Deliberate. Predatory.
"Your scent... it's unnatural."
He stops in front of me. His shadow covers me.
"We're going to find out exactly what I've brought into my home."
He grabs my wrist.
His grip is firm. Not painful. But I don't pull away. I can't. My legs are jelly. My heart is a drum.
"You think I'm a spy."
My voice is shaking. I hate it.
He looks at my neck. His gaze lingers on the mark. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
"I think you are a puzzle."
He opens the kit. Pulls out the needle.
"And I remove puzzles I cannot solve."
The needle slides in.
I don't flinch.
The blood fills the vial—dark red, thick. He pulls it out. Presses a cotton ball over the puncture. Holds it there for a second too long.
Then he releases me.
He turns. Walks to the door. Doesn't look back.
"Three days."
The door closes. The lock clicks.
I'm alone again.
The servants clear the tray. I didn't eat.
I stare at the ceiling. My wrist throbs where he held me. My throat burns where he marked me.
'Three days.'
'Three days to find out what I am.'
'Three days to survive.'
A soft knock.
I don't move.
The door opens. A girl slips in. Young. Seventeen, maybe. Brown hair tied in a ponytail. She wears a plain gray dress. Her eyes are wide. Scared.
She doesn't look at me.
She clears the tray in quick, efficient movements. Her hands tremble.
I sit up.
"What's your name?"
She jumps. The tray rattles.
"Lily, my lady."
Her voice is a whisper.
"Please... you must be careful."
I lean forward.
"Tell me."
She glances at the door. Her throat bobs.
"The master is not well. And the others... they watch."
"What others?"
"The pack. The elders." Her voice cracks. "They don't like... humans."
She slips something into my hand. A folded piece of paper. Crinkled. Warm.
I open it.
A map. The manor's floor plan. Escape routes marked in shaky pencil.
I look up.
Lily's eyes are wet.
"The Alpha will be gone for three days. The blood will take that long to analyze."
She swallows.
"Use the time."
She grabs the tray and scurries out.
The door clicks shut.
The paper is warm in my hand.
'The first act of kindness I have received in years.'
'A rope in the darkness.'
I memorize every line. Every door. Every window.
I am not safe. I am not his wife.
I am a possession being tested for defects.
And if the test shows what I fear—
'If it shows what my mother hid from me—'
I will not survive.
I walk to the window.
The sun is setting over the dark forest. The sky bleeds orange and red. The trees are black fingers reaching for the sky.
My hand goes to my throat.
The mark is burning again.
Not pain. Something else. A pull. A thread connecting me to something—someone.
I close my eyes.
And I feel him.
'Adrian.'
Rage. Hot and thick. A predator hunting in the dark.
My eyes snap open.
'He won't kill me yet.'
'But when he finds out what I am—'
'He might wish he had.'
I press my palm against the cold glass.
The map lies on the bed behind me.
Tomorrow, I start running.
- Writer
