The Vampire Prince's Wolfless Bride

Selene’s POV

The scent of roasted meat and honeyed ale was a physical torment. From my hiding place beneath the heavy oak table, my stomach twisted with a hollow ache that threatened to swallow me whole. The great hall of Crimson Falls was alive with raucous celebration, every wolf—even the lowliest omega—lost in drink and revelry.

Everyone but me.

A wolfless freak. A bane. That’s what Alpha Griffin called me. The words were as familiar as the bruises he painted on my skin. An orphan with no one to shield me, I’d learned to survive on the fringes, in a crumbling cabin at the territory’s edge. My existence was a simple equation: avoid the Alpha, and scavenge enough to keep breathing until the next sunrise.

Tonight’s feast was a rare bounty. Platters groaned under the weight of spiced venison, wheels of sharp cheese, and loaves of dark, sweet bread. My target was simple—bread. It was filling, and its absence wouldn’t be immediately noticed by drunken guests lost in their merriment.

I held my breath, the rough tablecloth brushing my cheek. Boots scuffed the floorboards above me. Voices, thick and slurred, cut through the din.

“A clean job, Silas.” That was Griffin. I could smell the sour whiskey on his breath from here. “Five of them. Quick and quiet.”

“They barely had time to scream,” Beta Silas chuckled, the sound devoid of warmth.

“Filthy leeches. We’re doing the kingdom a service, thinning their numbers.” Griffin’s voice was a low growl of satisfaction.

My blood ran cold. They were talking about vampires.

The border between our wolf kingdom, Aethelgard, and the vampire realm of Nocturna was a scar upon the land. A tense peace, brokered by the kings, meant death for any who crossed without permission. But Griffin and Silas weren’t talking about border skirmishes. They were murdering civilians. For coin. The Alpha King paid handsomely for “border defense,” and Griffin, a notorious gambler drowning in debt, had found his twisted solution.

Their footsteps receded. This was my chance. Heart hammering against my ribs so fiercely I feared the whole table would shake, I stretched a trembling hand. My fingers closed around the end of a crusty loaf. The simple, solid weight of it was a promise of survival.

A shadow blotted out the torchlight. An iron grip clamped around my wrist and hauled me into the open air.

“You!” Griffin’s snarl was a cloud of ale and malice. His face, flushed with drink, loomed over me. “The wolfless vermin thinks she can steal from my table?”

His fingers dug into my bone, a warning pressure. He was always careful in public. The bruises were for private moments, away from prying eyes that might carry tales to other packs, or worse, to the Alpha King himself.

He dragged me through the crowd. Whispers slithered around me like snakes.

“Is that the feral one?”

“Ugh, she reeks of the woods.”

“What is that thing doing here?”

I ignored them, my gaze locked on the receding feast, a silent scream of hunger echoing in my gut. My chance was gone.

Once we were in a deserted side corridor, the mask slipped. Griffin spun me to face him, his nostrils flaring. “You dare?” he roared, spittle spraying my face. “How many times must I beat respect into you, you worthless creature?”

I knew the drill. Don’t fight. Don’t cry out. Make it quick.

The first punch drove the air from my lungs and sent me sprawling to the cold stone floor. Then the kicks came. I curled into a tight ball, knees to chest, arms protecting my head. Years of this had taught me the rhythm of his rage, the spots that would bruise but not break. The key was to go still, to play dead before he decided to make it real.

I let my body go limp, my breathing shallow. I became a ragdoll under his boots, absorbing the insults he hurled along with the blows. “Useless… stain on my pack… should have drowned you at birth…”

Finally, he stepped back, panting. He hawked and spat, the glob landing inches from my face. “Next time, I won’t stop,” he slurred, swaying slightly.

I didn’t move until the sound of his stumbling footsteps faded completely. Then, with a groan, I pushed myself up. A sharp ache bloomed in my ribs where his boot had connected. I couldn’t stay. If he came back and found me conscious, he’d make good on his threat.

I ran.

The cold night air was a slap, clearing the haze of pain. I sprinted for the tree line, for the false sanctuary of my cabin. My lungs burned, but the thought of my own space, however derelict, pushed me faster.

I skidded to a halt at the edge of the clearing.

The door hung from one shattered hinge, swinging slightly in the night breeze.

Ice flooded my veins. My sanctuary, violated. In all my years hiding here, no one had ever broken in. A sick, violated feeling churned in my stomach, warring with the primal need for shelter.

Cautiously, on silent feet, I approached. I should have circled, should have checked for danger. But my mind was a storm of fear and violation. Someone had been inside.

I stepped over the splintered threshold and froze.