Chapter 1: The Blood on the Veil

The wedding dress clings to my skin like a shroud, soaked in my sister’s blood and my shame—I’m a boy, and this is my funeral march. The air in the warehouse is damp and sour, heavy with the reek of rust and cigar smoke that curls like a noose in the flickering light. My bare feet slap against the cold concrete, every step a jolt through my shaking legs, as my parents propel me on. Their hands are on my shoulders, nails digging through the lace, and I stumble, the veil over my eyes. It's Lily's veil, Lily's dress, Lily's blood—fresh and sticky from this morning when she slit her wrists, her body crumpled in our attic while I screamed for her in the quiet.

Behind us, Jack appears as a storm cloud poised to break the horizon. He's huge, all leather and menace, his broad shoulders throwing a shadow against the buzz of fluorescent tubes suspended overhead. His gold eyes flash like coins in a well—sharp, cold, with an implication I don't want to sleep. The warehouse groans around us, its metal beams complaining as if the building itself knows what's coming. Shadows writhe in the shadows, and a low, threatening growl sounds from where I don't see it, leaving a shiver on my skin that has nothing at all to do with cold.

"Step aside, Ben," my father snarls, his tone a dry and cracked whip. Mom is quiet, her features a granite face, but she tightens her grip on me, pushing me toward the ersatz altar—an old crate topped with black coverings, flecked with something dark, sticky stuff. My stomach coils. I am sixteen, no bride, no girl, yet here I am, dressed in Lily's mortality, her wed white dress tattered at the bottom where she'd fought to escape. She didn't win. She'd chosen the blade instead, and now I fill the role of proxy, loophole in the deal, because one doesn't forfeit a wager with Jack's clan—only through bloodshed.

Jack steps closer, his boots thudding like thunderclaps, and the air shifts, thick with the musk of leather and the faint, feral scent of something wild. His cigar glows red between his lips, smoke spiraling up to join the haze. “You’ll do,” he growls, voice low and rough, scraping over me like sandpaper. I want to shout, to run, but my legs are immobilized, stuck by the fierceness of my parents' stares and the echo of Lily's last whisper—\"Don't let them take me.\" Too late, sis. Too late.

He tugs me ahead, his calloused hand gripping hard around my wrist, and I flinch as his fingers dig in. The veil is caught on a crate, ripping free, and my short brown hair spills out, a wild mop that cries wrong against the lace. Jack doesn't blink. He bites his own wrist—teeth driving in with wet crunch—and blood erupts, dark and thick, onto the floor. My breath stops. He lays it on my wrist, hot and slick, and sings something from ages past, words I don't know but feel in my bones—cutter, stabbing syllables that sound like a wail across an icy wasteland. Fire sears through me, a white slash, and I shriek, doubling over as fire runs through my veins. Something wild and primitive stirs deep inside, clawing at my chest, my gut, my soul. "You're an omega now," Jack informs me, the smile cutting through the fog of pain.

"Your omega," he says, his eyes gouging into mine. "Blood calls us, kid—ancient magic, older than packs that carved up this city."

I feel it—a tug, a string coiling between us, as though he's hit a switch on my brain. I hate him. I hate the vibration in my veins, the itch of my skin under his gaze, the aching half that doesn't yearn to retreat. The doors of the warehouse groan and I jerk my head up, pounding heart. Motorcycles rumble outside, swooping by like vultures, yet Jack remains immobile.

He nods to a guy by the wall—Tony, skinny and wiry, tattoos slithering up his arms, hungry eyes scanning Jack. "Get over here," Jack growls, and Tony comes sauntering into position, a cocky smile creasing his scarred face. The air moves again, thick with tension, and I step backward, the gown caught around my legs as Jack pulls Tony into a dark corner, out from behind the altar but near enough I don't have any choice but to witness. It's quick, fierce. Jack slams Tony into an iron table, the metal ringing out like the crack of a rifle.

Tony's fingers claw at Jack's jacket, pulling him in, and their mouths crash together—teeth and flame, snarl that vibrates in Jack's throat. My face burns, shame and something else twisting in my stomach as I freeze, unable to move. Jack rips Tony's shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor, and pins him down, hands on hips braced hard enough to leave bruising. The table groans as Jack pulls him—uncooked, authoritative, the slap of skin on skin silencing the whine of bikes in the distance. Tony gasps, head flung back, and Jack's growl sinks to a more husky pitch, one that thrums through me and tugs that goddamn thread tighter. I shouldn't look, shouldn't feel the heat building in my stomach, but I do. It's too quick—Jack pulls back, his chest shaking, and Tony falls, gasping, a self-satisfied grin on his face.  Then Jack moves, as quiet as a spirit.

A knife comes out of his boot, steel shining in the light, and he slashes Tony's throat in one easy motion.  Blood spurts, hot and coppery, splattering on the concrete as Tony chokes, his eyes wide with horror. "Bye, traitor," Jack says, flat tone, wiping the blade on his cuff. The body hits the ground, wet splat, and I gag, bile rising as the stench assails me—blood and betrayal, thick in the air. Jack spins around, gold eyes flashing to mine, and my knees buckle. "You're up next to prove yourself, kid," he says, grinning like he just killed a man he slept with five minutes ago. The butt of the cigar in his lip, smoke curling, and I gaze down at the smoldering bruise on my wrist, beating with his pulse.

My parents are gone—fled in the violence—and the motorcycles rev outside, a promise of ongoing violence. I'm alone with him now, this monster who is my husband, my captor, my curse. The warehouse is brought to life, shadows dancing like wolves running a fence, and I can hear it—a low howl, not from Jack, not from the motorcycles, but inside me. It's my omega, struggling to surface, and I do not know whether it's a blessing or a curse. Jack draws near, blood dotting his leather, and I clinch my fists, nails biting into my palms. Lily's gone, I'm trapped, and this is just the start.

I hate him—I will hate him—but that attraction, that fire, it's already sinking claws into me, and I don't know how to fight.