BOUND TO THE THORN KING

Monnalissa's POV I dress for Mating Day with flowers in my hair and hope so fierce it makes my ribs ache. Pedri promised. Two years of stolen kisses, of him tracing the grey mark on my palm and swearing it means nothing. Tonight he will claim me in front of the pack, and I will finally belong to someone. The blue dress clings to my curves as I study myself in the cracked mirror. I look like a woman who could be loved out loud. That is all I have ever wanted. I don't knock on Pedri's door. We are past formalities. The firelight hits me first. Then the smell—sweat, s*x, and my half-sister's perfume. Pedri is naked on the bed, all golden skin and the body I have dreamed of for two years. Anah straddles him, her copper hair spilling down her bare back. She faces me. Her cold green eyes lock onto mine, and a slow smirk spreads across her lips. "Oh yes. Just like that!" She moans it loud, theatrical, dipping her head to sink her teeth into his neck. My stomach heaves. I cannot breathe. Pedri groans and flips them over, his back to me now, still moving inside her. Then he glances over his shoulder. His face slackens. "Monnalissa." I am a statue. I am a ghost. I am already gone. Anah props herself up on her elbows, completely unashamed. "Sweetie. You should have knocked." "You—" My voice cracks down the middle. "What is this?" "The Bone Mother spoke to us before the public reading," Anah says, examining her fingernails. "Fated mates. The land chose us. You can't argue with fate, can you?" Pedri scrambles for a sheet. "It's not what it looks like." "What is it, then?" I demand. My voice is a stranger's—thin and splintering. "Tell me what it is." He looks at Anah. Then back at me. His jaw works, but nothing comes out. "The ceremony is in an hour," he says finally. That is all. I back out of the room. Neither of them moves to stop me. The hallway tilts. I brace my hand against the cold stone wall and suck in air that tastes like ashes. The flowers in my hair feel like a funeral wreath. I rip them out as I run. Down the stairs. Past the servants who press themselves against the walls with pity in their eyes. Out the great gates and into the grey belly of the Verge. Drums pound in the distance—the call to the Day of Claims. I should go home. I should hide. But my feet carry me toward the Heart of Thorns like a moth to flame. Maybe I need to see it. Maybe I need to watch the Bone Mother speak their names so I can finally believe it is real. The pack has already gathered in a wide circle around the Blood Altar. Thorn-blooded families in the front, Ash-marked in the back. I slip into the rear, invisible, another grey-palmed girl no one bothers to notice. The Bone Mother stands at the altar's center, ancient and blind, her sewn-shut eyes leaking thin trails of blood. Sacred stag bones clatter across the obsidian stone. "The land has spoken," she croaks. "The fated bonds of this year are written in blood and bone." Names. A young warrior and a weaver. An elder widow and a hunter returned from exile. Each pair steps forward to cheers. Then she pauses. The Soul-Thorns around the grotto begin pulsing with a faint silver glow. "Pedri of House Thorn. Anah of the Thorn-blooded line." My sister glides forward in crimson, radiant as a blade. Pedri joins her from the other side, dressed now, his face a mask I do not recognize. He does not look at me. Not once. The pack roars approval. A pure Thorn-blooded match. Strong bloodlines preserved. My father's voice rises above the others—proud and booming, as if he did not watch me leave the house this morning with flowers in my hair and hope in my chest. The Soul-Thorns erupt. Silver light blazes from the black petals, and a vision unfurls in their bloom—the land's own memory, broadcast for all to see. It is me. Standing in a blue dress. Staring at my love and my sister tangled together. A murmur ripples through the crowd. Some laugh. Others whisper. The pity from the Ash-marked section burns like acid on my skin. My father finally spots me. His eyes—cold green, just like Anah's—find mine across the grotto. There is no sadness in them. No comfort. Just cold calculation. Liability, his eyes say. I turn and run. This time I do not stop at the outer cabins or the Gutter Market ravine. I plunge into the Shroud, the cursed forest that even grown wolves fear. Let it take me. I do not care anymore. The Weepwood trees close in, their crimson leaves rustling without wind. At first I am too shattered to notice. Then the whispers begin. Unwanted. The word slithers through the branches in a voice that sounds like my dead mother. Unworthy. Forgotten. Alone. I clamp my hands over my ears, but the whispers are inside my skull. I run until my legs burn and my lungs scream. The blue dress tears on thorny undergrowth. The flowers are long gone, scattered like dead stars on the forest floor. I stumble into a small clearing and collapse against a fallen trunk. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I press my branded palm against my chest and try to feel something other than the hollow ache where my heart used to be. That is when I hear the footsteps. Not the soft padding of forest creatures. Heavy boots. Laughter. The sharp, sour stench of unwashed fur and cheap ale. Rogues. Three of them step out of the mist. Tattered clothes. Feral eyes. The largest one—a brute with a scar splitting his lip—grins when he sees me. "Well, well. What's a pretty little Ash rat doing all alone in the dark?" I scramble backward, but my legs will not hold me. "Don't touch me." Scar-Lip crouches, close enough that I taste his foul breath. "She's got spirit. I like that." The other two fan out, flanking me. Panic floods my veins. I call for my wolf, but she whimpers, too broken by the day's devastation to rise. "Please," I whisper. "Just let me go." Scar-Lip laughs and reaches for me. A growl rumbles from the darkness behind them. It is not a rogue's sound. It is deep and ancient, a vibration that makes the ground tremble under my palms. The three rogues freeze. "Back off, lad. Go find your own girl," Scar-Lip snarls without turning. "Wait." The second rogue's voice cracks. "He's not..." One by one, they twist around. I lift my eyes and see a figure standing at the edge of the clearing. He is dressed all in black, a silhouette carved from the shadows themselves. His height and the breadth of his shoulders speak of a strength that eclipses every wolf I have ever known—even Pedri, even the Thorn Council's fiercest warriors. I cannot see his face. The darkness clings to him like a veil. But his eyes catch the faint moonlight. Two silver flames. Fixed directly on me. And something inside my chest snaps awake. A pull. A heat. A thread of impossible recognition that coils around my spine and yanks. The stranger takes one step forward. The rogues stumble back.