f*******n by the Alpha

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

The forest clearing is ablaze with fairy lights, casting a soft glow over the congregation of our pack. The scent of pine needles and the musky perfume of lycanthropy intermingle in the air as I step forward, my hand resting lightly on my father's arm. My heart beats a nervous tattoo against my ribs, pulsating through me with every step I take down the petal-strewn aisle.

"Ready?" Dad whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

"Ready," I affirm, and though my voice doesn't waver, doubt claws at the edges of my mind like a persistent whine. This is it. My wedding to Mark, the Alpha of the Pine Pack.

He waits for me at the altar, his black hair slicked back, a stark contrast to his crisp white shirt and charcoal suit. Our eyes lock, brown to green, and for a moment, there's nothing else but us. The world falls away, leaving only the thud of my heartbeat and the promise of 'forever' etched into his gaze.

"Mark," the officiant begins, "do you take Isla to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

He nods, a curt gesture that carries the weight of his authority. "I do."

"And do you, Isla, take Mark to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," I say, louder than necessary, striving to drown out the doubts that nip at my conviction.

With the exchange of vows and rings, we are pronounced husband and wife. The pack erupts into howls and applause, an ancient tradition marking the union of two souls. But as Mark kisses me, something feels amiss—like the touch of winter's frost on the first bloom of spring.

The reception unfurls beneath the silvered moon, tables laden with wild game and fruits of the forest. I should feel elated, yet as the night progresses, I find myself cast adrift in a sea of merriment. Mark's attention shifts from me to the other high-ranking male wolves, his laughter mingling with theirs in a chorus of dominance and power. They talk strategy, territory, and alliances—topics far removed from the romantic whispers I'd hoped would fill my wedding night.

"Excuse me for a moment, love," he says, his hand brushing mine before he stands and joins his inner circle, leaving me to wilt at the head table like a forgotten boutonniere.

"Congratulations, Isla," they say, one after another, their words almost lost in the din of celebration. But with each passing moment, I can't help but notice the widening gap between where I sit and where Mark holds court.

As I watch him with them, his back to me, I'm struck by the stark reality of our new life together. He—the powerful Alpha, confident and assured among his peers—and I, the young bride, still learning the intricate steps of this lifelong dance.

The music swells, and couples spill onto the dance floor, spinning and swaying to the rhythm of an age-old melody. I remain seated, my hands folded neatly in my lap, the ghost of Mark's kiss lingering on my lips—a reminder of the bond we've just sealed. A bond that should tether us together, but now feels as fragile as the gossamer wings of the fireflies twinkling among the trees.

The sounds of laughter and the clinking of glasses filter through my consciousness as if they're part of another world—a world where brides glow and grooms dote, not this strange limbo where I sit alone, draped in lace and uncertainty. My fingers trace the delicate embroidery of my dress, a stark contrast to the strength I'm supposed to embody as the Alpha's wife. But tonight, that strength feels like a façade, crumbling with each minute that Mark spends away from me.

"Would you like some more champagne, Mrs. Alpha?" The question comes from a well-meaning server, but it tightens the knot already forming in my stomach.

"No, thank you," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. Yet even as I refuse, my gaze drifts back to Mark, surrounded by his fellow wolves. Their heads are bowed close together, their discussions punctuated by gestures and nods that speak of matters far beyond the trivialities of cake and flowers.

I push back my chair, the sound lost amidst the festivities, and stand on shaky legs. My first instinct is to flee, to escape the heavy weight of disappointment settling over me. Instead, I straighten my spine, resolve weaving its way through my doubts. I will not be the bride who runs; I will confront this, confront him.

"Excuse me," I murmur as I slip past clusters of guests, ignoring their congratulations and apologies for my husband's absence. With each step, my heart pounds a wild rhythm, one that resonates with the primal part of me—the part that's both human and wolf. And when I reach Mark, standing among his brethren, the intensity of my presence commands his attention.

"Mark," I begin, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside me, "may I have a word?"

Surprise flickers across his face before he masks it with a smile reserved for an audience—one that doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course, Isla," he says, excusing himself with a nod to the others. We step aside, out of earshot but still very much on display.

"Is everything all right?" he asks, and there's a note of concern that wasn't there before—a sliver of hope for me to grasp.

"Is it?" I counter, locking my gaze with his. "You haven't said two words to me since we cut the cake. It's our wedding, Mark. Shouldn't we at least pretend to enjoy it together?"

He takes a deep breath, closes the distance between us, and lowers his voice. "Isla, there are responsibilities—"

"Responsibilities that couldn't wait until after our first dance? Responsibilities more important than your wife?" My words are sharp, but they need to be. They carry my fear, my loneliness, and the tiny seed of resentment that's begun to sprout within the soil of my doubt.

"I didn’t realize..." He trails off, searching my face as though seeing me for the first time tonight. "I'm sorry. I got caught up in... Well, it's no excuse. You're right. You deserve better."

His apology hovers between us, fragile and new, and for a moment, I allow myself the luxury of leaning into his warmth. But as quickly as it came, the moment passes, and reality sets back in. Can an apology stitch together the divide that's already wedged itself into the first hours of our marriage?

"Let's start over," he suggests, and there’s a sincerity in his eyes that I want to believe in. "Let's have our first dance, right now."

"Okay," I agree, because it's what I want, too—a chance to feel like we're more than just Alpha and Luna, like we're Isla and Mark, bound by love and not just duty. But as he leads me onto the dance floor and pulls me close, I can't shake the worry that's taken root inside me. Is this just one dance, or is it a promise of more? Only time will tell if our marriage is off to a terrible start, or if we're simply stumbling as we learn to move as one.