The Bride To A Powerful Alpha

The war between Vampires and Werewolves began centuries ago in an eruption of savage battles that escalated into rivers of clashing, multicolored blood. It ended-at least officially-the day I met my husband for the first time. Which also happened to be my wedding day.

Not exactly the fairytale of childhood dreams, but I never dreamed of fairytales anyway. Marriage had crossed my mind only once before, back when I was a child enduring the grim monotony of punishments and a near-fatal assassination attempt. Emilia and I had plotted an escape, a wild plan that included TNT for distraction, stealing our tutor's car, and flipping off the staff in the rearview mirror.

"We'll grab a mangy shelter dog, get Slushies-cherry for me, blood for you-and vanish into Human territory," she had declared.

"They won't let me in. I'm not a Human," I'd pointed out, though that was hardly the plan's most glaring flaw. At twelve, neither of us could drive, and my existence was central to the fragile peace between species.

Emilia waved off my concerns. "I'll vouch for you."

"Will that be enough?"

Her hesitation lasted only a moment before she grinned. "I'll marry you. Then they'll believe you're Human-my Human wife."

It was as solid a proposal as any, so I'd nodded solemnly. "I accept."

That was fourteen years ago. Emilia never married me. She's long gone, and now I'm here, surrounded by an extravagant display of wedding favors meant to distract from the absence of love, compatibility, or even prior acquaintance between me and the groom.

I'd tried to meet him before the wedding. Suggested a quick coffee, lunch, or even a phone call-anything to avoid an awkward introduction in front of the officiant. My request had climbed to the Vampire council, resulting in a single dismissive phone call.

"He's a Werewolf," the council aide had said. "An Alpha. Too busy to meet."

"Busy with what?"

"His pack," came the dry response.

I'd imagined him in a gym, endlessly working on his abs, and let it go.

Now, ten days later, I still haven't met my groom. Instead, I've become a project for a team of specialists determined to make me look like the perfect bride. My nails have been filed into delicate pink ovals, my skin scrubbed to glowing perfection, and my pointed ears hidden beneath an intricate weave of blonde braids. A makeup artist has contoured my face into something sharp, almost regal.

"This is art," I'd told him, studying the angular transformation in the mirror.

He'd barely glanced at me. "I know." Then, dipping a finger into dark green pigment, he'd swiped it onto my wrists, throat, and nape.

"What's that for?"

"Customs," he'd said cryptically. "Your husband will like it."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me painted and polished like a priceless relic. I wriggled into a sleek, tailored bridal jumpsuit-though my stylist had begged me not to call it aonesie-and waited for my twin brother to escort me.

"You look stunning," Michael said flatly, eyeing me like counterfeit currency.

"It took a village."

He gestured me forward. "I hope they vaccinated you for rabies while they were at it."

The wedding was designed as a gesture of peace. My father had demanded an all-Vampire security detail. The Werewolves had refused. After weeks of tense negotiations, a compromise had been reached: Human guards-a solution nobody liked.

The venue thrummed with barely concealed hostility. Three species. Five centuries of hatred. No goodwill.

"When do you think he'll try to kill you?" Michael asked conversationally as we walked.

"Hard to say."

"Within the month, for sure."

"Agreed."

"One wonders if they'll bury your body or just eat it."

"One wonders," I echoed.

He kept up the commentary until I stopped abruptly. "Michael," I said, turning to him.

"Yes, Agony?" For a moment, the veneer of sarcasm dropped, and I saw my brother as he'd once been-the boy who'd crept into my room after nightmares to promise me safety.

"You know what happened the last time Vampires and Werewolves attempted this," he said, his voice softer now.

I did. The Nova Massacre was etched into our history: a night of bloodshed so horrific that its name had become a bitter warning. "Who would agree to a political marriage after that?"

"Me, apparently."

"You're walking into a den of wolves. Alone."

"That's the point."

Michael's jaw tightened. "This isn't a treaty. It's a death sentence. Don't do this. Say you've changed your mind-give me six weeks."

"For what?"

"I just... need time."

Before I could respond, my father's voice cut through. "Is there a problem?"

Michael recovered quickly. "Just brotherly advice."

Father took my arm, leading me forward. "Are you ready, Agony?"

I studied his face. "Does it matter?"

He didn't answer.

At the doors to the courtyard, a Human guard stopped us. "One moment, Councilman Richards. They're not quite ready."

Father turned to me. "You should smile," he said in the ourLanguage. "This is the happiest day of your life."

I forced a flicker of a smile. "What about the father of the bride?"

He sighed. "You've always been defiant."

And just like that, I was reminded: there was no turning back.

I don't need comforting or pep talks. I've stayed true to this commitment. I don't get panicked, scared, or change my mind at the last second. "I've done this before, remember?"

He watches me quietly for a moment before the doors open, revealing the remnants of my life.

The night is perfect for an outdoor wedding: twinkling lights, a soft breeze, stars peeking through. I take a deep breath, holding it in, and let the sound of Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" fill the air. The wedding planner-who's been sending me a stream of links I haven't opened-told me the viola player is from the Human Philharmonic, one of the top groups in the world. She was so excited, adding extra exclamation points. I admit, it sounds pretty nice, even if the guests aren't sure what to do until an overworked staff member gestures for them to stand.

