The Alpha's Runaway Bride: Secret Twins

The Forced Bond

I touch my neck.

The mark is warm. Almost pulsing. Like a second heartbeat pressed against my skin, threatening to break through.

I've been sitting on the edge of this bed for hours. The gray light through the curtains hasn't changed. The manor is silent. Empty. 'Dead.'

Three days.

Adrian has been gone for three days.

I close my eyes. I don't know why I do it. I don't know how. But I reach for something. Someone. Through the bond that burns in my chest.

And I feel 'him'.

A distant heartbeat. Slow. Controlled. Cold pressure in my ribcage like a weight pressing down on my lungs.

Then—

A spike.

Sharp. Sudden. 'Fear'.

Not mine. His.

Someone is telling him something. Something bad. The fear rips through the bond like a jagged blade. I gasp. My eyes snap open. My hand flies to my chest—the bone feels cracked, hollow.

It's gone.

Replaced by cold. Rage so absolute it freezes the blood in my veins. My fingers go numb.

I press my palm to my sternum like I can hold the pieces together. I can still feel it. The ghost of his emotion. The echo of something that terrified the most feared Alpha in the country.

What could scare 'him'?

I walk to the window. My legs are weak. The forest stretches out like a dark ocean. Endless. Hungry. The glass is cold against my forehead. I press harder, until the bone aches.

I'm a bird in a cage.

And the man who holds the key is afraid of something.

That terrifies me more than his rage ever could.

I dress in a plain gray dress. The fabric is rough against my skin—cheap wool that scratches every inch. I tuck my mother's pendant under the collar. The silver is cold against my collarbone. I press my fingers against it.

Lily's map is folded in my pocket.

The hallways are silent. Eerie. Every step echoes off the stone floors. The portraits on the walls watch me. Generations of Blackwoods. Cold eyes. Sharp jaws. Hungry mouths.

I don't belong here.

I turn a corner. Voices.

Marcus.

I press myself into a linen closet. The wood smells of lavender and dust. Tight space. My shoulder blades press against the shelves. I can feel every heartbeat in my throat.

"—the blood sample will be analyzed by tomorrow."

Marcus's voice. Low. Controlled. Like a knife wrapped in silk.

"If she's human, the Council will have her head."

Another voice. "And if she's not?"

A pause.

"Then we have a bigger problem."

Their footsteps fade.

I let out the breath I was holding. My hands are shaking. My thighs are trembling under the cheap wool.

The blood test.

The Council.

'If she's not.'

I move faster.

The East Wing is restricted. I know because the map marks it with a red X. Lily's handwriting in the corner: 'Do not go here. Master's orders.'

I go.

The hallway narrows. The air grows colder. The portraits stop. The walls are bare stone now. Unfinished. Ancient. The cold seeps through my shoes.

I find the door.

A heavy oak slab. No nameplate. No handle. Just a single keyhole. Dark. Waiting.

I pull out the hairpin from my hair. I've been picking locks since I was twelve. My stepmother locked me in my room whenever I "embarrassed" her. I learned.

The lock clicks.

I push the door open.

Dust.

The room is a study. Shelves upon shelves of files. Old paper. The smell of time and secrets. A single desk in the corner, buried under scrolls.

And a safe.

Cold. Metallic. In the corner like a sleeping beast. I can feel it in my teeth.

I walk to it. Kneel. The wool stretches across my thighs. The combination lock is ancient. Brass. Engraved with symbols I don't recognize.

I try to turn the dial. It won't budge.

I'm about to give up when I feel it.

Warmth.

From my mother's pendant.

It's glowing. A soft, pale silver light pulsing through the stone. The heat spreads to my chest. To my fingers. To the base of my throat.

I press the pendant against the lock.

'Click.'

The safe swings open.

Inside: a single folder.

Thin. Worn. A photograph paperclipped to the front.

A woman. Dark hair. Silver-streaked like mine. Eyes the same shade of gray I see in the mirror every morning.

My mother.

The label beneath her face: 'STERLING, ROSALIE: ROGUE HYBRID.'

'STATUS: DISPOSED.'

The word is scrawled in red. Angry. Final. The ink has bled into the paper like blood.

The folder falls open in my hands.

Council execution orders. Photographs of a woman in wolf form. My mother's face transformed into something beautiful and terrifying. A blood test confirmation.

'Genetic analysis confirms hybrid nature. Recommendation: immediate elimination to prevent contamination of pure bloodline.'

