Married My Twin’s Husband

POV Blake

You know what's worse than being the family disappointment?

Being reminded of it over salmon while your parents dissect your genetic failures like you're not sitting right fucking there.

I'm parked at the ass-end of our mahogany table, close enough to hear every insult but far enough away that I might as well be dining in a different time zone.

"The Blackwood pack called again about Amelia's engagement announcement," my father says, slicing his steak with the precision of a serial killer. "They want an invitation to our glorious daughter's wedding."

"Of course they do.” My mother practically orgasms at the mention. “Amelia represents everything our bloodline stands for—strength, intelligence, ability that could rival the Moon Goddess herself."

And here it comes. Wait for it. Three, two, one—

"It's remarkable, really.” Father's eyes slide to me like I'm dog shit he just noticed on his shoe. “Identical twins, but only one inherited anything worthwhile. Twenty years old and still no wolf. No powers. Not even basic pack instincts or mind link. What a pathetic creature..."

I keep my face blank while mentally adding this to my running tally of creative insults. This one's actually pretty tame, last week he called me a "genetic typo."

"Father, that's not fair…" Amelia tries.

"Fair?" Mother's laugh could etch glass. "What's not fair is that the Moon Goddess played some cosmic joke, putting all the good genetics in one daughter and leaving us with..."

She waves at me like I'm a particularly disappointing science experiment.

"Whatever this is."

I stab a piece of salmon. Whatever this is?

I'm your daughter, you designer-heel-wearing psychopath. But sure, let's go with "whatever."

Father leans back, studying me with the warmth of a mortician examining a corpse.

"Do you know what the other packs say about us, Blake? They whisper that we're weak because we produced a defective heir. That maybe, our bloodline is tainted."

Oh good, we've moved from personal attacks to pack politics. Progress.

"Every day you exist is a reminder of our shame," he continues, casual as a weather report. "The weakest she-wolf, Alpha’s heir, in pack history. A genetic dead end."

The words land like they always do—sharp, precise, designed to wound. But I've built up twenty years of scar tissue. What's a few more cuts?

Before Father can launch into Act Two of Blake's Greatest Failures, Amelia stands abruptly.

"Evening training starts in fifteen minutes. Blake and I should go prepare."

"Run along, then.” Father waves his fork dismissively. “Maybe she will discover a personality trait worth passing down."

We escape the dining room, and I can feel Amelia's sympathy radiating off her like body heat. The silence stretches until she finally breaks.

"I'm so sorry. They shouldn't—"

"They're right," I cut her off, not meeting her eyes. "I'm the weakest one in the whole pack. Maybe the whole damn bloodline."

I stop walking, forcing myself to look at her perfect face—my face, but somehow better.

"But I can train. I can be useful. Not amazing, not powerful—just... not disgusting."

"You're not—"

"Thanks," I interrupt again, because if she finishes that sentence with some motivational poster bullshit, I might actually lose it. "For getting me out of there."

I jog ahead before she can respond, heading for the gym. The pack training facility is buzzing with young wolves finishing their drills.

I throw myself into solo combat routines, channeling every ounce of frustration into strikes and blocks.

My body screams, lungs burn, muscles shake, but I keep pushing. Pain is just weakness leaving the body, or whatever toxic masculinity phrase the trainers love spouting.

I'm cooling down, thinking I might actually survive another day, when two wolves from the younger training group slide into the ring.

They circle me like I'm prey, which, let's be honest, in their eyes, I probably am.

"Well, look who's trying to play soldier," the first one sneers.

His name's Mark, I think. Or Mason. Some M-name that screams 'future douchebag warrior.'

"She doesn't even have a wolf," his buddy adds, laughing like he just invented comedy. "You think you can spar with real Nightshades?"

I hold my stance, exhausted but not backing down. "One of you wants to test that, or both?"

Mikey, let’s name him that, lunges first, and holy shit, he's fast. His fist connects with my face before I can fully dodge.

I taste copper—blood in my mouth. At last, I manage to land one solid hit that surprises him, but then his friend jumps in because apparently honor is optional when you're beating on the pack’s rejects.

They work me over like professionals.

My body hits the mat again and again, and the spectators eat it up, laughing and shouting encouragement. Because nothing says pack unity like watching the Alpha's defective daughter get her ass kicked.

Then Amelia storms in like an avenging angel. She sends both wolves flying across the ring with a force that makes the building shake.

One of them, still mid-swing at me, accidentally clips her cheek before getting launched. The moment he realizes what he's done, his face goes white.

You don't touch the Golden Child. That's like, rule number one.

"Oh shit… Sorry, Amelia, I didn't mean—"

"I'm fine," she says through gritted teeth, but her hand flies to her cheek and comes away bloody. "It's nothing."

"Come on," Amelia mutters, already hauling me toward the exit of the gym. "We need to get some ice on this."

By the time we reach my room, I can already feel tomorrow's bruises settling in. My ribs ache, my shoulder's definitely gonna be purple, and there's a nice split on my lip.

But it's Amelia's cheek that has my stomach churning.