The Alpha switched brides. I switched grooms.

The room I was in wasn't my usual one. It was Freya's. That afternoon, my stepmother had called me over, taken my hand, and spoken in a rare, gentle tone: "Serena, tonight's the bride-snatching. Just stay in Freya's room—it's quiet there, harder to find." "The ones coming for Freya are from the Crimson Fang Pack. They're notoriously brutal." "You've always been strong—even if you got hurt, you'd heal in no time. Freya's different. She's delicate. It wouldn't do for her to get caught in the crossfire." I said nothing. I knew what she meant. By pack tradition, during a bride-snatching, the Alpha's soldiers entered the room first. The bride was expected to fight back, to overpower them, to prove her strength. The more soldiers she defeated, the longer she held out, the more it demonstrated her worth—elevating her status within the pack. And it meant the groom had to be all the more formidable to carry her away. During the snatching, the blows were real. My stepmother sighed, her voice heavy with worry for Freya. She studied my face, testing the waters. "Besides, Damon is from the Storm Pack—he doesn't know our customs well. If you stay in this room, it'll be easier for him to find you." Back then, I agreed—to make things easier for Damon. I even told him the room's location in advance. But they'd been planning this deception all along. A roar of commotion suddenly erupted outside. Someone was shouting: "Got her! Got her! The bride's been taken!" Laughter, voices, fireworks blooming across the sky. I listened for a moment. I didn't move. I knew who they'd taken. I could picture the scene perfectly— Damon carrying Freya on his back, bursting through the crowd. His soldiers clearing the path ahead of them. People deliberately blocking the way, others hurling things at them. Freya burying her face against his back, pretending to struggle. How lovely for them. I lowered my eyes and didn't look. Moments later, the door to my room was kicked open. Figures poured in through the darkness, their footsteps chaotic and overlapping. Someone grabbed my arm and hauled me off the bed. I felt fists land against my shoulders and back—not too hard, not too soft. That was tradition. The fiercer the fight between bride and soldiers, the more it proved the groom needed every ounce of his strength to claim her. I didn't dodge. I didn't fight back. At first, they were just going through the motions—a couple of half-hearted swings. But soon, the blows grew heavier. Someone seized my arm and slammed me into the wall. Someone else drove fist after fist into my stomach. The force behind it was savage—as if I were their enemy, not a bride. This was nothing like our tradition. It was deliberate. It hurt. But I didn't make a sound. Now I understood what my stepmother meant when she said I was strong. And I knew exactly who had arranged this. Just when I thought it would go on, someone shielded me. "Enough!" A stranger's voice, sharp with fury. He stood in front of me, arms spread to hold back the ones still pressing forward. "I said stop! Hitting her that hard—she's our pack's future Luna, not your enemy!" Someone stammered an excuse. "Alpha, it's their tradition. The harder we hit, the more it proves—" "Tradition?" His voice rose sharply. "She's not your wife, so you don't care, is that it? If it were your bride getting beaten like this, would you stand for it?" Everyone fell silent. He turned and glanced at me. In the darkness, I couldn't make out his face—just the vague outline of him. Then he bent down and lifted me onto his back. Behind us, someone muttered: "What pack is this Alpha from? Doesn't even understand our customs." He carried me and strode out. People chased after us. Others blocked the way. Things were thrown at us. His stride was steady, his pace fast. One hand locked firmly under my knees, making sure I wouldn't fall. When we crested the first ridge, he stopped to catch his breath. In the distance, flickering torchlight moved through the darkness. Maybe it was Damon's group. Through the brush, their laughter drifted toward us on the wind. Before long, the other party drew near. Torchlight swayed, illuminating faces. The man in front carried a girl on his back. He was drenched in sweat but smiling. Damon. Freya had her face buried in the crook of his neck, her arms looped around him. They were laughing. Everyone was happy. The soldiers trailing behind chanted: "Kiss her! Kiss her!" I lay on the stranger's back and watched them approach in silence. The firelight caught my face. Damon's gaze swept over me, pausing on my face for one second. Just one. Then he looked away and went on joking with his soldiers. Freya murmured something softly from Damon's back. He tilted his head to listen, and the smile on his face— It nearly made my tears fall. I suddenly remembered—three years ago, when I'd gone back to the pack to visit my father and stayed at home. The first time Damon came to find me, he'd worn that same smile. He'd crossed two mountains that day. The soles of his shoes were worn through, and blood seeped from his heels. I said, doesn't that hurt? He scratched his head and grinned. "Hurt? For you, I'd do anything." He was an Alpha—the leader of an entire pack—and yet he'd willingly trekked through the night over two mountains just to see me. He always said the road wasn't that far. But I knew exactly how far it was from Silver Moon to Storm Pack territory. There was even a rogue wolf encampment along the way. Once, it rained. He showed up at my door soaked to the bone, but the food tucked inside his jacket was still dry. I scolded him for being an idiot—coming out in the rain like that. He pressed the berry tart into my hands and smiled. "Didn't want you waiting too long." Didn't want me waiting too long. I held that berry tart, looked at his dripping hair, and thought: This is the one. For the rest of my life. And now he was carrying Freya on his back, smiling exactly the same way. My vision blurred for an instant, then cleared. When had things started to change?