It's not their fault. Weddings have always been a Human tradition. Vampires have long since moved past monogamy, and Werewolves... well, I've never met one. If I had, I wouldn't be here.

"Come on." Father gives my elbow a gentle nudge, and we start walking down the aisle.

The bride's side feels familiar, but not in a warm way. There's a sea of tall figures with lilac eyes and pointy ears, their lips hiding fangs. They look at me with pity, mixed with disgust. I recognize a few from Father's close circle-councilors I haven't seen since I was a child, powerful families, and their children, many of whom loved Michael and treated me terribly when we were young. No one here is a friend. But honestly, given that I don't have many connections, I can see why filling seats wasn't easy.

Then there's the groom's side. The Werewolves. The ones who want me gone.

Their blood moves faster, louder, with a sharp, unfamiliar scent. They're bigger, stronger, and faster than Vampires, and none of them seem happy that their Alpha is marrying someone like me. Their lips curl as they look at me with hatred, their anger thick enough to feel in the air.

I don't blame them. I don't blame anyone for not wanting to be here. I don't even mind the whispers, or the snide comments, or the fact that half of them don't realize sound carries farther than they think.

". . . She used to be the Collateral with the Humans for ten years, and now this?"

"I bet she likes the attention..."

"I give her two weeks."

"More like two hours, if those animals-"

". . . think they're actually going to be intimate tonight?"

I have no friends on the left, and enemies on the right, so I just focus straight ahead. On my future husband.

He's at the end of the aisle, his back to me, listening to someone whispering in his ear-probably his best man. I can't make out his face well, but from the photo I was given, I know what to expect: good-looking, striking, serious.

His hair is short, a rich brown buzz cut, his suit a sharp black that fits perfectly over his broad shoulders. He's the only one not wearing a tie, yet still looks impressive.

Maybe we share a stylist. A good enough start for a marriage, I guess.

"Be careful with him," Father whispers, barely moving his lips. "He's dangerous. Don't challenge him."

Great, exactly what any bride wants to hear when she's ten feet from the altar, especially when her groom already looks irritated and impatient. He doesn't even glance my way, acting like I'm unimportant. I wonder what the best man is saying to him-probably something like the warnings I got.

Agony Richards? She's no threat, so feel free to cross her. What's she gonna do? Throw a lint roller at you?

I bite back a laugh, but it's a mistake. He hears it. And finally, he turns to look at me.

My stomach drops. My step falters.

The murmurs die down.

In the photo, his eyes were blue. But as he meets my gaze, I realize I was wrong. They're a pale green, almost white. And Father's warning was right: this man is a force to be reckoned with.

He looks me over carefully, and I start to think maybe he wasn't given a photo after all. Or maybe he just didn't care to look. Either way, his displeasure is obvious. But honestly, I've spent my life letting people down, and I'm not going to start caring now. If he doesn't like what he sees, that's his problem.

I stand tall, closing the distance between us. I hold his stare. I watch as his pupils widen, his brow furrows, his nostrils flare. His expression shifts, like he's trying to make sense of me. Then he inhales deeply. Another breath, sharper, just as I reach the altar. His face tightens into something like disdain, something personal.

Tough luck, I think. I lift my chin and take another step, bringing us so close that I can feel his presence all around me.

Two strangers. About to get married.

The music softens. The guests sit. My heart beats slower than usual, heavy with the weight of his gaze. He leans in, studying me like I'm something strange, his chest rising and falling like he's trying to pull me in. Then he pulls back, licks his lips, and just stares.

He stares and stares and stares.

The silence stretches. The officiant clears his throat. The courtyard fills with confused murmurs, rising into uncomfortable tension. I notice the best man has unsheathed his claws. Behind me, Velantra, my father's head guard, bares her fangs. And the Humans-well, they're reaching for their guns.

And yet, my future husband still stares.

I take a small step closer and murmur, "I don't care how much you hate this, but if you want to avoid a scene-"

His hand shoots out fast, gripping my upper arm. The heat of his skin is a shock, even through my sleeve. His pupils narrow, and something dangerous flares in his eyes. I try to pull away, but it's a mistake.

My heel catches on a stone, and I stumble. He's right there, catching me around the waist, holding me steady, then pushing me closer to him. His body presses against mine, trapping me, and he looks down at me like he's forgotten where he is. Like he wants to devour me.

"This is highly- Oh, my," the officiant says, but the groom growls at him, and behind me, I hear panic breaking out. Our language and English, people shouting, threats flying, my father snarling, the best man ready to fight. Someone's crying. This feels like the beginning of another Nova incident.

I should do something, but the groom's scent takes over.

Good blood, my instincts whisper, a thought that makes no sense. He would make such good blood.

He inhales deeply again, his chest expanding, filling his lungs. His hand moves from my arm to my throat, pressing against one of my markings. A low growl rumbles from deep in his chest, weakening my knees. I know then that he's going to tear me apart. He's going to maul me, devour me-

"You," he growls, his voice low. "How the hell do you smell like this?"

Minutes later, he slips a ring onto my finger, and we swear to love each other until death do us part.