Chapter 2 — The Branding

Evelyn Carter

The stench of the Slave Market was an assault on Evelyn’s senses—acrid smoke from vendor fires mixed with the metallic tang of blood and the sour rot of despair. The plaza, once the heart of a thriving human city, now sprawled as a grotesque parody of its former self. Shattered remnants of old government buildings towered like jagged teeth around the open square, their grandeur stripped away by time and violence. Torchlight flickered across cracked cobblestones, casting shadows that danced like restless ghosts. The cries of the enslaved mingled with the coarse laughter of werewolves, an oppressive cacophony that clawed at Evelyn’s nerves with every step.

Rough hands shoved her forward, and Evelyn stumbled but caught herself, refusing to give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her fall. The fraying ropes that bound her wrists bit into her skin, and her muscles ached from the struggle. The fresh brand on her forearm pulsed with raw, searing pain, but she held her head high, hazel eyes scanning the marketplace with sharp defiance. Each step was a weight pressing down on her, but she refused to break—not here, not now.

Darius strode ahead of her, his nose swollen and crooked from where she had broken it earlier. His irritation simmered beneath his skin, evident in every sharp, jerking movement. Occasionally, he glanced back at her, sneering with a flicker of smugness despite his injury. “Try anything here,” he growled under his breath, his silver eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight, “and you’ll wish I’d let the pack finish you back in the ruins.”

Evelyn didn’t respond, her silence deliberate. Instead, she allowed her eyes to wander, cataloging every detail of the vile symphony around her. Cages lined the perimeter, filled with human captives whose hollow, despairing eyes barely registered her presence. Werewolves prowled between them like predators in a pen, their gazes assessing the captives with cold detachment. Bartering filled the air—gruff voices offering trades and deals based on strength, beauty, or submission. One werewolf casually grabbed a captive’s jaw, forcing her face up as if inspecting livestock. The woman flinched, but no one intervened; no one ever did.

Evelyn’s stomach churned, but she kept her mask of indifference firmly in place. Beneath her calm exterior, anger simmered, a molten core barely held in check. She would not show weakness. Not to them.

As they approached the central platform, Evelyn's eyes fixed on the grotesque, towering structure. Raised above the chaos on worn wood, the platform loomed like a stage for cruelty. Iron spikes lined its edges, gleaming menacingly in the firelight. At its center stood a branding station—a crude contraption of blistered iron and glowing coals. The branding iron itself was embedded in the heat, its end glowing red with malevolence. The sight made her skin crawl, but she forced herself to keep walking.

“Move,” barked another werewolf, shoving her roughly toward the steps. Evelyn climbed slowly, boots scraping against the splintered wood. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of every branded captive pressed down on her shoulders. Her gaze swept the crowd below. Most of the humans avoided her eyes, their spirits long since crushed. The werewolves, however, stared openly—some with amusement, others with mild curiosity.

Her lip curled in disdain, and then she saw him.

Lucian Vale stood at the far side of the platform, an unshakable presence amidst the chaos. Even without moving, he commanded the space around him, his broad shoulders and imposing stature exuding an air of quiet, controlled authority. Midnight-black hair fell carelessly across his forehead, framing piercing silver eyes that seemed to gleam with their own light. He was dressed simply—dark trousers and a leather jacket—but there was nothing simple about the way he carried himself. Power radiated from him in an aura that silenced the noise of the market, at least in Evelyn’s mind.

Her gaze locked with his, and she refused to look away. She wouldn’t bow, wouldn’t cower. Her chin lifted in silent defiance, daring him to see her for what she was—a fighter, not a victim.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. Lucian’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes glinted with something she couldn’t place. Curiosity? Amusement? It infuriated her that she couldn’t tell.

Darius broke the moment, stepping forward with a smugness that made Evelyn’s fists itch to strike him again. “Alpha Vale,” he began, his tone deferential but laced with pride, “we caught her near the outskirts of the Forsaken City. She put up quite a fight, but we managed to bring her in.”

Lucian didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Evelyn, his silence more commanding than any words. Darius shifted uncomfortably, his earlier confidence faltering under the weight of that scrutiny.

Finally, Lucian spoke, his voice a low rumble that carried effortlessly over the din. “Your incompetence is evident, Darius,” he said coldly. “She’s injured, and you rebranded her in the field without my consent. Is that what passes for restraint in my pack?”

Darius stiffened, his jaw tightening. “She’s dangerous, Alpha. I thought it best to—”

“You thought wrong,” Lucian interrupted sharply, his tone cutting like a blade. He stepped closer to Evelyn, his movements fluid, deliberate. His silver eyes flicked briefly to the fresh brand on her arm before returning to her face. “What’s your name?”

Evelyn’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of compliance. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, a faint, mocking smile tugging at her mouth. “Figure it out yourself, Alpha,” she said, spitting the title like poison.

A ripple of murmurs passed through the gathered werewolves, but Lucian didn’t react. If her defiance angered him, he didn’t show it. He simply studied her, his expression calm but calculating. “You have fire,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “It will either be your salvation or your undoing.”

Before she could retort, another voice cut through the air.

“Well, well,” drawled a figure stepping out from the shadows of the platform. “Quite the find, Lucian. Mind if I take her off your hands?”

Evelyn’s stomach twisted at the sound, instinctively bracing herself as she turned toward the newcomer. Ronan Blackthorn emerged into the torchlight, his lean, angular frame exuding a predatory ease. Ash-blond hair fell loosely around his sharp features, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed with a mixture of amusement and malice. His smile was all teeth, a predator toying with its prey.

“She seems more my type,” Ronan continued, his tone mocking. “Unruly. Sharp-tongued. I do enjoy breaking in the spirited ones.”

Evelyn’s hands clenched into fists, her skin crawling under his gaze. She stole a glance at the crowd and noticed the ripple of tension that spread through it. The werewolves around them shifted subtly, their postures wary. This was more than a casual exchange; it was a challenge.

Lucian turned to face Ronan fully, and the temperature of the platform seemed to drop several degrees. “She’s not for you,” he said, his voice like iron. “This one is mine.”

The declaration hung in the air, heavy with finality. For a moment, Ronan’s smile faltered, and something darker flickered across his features. Then he chuckled, feigning nonchalance. “Of course,” he said, stepping back with a mock bow. “Far be it from me to challenge the great Lucian Vale. For now.”

The tension lingered even as Ronan disappeared into the crowd, his pack trailing behind him. Evelyn’s mind raced, filing away every detail of the interaction. She didn’t know the full extent of the animosity between the two alphas, but she could sense the fault lines. It was something she could exploit.

Lucian turned back to her, his expression inscrutable once more. “Take her to the compound,” he ordered Darius, who snapped to attention. “I’ll deal with her personally.”

Evelyn’s stomach twisted, but she forced her face to remain neutral. Whatever “dealing with her” entailed, she would endure it. As the werewolves dragged her away, she stole one last glance at Lucian. He was still watching her, his silver eyes gleaming like moonlight.

The fight wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.