My vision blurs.

And then I see it.

A letter.

Handwritten. My mother's handwriting—I'd recognize it anywhere. The same loops and curls she used to write me birthday cards before she died. My fingers trace the paper.

'My darling Vivi,'

'If you're reading this, they've found me.'

'You are not safe. You have never been safe.'

'You are not human.'

'You are the heir to a bloodline of Rogues. A family they tried to erase. Hide your nature. Trust no one.'

'And if they come for you—'

'Run.'

'Run and never look back.'

'I love you.'

'I am so sorry.'

The paper trembles in my hands. Tears burn my eyes but they don't fall. They can't. If I start crying, I'll never stop.

I'm not human.

I never was.

My 'humanity' is a cage. A suppression. A spell cast to hide me from the wolves who want me dead.

I am the very thing Adrian Blackwood is sworn to destroy.

I hide the folder under the mattress. My hands don't stop shaking. My entire body is shaking. I can feel the cold from the safe still clinging to my fingers.

I read the letter three times. Four. Ten.

My mother was murdered.

By the Council.

For 'being me'.

I look in the mirror above the dresser. The mark on my neck is different now. Darker. Angrier. The silvery crescent has turned almost black in the center, like a bruise. It's not a claim.

It's a target.

The front door slams.

My blood turns to ice. The cold crawls up my spine, slithers into my lungs.

Footsteps. Fast. Furious. Heavy boots on marble.

'Adrian.'

He's back.

Early.

The footsteps grow louder. They climb the stairs. They march down the hallway. Each step a hammer against my ribs.

They stop outside my door.

Silence.

I can hear my own heartbeat. It's too loud. Too fast. The sound fills the room.

Then—a low, guttural voice.

"Vivian. Open the door."

I can feel him through the bond. Rage. Suspicion. And beneath it, something raw. A need. A desperation he's fighting with every cell in his body.

I walk to the door. My hand hovers over the handle. The metal is cold.

I open it.

He stands there.

His suit is torn. His tie is gone. His eyes are wild—flickering between dark brown and a ring of crimson that pulses like fire.

He looks at me like he wants to consume me.

"The blood test," he says. His voice is a dangerous growl. "They found something in your blood. Something… not human."

He steps closer.

I step back.

My back hits the wall.

"Tell me, Vivian." His face is inches from mine. His breath is hot. His scent—cedar, smoke, rain—fills my lungs. "What are you hiding?"

The mark on my neck burns.

His eyes drop to it.

He freezes.

I see the recognition in his gaze. The shift in his pupils. The way his jaw tightens.

He knows.

He knows what it means.

He knows I'm not human.

His hand moves. Slowly. Deliberately. His fingers brush the mark on my neck.

I flinch.

But he doesn't pull away.

"Rosalie Sterling," he whispers. "Your mother. She was a rogue hybrid. Marked for death by the Council."

My blood runs cold.

"You 'knew'?"

"Not until now." His voice is rough. The growl is almost gone. Only exhaustion remains. "The blood test flagged a genetic anomaly. I had my lab run a secondary screen. They found a suppression spell in your DNA. An old one. Powerful."

He leans closer. His forehead almost touches mine.

"You're not human, Vivian. You never were."

I can't breathe. The air is thick. Heavy.

"What are you?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"'Liar.'"

His grip tightens on my chin. Forces me to look at him.

"I can smell the fear on you. Your heart is pounding. Your scent is screaming. You 'know' something."

I don't answer.

But my eyes flick to the bed. To the mattress.

To the folder hidden beneath it.

He follows my gaze.

His hand releases me. He walks to the bed. Lifts the mattress. Pulls out the folder.

He opens it.

I watch his face change.

Confusion. Recognition. Anger.

And then—something I don't expect.

'Fear.'

"Where did you get this?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters because this file was sealed by the Council. It was supposed to be 'burned'."

"It was in your safe. In your manor. Under your roof."

He goes still.

"I didn't put it there."

"Then who did?"

He doesn't answer.

But the look on his face tells me everything.

Someone is playing a game.

And we're both pawns.

His hand closes around my wrist. The heat of his skin seeps into mine. The bond flares between us, raw and electric.

"You're not leaving this room until you tell me everything."

I look at him. At the man who owns me. The man who nearly killed me. The man who is now holding my mother's death in his hands.

"Then we're going to be here a long time, Alpha."

His jaw tightens.

But he doesn't let go.