VALORIA WILDEROSE
I stand before my precious mate—the love of my life, my everything, and... the only person who can save me.
Our hands are intertwined in the center of the mating ritual, loosely wrapped with a strip of red cloth to signify fate.
Above us, the luminous moon spills its rays, signifying the presence of the Goddess Selene, ruler of the moon and the sacred pairing of mates.
I ignore everything else—the cold gazes of the congregation, the stifling air thick with contempt—focusing only on this moment, engraving it into my heart forever.
In a few seconds, we will be officially bound. Perfectly mated.
"I'm sorry, Val."
Ronan speaks just as the presiding priestess lifts her hands for the final rite. Despite the apology, his eyes are cold and lifeless, distant.
My smile slowly fades. Confusion washes over me. What could he possibly be sorry for?
Before I can speak, he pulls his hand away. The red cloth slips to the ground, and a gasp escapes my lips.
But I seem to be the only one surprised.
A soft snicker to my right pulls my gaze to my sister—the first of the five present. She snorts, and each of the others follows, their light chuckling contagious until the entire hall erupts into mocking laughter.
Even Ronan barely stifles his own.
"W-w-what is g-going on?" The shaky stutter escapes my lips, somehow making it all worse.
Just as the echoing laughter reaches its peak, the door to the hall opens and Marcella enters.
Marcella—my younger sister, the youngest of the seven daughters of our father, Ottomar Wilderose. The most cherished of us all. And the complete opposite of me.
She hasn't been seen for weeks.
I'd assumed her absence was because of the news of her betrothal to the Lycan King months ago, a decree that must have devastated her and driven her into hiding.
But the slight swell of her belly tells a different story.
Her steps are slow and graceful as she climbs onto the stage, the soft rustle of her gown drawing every eye.
She wears a ceremonial dress far more lavish than mine, while I stand in one that is old, patched at the seams, and hastily stitched by my own hands only moments before the ceremony.
Right in front of me, she is embraced by Ronan—wrapped in his arms and kissed by his lips.
For a single moment, the world stills—and so does my breath. Except that it isn't the sweet, breathless feeling I often get when Ronan flashes his charming grin.
This is different.
This feels like the violent crushing of my lungs, my ribs, and my heart all at once.
I am paralyzed—far too stunned to blink and end my own misery, far too engulfed by this strange agony to question why my fated mate is tongue-deep in another woman's mouth—my own sister, no less.
It is such a simple action, yet the implications land like a gut punch.
"That's enough of this prank. I'm bored, Ronan," she whines in the typical Marcella-adorable way, clutching him, her head resting against his chest, pretending I'm not even there.
"Of course, my love," he coos in admiration—the same tone he once used to coax me into sucking him off—while holding her closer.
My heart fractures further. Tears burn and sting, blurring my vision, but even then I dare to blink them away, willing this moment to be a misunderstanding.
"R-Ronan, w-w-what's going on?"
"Isn't it obvious?" she replies on his behalf, sliding her glinted gaze to me, a sick, twisted smile curling her lips before she bursts into a taunting chuckle. "Oh, sorry. I forgot how slow you are…"
Her hand falls to her rounded belly, stroking it with motherly affection and smug satisfaction.
"Ronan and I are the ones being mated today," she purrs, "because I am pregnant with his child."
"T-that's a lie!" I cut her off before she can continue this cruel new game. Out of her many pranks, this is the most vicious.
Why stoop so low today—on my wedding day?
Her eyes narrow to slits, fury flashing. I cower backward instantly, instincts warning me not to cross her.
"Are you calling me a liar?"
I shake my head, trembling and tucking my face away.
"Calm down. Remember the baby, darling," Ronan says, patting her back to soothe her.
Slowly, she begins to relax under his touch, leaning into him and sighing with contentment.
It is unlike anything I've ever seen before—how easily they fit into each other's arms, in ways I could never compete with, even if I were pregnant with his child as well.
All of it confirms her claim—bitterly so. Goddess, it feels like my heart is being ripped apart by acid-dipped claws.
This was never my ceremony. I came here in this old, patched dress believing today would bind us, but it was only ever a spectacle carefully crafted by my own mate, my sister, and this hell of a family.
B-but Ronan wouldn't do this. He always doted on me, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
What time did he ever have to put a baby in my sister?
No, no—sweet Goddess, he cares about me. He told me he'd take me away from here and save me. He swore I'd never have to spend another day with my family after our official mating ceremony.
"Ronan… you love me, and I love you." My voice cracks, breaking down into a desperate plea—a whisper that carries my entire heart and soul. "P-please—please, you have to remember. The Goddess chose us. She chose us. You said we were forever—y-you promised. Don't do this. Don't throw me away. I can't—" My chest heaves, tightening in anguish. "I ca-can't breathe without you. I can't l-live without you. P-Please, Ronan… please. I'll be be-better. I'll do anything. Just… don't forget us. D-Don't forget me." My knees weaken as I choke on the words, voice breaking to a whisper that crushes my soul. "You're all I have. You're everything. P-Please… remember."
I hold his gaze, tears pouring down my face, hoping he sees something in mine that reminds him of every promise we made—those nights in the garden when I would sneak out to meet him, when he held my hand and whispered sweet words to help me endure the beatings and abuse from my family, painting stories of the life we would share when I was free.
