Sold To The Monster: The Wolfless Bride

ADALINE POV:

A scream clawed its way up my throat, but no sound came out. My eyes flew open. The rough linen of my pillowcase scratched against my cheek. Darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, just before dawn.

A phantom pressure still circled my neck. My own hands flew to my throat, fingers tracing the tender skin. It felt bruised, aching with a memory that wasn't mine. Not yet.

The vision clung to me, more real than the threadbare blanket tangled around my legs. A man in a silver mask, his grip like iron, my own frantic, useless struggle.

The final, sickening snap. My breath came in ragged gasps. My heart hammered against my ribs. It was the third time this week. The same man. The same end.

A wave of nausea rolled through me. Was it a dream? Or was it a warning?

The mark on my shoulder—that crescent birthmark I'd always been told was a curse—throbbed with a dull, insistent heat. The visions had started the night it first pulsed with warmth. I was beginning to understand: they weren't nightmares. They were glimpses of futures yet to come.

The memory of my father's voice from last night was just as chilling. Cold. Final.

"Bristol is too delicate for such a... difficult match. You will go in her place."

I was to be married—sold. Handed over to Kaleb Caldwell, the Alpha of the Caldwell Pack. A man whispered about in terrified tones, a monster, a cripple who ruled his territory with unmatched brutality. And I, a wolfless daughter, was the expendable substitute.

The door creaked open, a sliver of light cutting through the gloom. My younger stepsister, Bristol, glided in. She held a glass of water, her face a mask of gentle concern.

"Adaline? I heard you cry out. Another nightmare?" Her voice was soft, like honey. It used to soothe me. Now, it made bile rise in my throat.

She set the glass on my rickety nightstand. "I'm so sorry about this, truly. It's not fair. But it's for the good of the Pack."

I watched her, my throat too tight to speak. Through the haze of my own fear, I saw it. A flicker of something in the depths of her blue eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came, but I saw it. It was a victory. My stomach twisted into a knot of ice.

She reached out, her cold fingers tucking a strand of my black hair behind my ear. "Alpha Kaleb is... very powerful. I'm certain you'll be safe." The pity in her voice was a lie, thinly veiling her glee.

I flinched away from her touch, a small, involuntary movement. At that, Bristol let out a theatrical little sniffle, her voice wavering as she deliberately raised it toward the half—open door.

"I know you hate me for this, Adaline, but please—don't take it out on me. I'm only the messenger. I didn't choose this."

She dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve, though no tears fell. She didn't seem to notice my disgust. Or she chose to ignore it. This was the sister I had protected, the one I had taken punishments for.

Heavy footsteps approached from the hallway, then paused just outside the door. I heard a sharp intake of breath—Brennen, my second brother, had been listening. The silence stretched for a heartbeat, thick with fury.

The door, which Bristol had left ajar, was kicked fully open, slamming against the wall. Brennen stood there, his face contorted with rage. His eyes were stormy.

"I heard her crying," he snarled, jabbing a trembling finger at me. "What did you say to her, you worthless wolfless?"

Bristol immediately crumpled, her face dissolving into tears. She scurried behind him, grabbing his arm.

"Brennen, no," she sobbed, her voice dripping with practiced innocence. "She didn't mean it. She's just upset about the wedding."

Her performance was flawless. The damsel in distress. The victim. And I was the villain.

Brennen's fury, fed by her tears, exploded. "This wolfless waste of space dared to be upset?!" He lunged forward before I could react. His hand clamped onto my shoulder, fingers digging into the bone. He hauled me from the bed.

My body, still weak from sleep and fear, offered no resistance. My head cracked against the corner of the nightstand. A flash of pain, and the room swam with black spots. The glass of water Bristol had brought teetered, then crashed to the floor, shattering.

Brennen yanked me up by my chin, his face inches from mine. His breath was hot and smelled of stale coffee.

"You remember your place," he snarled. "You are a substitute. A disgrace. You are nothing."

From behind him, Bristol let out a small gasp. It sounded less like fear and more like a thrill. "Brennen, please. You'll hurt her."

He shoved me away. I stumbled, my legs giving out, and collapsed onto the worn rug. The shards of glass dug into my palm as I tried to break my fall.

"Learn some obedience," Brennen spat, looming over me. "It's the only thing that might keep that cripple from tearing you apart on your wedding night."

I lay there, my hair hiding my face. The pain in my head, my shoulder, my hand—it was agony. But it was his words, Bristol's silent victory, that truly shredded me.

Then, another flash. Not the masked man this time. It was Brennen. His face, twisted in a similar rage. His hands, not on my shoulder, but around my neck. The life draining out of me on this very floor, after a beating that went too far.

It wasn't just a possibility. It was a future. My future, if I did nothing.

The mark on my shoulder burned like a brand, and with it came a surge of clarity. The visions weren't random. They were the Goddess's gifts—warnings of what would come if I remained passive. The masked man's killing blow. Brennen's murderous hands. They were all futures I could still change. Terror was a tidal wave, but something else rose with it. Rage. A deep, burning hatred that tasted like blood and ash. It was a fire in my veins where only fear had lived. I would not die a victim. I would not let the Goddess's warnings be in vain.

Slowly, I pushed myself up, ignoring the glass in my palm. I lifted my head, letting my tangled hair fall away from my face. I met Brennen's furious gaze. My eyes, I knew, were no longer filled with the familiar terror he loved to see. They were cold. They were burning.

He actually took a step back, a flicker of shock on his face. That momentary hesitation, that crack in his dominance, was all I needed. His shock quickly curdled back into anger. "What are you looking at, you—"

"Brennen, stop." The voice was calm, cold, and cut through Brennen's rage like a blade.

My oldest brother, Blain, the heir to the Oakhaven Pack, leaned against the doorframe. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression one of utter boredom. He looked at the scene—the shattered glass, me on the floor, Brennen poised to strike—as if it were a mild inconvenience.

"Father wants to see her," he said, his eyes finally landing on me. There was no sympathy there. Only a command.

Brennen grunted, clearly frustrated at being interrupted. He shot me one last venomous glare before stomping out of the room. Bristol followed, a final, perfect tear tracing a path down her cheek. As she passed me, she leaned down, her sweet voice a venomous whisper only I could hear.

"Good luck, Adaline."