The journey back to the small, unassuming cottage she shared with her father felt interminable. Each step was heavy, laden with the weight of shame and a crushing sense of injustice. Anya's mind was a whirlwind of Kaelen's disgusted golden eyes, his roaring rejection, and the phantom burn on her palm that served as a cruel reminder of a bond she never asked for. The chill of the night air did little to cool the furious blush that crept up her neck, a constant reminder of the public humiliation she had endured.
She bypassed the main road, opting for the less-traveled, overgrown paths she knew like the back of her hand. She wanted to avoid any chance encounters, any curious glances, any whispers that might confirm what she already knew: her life, as she knew it, was irrevocably changed. The Lycan community, usually a distant hum in her periphery, would now see her not just as the half-blood, the traitor's daughter, but as the Alpha King's unwanted bride. The thought made her stomach churn.
Her father, Arthur, was a human, a quiet man who had loved Elara with a fierce devotion that transcended species and pack politics. He had built their small cottage on the very edge of the Lycan territory, a deliberate choice for peace and separation. It was a humble place, filled with the scent of old books, brewing tea, and the faint, comforting aroma of sawdust from his woodworking projects. It was their sanctuary, a fragile bubble against the Lycan world that had taken so much from them.
As Anya approached, a faint light spilled from the kitchen window, a beacon in the oppressive darkness. Her father would be awake, perhaps reading, or meticulously sanding a new piece of furniture. The thought of facing him, of having to articulate the raw, searing pain of Kaelen's rejection, made her falter at the threshold. How could she tell him that the very destiny he had always quietly hoped for—a fated mate for his daughter, a connection to her Lycan heritage that might bring her acceptance—had instead brought her utter devastation?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, Anya pushed open the creaky wooden door. The familiar warmth of the cottage enveloped her, but it did little to thaw the ice around her heart. Arthur looked up from his armchair, a book resting open on his lap, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. His face, lined with gentle age, softened into a relieved smile when he saw her.
"Anya, you're back," he said, his voice a calm balm. "I was starting to worry. The festival sounds were quite loud tonight." He paused, his gaze sharpening as he took in her disheveled appearance, the tear tracks on her cheeks, and the haunted look in her eyes. The smile vanished, replaced by a furrow of deep concern. "What happened? Are you hurt?" He rose, his movements swift for a man his age, and came towards her.
Anya couldn't hold back the sob that tore from her throat. She collapsed into his outstretched arms, burying her face in his shoulder, the scent of his familiar aftershave a grounding comfort. "Oh, Papa," she choked out, the words catching. "It was... it was awful."
Arthur held her tightly, stroking her hair. He didn't press for details immediately, simply letting her cry, his silent strength a testament to his unwavering love. When her sobs finally subsided, leaving her raw and exhausted, he gently guided her to the worn kitchen table, pulling out a chair for her. He poured her a cup of chamomile tea, its steam rising in comforting tendrils.
"Tell me, sweetheart," he urged, his voice soft but firm. "What troubles you so deeply?"
Anya took a shaky sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through her. She looked at her father, his eyes filled with a patient, knowing sadness. He had seen enough pain in his life, enough of the Lycan world's cruelty, to understand that whatever had happened, it was significant.
"I went to the forest," she began, her voice still trembling. "Just... to walk. To get away from the festival. And then... then he was there."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Who, Anya?" he asked, though a flicker of dread already crossed his face.
"Kaelen Valerius," she whispered, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. "The Alpha King."
Her father stiffened, his hand tightening around his teacup. "What did he want with you?"
Anya took another deep breath, forcing herself to recount the humiliating encounter, the searing pain in her palm, the impossible mark, and Kaelen's thunderous roar of rejection. She described the disgust in his eyes, the contempt in his voice, the way he had dismissed her as an "aberration." She left nothing out, the raw honesty of her pain pouring out with every word.
As she spoke, Arthur's face grew paler, his jaw tightening. When she finished, the silence in the kitchen was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the old wall clock. He closed his eyes for a moment, a deep sigh escaping his lips.
"The mark," he murmured, opening his eyes and looking at her hand, which she still clutched protectively. "I always feared this day. Your mother... she spoke of it. A rare occurrence, a fated bond that transcends even the divide between Lycan and human. It's a sign of immense power, Anya, though not one that the Lycans always understand or accept."
"Power?" Anya scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "He called me a mistake, Papa. He rejected me in front of everyone. There's no power in that, only shame."
Arthur reached across the table and gently took her hand, turning her palm upwards. His thumb brushed over the skin where the mark had pulsed. "The bond is real, Anya. It exists whether he acknowledges it or not. His rejection... it speaks more of his pride and the pressures he faces as Alpha King than it does of your worth." He paused, his gaze distant, as if lost in a memory. "Your mother was also... misunderstood by many. Her strength, her unique abilities... they were seen as a threat by some, even within her own pack. The accusations of treason were a convenient way to discredit her."
Anya looked at him, hope flickering amidst the despair. "You don't believe she was a traitor?"
Arthur's eyes met hers, firm and unwavering. "Never. Your mother was loyal to her core, Anya. But she carried secrets, burdens I only glimpsed. Secrets that might have made her a target for those who feared what she represented, or what she knew." He squeezed her hand. "And now, it seems, you carry a part of that burden too. A fated mate, a human, to the Alpha King... it's a challenge to their traditions, to their rigid hierarchy. Kaelen Valerius, for all his power, is still bound by the expectations of his position."
"So what now, Papa?" Anya asked, the question heavy with uncertainty. "I can't go back to how things were. Everyone knows. I'm the unwanted bride."
Arthur's gaze hardened, a fierce protectiveness entering his eyes. "Then we adapt. We always have. This cottage is our home, our safe haven. No Lycan, not even the Alpha King, has the right to step foot here without invitation. We will face this together, Anya. You are not unwanted here. You are loved, and you are strong. Stronger than you know."
He rose and went to the small, well-worn bookshelf, pulling out a thick, leather-bound journal. It looked ancient, its pages yellowed. "Your mother left this. She asked me to give it to you when the time was right. Perhaps... perhaps now is that time." He placed it gently in front of her. "It might hold some answers, Anya. Answers about her past, and perhaps, about your own unique destiny."
Anya looked at the journal, then back at her father, a flicker of something new stirring within her—not hope, not yet, but a nascent curiosity, a spark of defiance. She was rejected, yes. Humiliated, certainly. But she was not powerless. Not entirely. The mark on her hand, the bond Kaelen had denied, was a testament to that. And perhaps, her mother's journal held the key to understanding why. The unwanted bride might just have a story far more complex, and powerful, than anyone, especially Alpha King Kaelen Valerius, could ever imagine.