But that Ronan no longer looks back at me.
"I'll make this quick and easy for you, Valoria," he says coldly, "courtesy of what we might have had in the past."
The past? He stared at me like I was his universe just yesterday!
The gentle gaze he gives Marcella turns to brutal ice when it meets mine.
"I, Ronan Frostfang, reject you, Valoria Wilderose, as my mate. Before the High Priestess and in the eyes of the great Wilderose house, I take Marcella Wilderose as my chosen, my precious rose, my beloved. Mine."
These words cut through me like a blade. A sudden surge of pain spreads through my entire body from head to toe.
Suddenly my bones are stone and my blood molten magma, melting me from the inside, severing the bits of my soul that have been intertwined with his from birth.
I scream in agony, crashing to the ground, begging for mercy. My pleas fall on deaf ears. It hurts so much, a torment rivaled by nothing, but no one cares.
The ceremony continues—the real one planned for Marcella—while everyone ignores me like a discarded rag.
In less than an hour it's over, and I'm completely numb, half conscious, a sobbing mess.
One by one they leave the hall, stepping over me as they move toward the main reception where the celebration will commence.
They will celebrate the union of Marcella and Ronan and their unborn child: the best day of their lives and the worst of mine.
"The ceremony is over. Get up." A deep, gruff voice—instantly familiar—speaks over me.
I force my aching muscles to move and look up at my father, the patriarch of the Wilderose house, head of one of the most noble werewolf families.
His gaze is stiff and indifferent, as always.
I slowly lift my torso off the floor, shaking with the remnants of pain I know will linger. My tears, however, do not stop falling.
"F-Father… please…" I beg, fighting through the tremor in my voice. I clutch the hem of his robe with the tips of my fingers, careful not to stain it, yet desperate. "Ronan is e-everything to m-me. He is s-supposed to be mine. He-he is my mate. M-my fated. I p-promise I'll b-be b-better. I won't dis-grace you anymore. I'll never s-s-show my face to you again, but please g-g-give him back."
More tears flow as I plead in a meek voice. On a normal day I would never dare speak to him or waste his time—but this is different.
And maybe, because it is the first time, I assume he might pity me.
That is my first mistake.
Ottomar Wilderose is a man whose heart never learned the shape of pity—even for his own blood.
I don't see the blow coming until his boot slams into my face.
The sharp impact sends me flying, my head snapping back so hard I taste blood on my tongue.
"The apple never falls far from the tree, it seems. Just like your mother—you're a pathetic slut." He stalks closer, looming over me, eyes cold and sharp as a blade, hatred reeking off him. "How dare you covet what isn't yours?"
I can barely breathe, let alone speak, but something angry and defiant flares inside me for the first time in all twenty-one years of my life. I cough blood, forcing out a bitter scowl.
"B-b-but he is m-mine. We are m-mates. Marc-c-cella was supposed to go to the Lycan K-king."
I regret the words the instant they leave me, but the fire in my veins keeps burning. I've endured worse—though nothing as cruel as losing Ronan.
He growls dangerously, flashing fangs inches from my face.
"There you go again, talking back. You think you know better?" His voice drips with scorn. "I was never going to send my precious daughter to that vile creature. Even if he rules over us, House Wilderose will never be conquered or used to form an alliance with monsters." He spits the word monsters with venom, his contempt for the Lycan King unmistakable.
The Lycan King—brutal, ruthless tyrant of all werewolves—collects wives from noble houses like trophies.
He calls it alliance, but everyone knows the truth: he takes daughters as leverage, forcing loyalty, holding families hostage, and mocking their powerlessness beneath his cruelty.
Marcella would have been just another jewel in his crown.
Months ago, I had sobbed alongside her when the decree arrived—when we learned she was to be taken by a man so inhuman he was more beast than anything else.
The stories of his kingdom plagued children into nightmares and were whispered with the terror that you might be next.
Beheaded daughters sent home in body bags. Crushed skulls ground into dust at the entrance to his throne room. Women who never survived his bed. Women he bedded without mercy or compassion.
He is a king who speaks only two languages: blood and war.
For centuries, my kind has suffered under his reign. They say he kills for sport and eats infants for breakfast while forcing the mothers to watch.
Those are just the rumors that slip, hushed and trembling, through the lips of wolfkind. Everyone knows whoever is sent as tribute is worse than damned.
"We still need to send someone regardless," Ottomar continues, his gaze hardening. "So he doesn't wipe us out like the other houses that defied him. You will go in her place."
My eyes fly wide. As if taking Ronan wasn't enough.
"No… p-p-please. I beg you. F-Father, I'm your daughter too." Tears streak my face before I can stop them, and I know I've only invited more wrath.
He sneers, every word dripping with disgust. "You filth carry none of my blood. You're the product of your mother's infidelity."
Though Marcella and I were family, we were only half sisters and did not share the same mother.
After my mother's death, Father took another woman to his bed only a few days after—one he deemed his mistress—and she gave him his most treasured jewel: Marcella.
The floor tilts beneath me. "N-no… it's n-not true!"
"Guards!"
"Father, please!" I scramble to my knees, clutching at the hem of his robe, voice breaking to a desperate whisper. "Please—mercy! I'm your d-d-daughter too!"
My cries echo uselessly as he turns his back.
"FATHER!"