Probably around the time my father died, three years ago. I'd felt hollowed out, like someone had scooped out everything inside me. Damon canceled all his plans and stayed with me in the pack for two weeks. Then something came up with the Storm Pack, and he had no choice but to go back. He held my hand, his voice tender: "Serena, you just went through the funeral. You look terrible—if my mother sees you like this, she'll have something to say, and I don't want you going through that." "Stay here for a while. Rest. Take care of yourself." "Once I've settled things back home, I'll come for you." I looked at him and nodded. I was truly exhausted from a relationship that no amount of effort could repair. Back then, I believed he was looking out for me. That he couldn't bear to see me go back and be mistreated. It was only later that I realized— The distance between us wasn't about protecting me. It was about giving him room to love someone else. Last year, the pack held a new Sacred Rite, and Damon came to bring me back. The moment I walked through the door, I saw my stepsister Freya—the one who was supposedly at a healing retreat to recover her health. She was in the living room arranging fruit, her movements practiced and familiar. Damon paused mid-step while changing his shoes. "Freya's retreat is near our territory. She wasn't comfortable there, so I let her move in." He didn't look guilty. I didn't press the matter. When my stepmother married my father and brought Freya into our family, we were both already grown. There had never been much affection between us—over the years, we'd only crossed paths occasionally. I couldn't quite name what I felt about her living there. When she saw me, Freya greeted me warmly. "Sister!" "Don't overthink it—I'm just staying for a while. Once I'm feeling better, I'll move out." I nodded. Said nothing. At the time, it hadn't occurred to me: I, his wife, had waited three years in our pack for him to come back. And my stepsister, under the pretext of treatment, had been living in my fiancé's home for those same three years. Now, watching Freya nestled against Damon's back, it all made sense. From start to finish, I hadn't been waiting for him to bring me home or come claim me in a bride-snatching. I'd been waiting to see reality for what it was. Waiting until I could finally let go. Voices carried on the wind, growing clearer. Freya's voice. "…What about my sister? If she finds out, she'll be furious." Damon's tone was certain. "She loves me. She won't really be angry. She just needs to blow off steam." He paused, his voice dropping. "It was dark in that room during the snatching—it was just a mistake. She'll feel bad for me before she blames me." "Once she finds out, I'll comfort her a little and it'll be fine." Freya laughed softly. My knuckles turned white around themselves. One of the soldiers spoke up. "Alpha, what if Serena gets taken by someone else?" Silence on their end, just for a beat. Then Damon laughed. "You think she'd actually go with someone else? She's the fiercest warrior in Silver Moon. With her temper, if anyone tried—she'd tear the roof off the place." "True. Serena's a firecracker. The lot of us together might not be a match for her." "I actually feel sorry for that Crimson Fang Alpha—no telling what shape he'll be in after she's done with him!" The laughter swelled. I lowered my eyes. "Let's go." The man carrying me was quiet. He hadn't asked a single question since this whole thing started. I lay against his back and felt his steady stride—not fast, not slow—like someone who'd walked a thousand night roads. He must have heard. Heard who they were laughing about. Heard that the one who could "tear the roof off" was me. But he said nothing. He just kept walking. Until they rounded a bend and came face to face with the other party. Torchlight spilled over them, and someone on the other side spoke first. "Lucian?" He stopped for a beat, then gave a cold "Mm." Damon, with Freya on his back, walked a few steps closer. He looked Lucian over with a grin. "It really is you. You snatching a bride tonight too?" "Mm." "From which family?" Damon's gaze drifted past him and landed on me. I buried my face in Lucian's shoulder, leaving only the back of my head facing him. "Silver Moon Pack," Lucian said flatly. Damon studied me for another moment, then laughed. "Not bad! I always figured you for the type who'd never settle down, the way you walk around with that cold look on your face. Congratulations!" Lucian gave another low "Mm." Damon took two more steps forward. The torchlight was closer now. I could feel his gaze land on my back and linger. For a second, I was almost certain he'd recognize me. "We're going." Lucian cut in abruptly, already stepping forward. "Hold on—"