Lucy's POV
My father was a great man, and he loved me very much, but he was a warrior; hence, he was out most of the time to fight in battles.
Rarely did Selva, my father, come to shield me from the torment that I was made to face. His absence made me nothing but a servant in my home, getting bossed around by my stepmother and her daughter Zara.
Today was supposed to be different. Today I was finally turning 18. It is the day I am supposed to find my mate, the one created just for me, the one that would love and protect me, the one that was supposed to give me the life I had always dreamed of. It was for a day that I had wished so hard would come, holding onto hope my mate was my salvation-the key to get me out of this hell I birthed into.
Instead, my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.
Before me stood Alpha Thorne, whom I had so desperately desired-my destined mate; that connective tie was there, which still propels me forward in his direction. And yet, there wasn't a tinge of radiating welcome in his eyes. His inimitable silver eyes stared into mine, the ice cold scorn in them pierced right through me.
Lucy Wood," he snarled, cold-as-emotionless. "I, Alpha Thorne, reject you as my mate."
His words instantly made me feel winded. My wolf whimpered inside of me-the bond broken and gone in one swift second. How could this be happening? How could he reject me?
"I-" I stammered, my voice shaking. "But… we're mates.", I forced out hyperventilating.
He snorted, heavy with cynicism, his gaze raking over me in derision. "You think I would want someone like you? A slave, an orphan, a disgrace to her pack? You are nothing, Lucy. Nothing."
Not too far from us stood Zara, a smile on her face in that smug mouth of hers as she watched my humiliation unravel. She had always detested me, always made me feel like nothing. And now, she gloated in my pain.
I had seethed with unshed tears; my eyes held it back as if dammed, yet refused to fall. I just could not give them the pleasure of seeing me breakdown-not here, not now. I did a silent turn and ran; my legs went on instinct to carry me away from the jeering crowd, away from Alpha Thorne, away from the rejection and shame that clung on to me like a second skin.
I ran, blinded by my tears; my heart ached so much it seemed to stop beating at all. The wind whipped against my face, but I did not care.
I tried to keep running but my lungs and legs gave out on me. I fell on the ground in a heap.
Sobs convulsed my body, the pain beyond bearing. Why did this have to happen? Why was fate so unkind? All I'd ever wanted was to love and belong. Now I had nothing. I was nothing.
I lay broken and defeated, not hearing footsteps approach. Even the soft rustling of leaves or the quiet murmurs of voices escaped me. It was only when the cold hand touched my arm that I knew I was not alone.
I jackknifed up, startled, staring into the dark, hooded faces of two men. The symbol of the Lycan King danced upon their chests, their eyes gleaming with purpose.
"Wh-what do you want?" I stuttered, trying to wriggle free, but my limbs were too weak, too sapped from the events of the day.
"You're coming with us," one growled low, his voice full of gravel. "King Tristan's orders."
His name sounded, and a shiver ran down my spine: King Tristan Landon. The ruler of all the lands and territories that the Lycans possess, this was one man whose mere inflexibility with his power and authority instills fear in one's heart. What would he want with me?
"I don't understand," I whispered. "Why does the King want me?"
The man holding me exchanged a glance with his friend, and in that moment, something unreadable flashed between them. Then he refocused his attention on me, his hold on my arms tightening enough to remind me of muscles underneath.
"Because," he said, the single word drawn out, "you trespassed upon the Lycan King's lands, you are to be punished.
My heart stuttered in my chest, and fear clawed its debilitating way up my throat. I hadn't meant to trespass. In my desperation to escape, I hadn't even realized where I was. But that would mean little to a man such as King Tristan, who had the reputation of being merciless in judgment, never faltering in his need to be in control.
And before I could utter any form of protest, the sharp pain had already lanced through my head and the world around me went dark.