The War of White and Crimson

"She forgot who she belongs to. She forgot her duty. Tonight, she will remember."

Then his teeth sank into my mark.

A white-hot bolt of pain tore through me, ripping a cry from my throat. The bond flared violently, not with the warmth of connection but with raw, punishing dominance. He bit down again, harder, his growl vibrating through my bones.

I sobbed, clutching at his arm, but he didn't relent. Each strike of his fangs was a reminder, a claim, a warning branded into my flesh. Around us, a few from the pack wept-some openly, some in silence-but none dared step forward.

Ezekiel's chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his teeth bared, my blood streaking his lips. His golden eye burned down at me, furious and unrelenting, his hand still anchoring me upright though my legs trembled.

"If this is what it takes," he snarled, his voice carrying across the silent village, "then I will do it every night. Every dawn. Until there is no doubt in you, no hesitation left. I will mark you again and again until your body remembers who you belong to."