Bound by Hate

Kaelen’s POV

The second they dragged her through our front door, her scent slammed into us. It was rich, intoxicating, and thick with a dark sweetness that clawed at our raw instincts. My inner wolf paced, snarling, thrashing against my ribs, desperate to close the distance and bury my face in her neck. Callum and Gideon stiffened beside me. Their jaws locked tight as they fought the exact same magnetic pull. The bond demanded we drop to our knees, bare our throats, and claim her right then and there. But we fought the undeniable urge with every ounce of willpower in our blood.

She was our fated mate by design. The universe forged her soul to slot perfectly into ours. But the universe had a sick sense of humor, because she was also the direct descendant of Viktor Draganov. The monster who slaughtered our kin and left our families in ruins. To us, her very existence mirrored his rotting taint. Her blood was poison.

Under any other circumstances, we would have worshipped the ground she walked on. We would have cherished her as the sacred other half of our souls. For years, we denied ourselves, enduring the hollow ache of an empty bed, saving our bodies for her. We honored the bond. But the intel from Meridia ruined everything. The persistent rumors of her giving her body to random men across the territory stripped away any chance of reverence. She had dragged our shared destiny through the dirt.

Because of that betrayal, we forged a dark pact. We made a silent blood oath among brothers. We would forcibly take whatever physical connection we needed to extract our stolen strength and magic from the bond. Our plan was simple. We would use her body to fuel our power, draining the magic to take back what her bloodline stole from our ancestors. But she would never taste our affection. She would never earn our respect, and she would never hear a kind word from our lips.

Killing her outright was impossible. As Valkin Alphas, destroying our fated mate would sever our own lifelines, rotting us from the inside out. But there were fates far worse than death. We swore to drive her to the exact madness her tyrant father inflicted upon our families. We would break her spirit piece by piece until nothing remained but shattered fragments.

When Callum told Valeria we were fated, her reaction hadn't been joy. Her face twisted with raw disgust and visceral fear. The feeling was mutual.

Now, I glare at her as she stands in the center of our apartment. She wears a simple dress she stubbornly claimed for herself from our supplies. A dark, ugly anger simmers in my gut. My fingers twitch. I feel an overwhelming urge to step forward, grab the collar, and rip the fabric right off her body. I want to tear it to shreds. I want to leave her bare and shivering, exposed to the cold, just to prove she has no right to anything belonging to our people. Her father took everything from us. She doesn't get to take a single thread more.

"Let this be the last time you steal from our people," I warn her. My voice is sharp, cutting through the tense air like a serrated blade.

She remains silent. Her expression is a blank mask of stone. She doesn't look down. She doesn't tremble. She stares straight ahead, treating me as if I am nothing but thin air.

Her stubborn defiance throws gasoline on my frustration. The wolf inside me roars at the blatant disrespect.

"Do you hear me?" I shout. The rough sound bounces off the bare walls of the apartment, loud enough to rattle the windows.

She doesn't flinch. Not a blink. Not a shifted breath.

My patience snaps. The red haze of fury takes over. I raise my hand, muscles coiling as I prepare to strike her across the face and knock that arrogant indifference out of her eyes.

Before my palm can connect, strong fingers clamp around my wrist like a vice.

Gideon.

He steps in, his grip firm and immovable. He doesn't say a word, but his eyes lock onto mine, silently ordering me to stand down. Gideon was always the softest of us three, the anchor holding a quiet restraint even in our darkest moments. He serves as the physical barrier against my violent impulse.

I breathe heavily, my chest heaving as I stare at her unbothered face. Reluctantly, I yank my arm back and let my hand drop to my side. Deep in my bones, a heavy realization settles in. We are in for a massive war of wills with this girl.

"You’ll earn your keep here," Callum commands, stepping into her line of sight. His tone is hard as forged iron. "If we’re providing for you, you’ll do whatever’s necessary. Nothing is free."

Without uttering a single syllable, she brushes past my shoulder. She heads straight for the hallway to begin her assigned tasks.

The three of us follow her. We trail behind her like predators tracking prey, shadowing her steps into the bedrooms. I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms and watching closely. She steps up to the mattress and begins making the beds in unbroken silence.

Her movements are steady and practiced. She snaps the sheets flat, smooths the wrinkles, and tucks the corners with rigid efficiency. There is no hesitation in her hands. It becomes glaringly clear she is no stranger to forced labor. For all her father's hoarded wealth, perhaps the tyrant beat her into performing these menial tasks herself.

She finishes the first bed and moves to the next. She repeats the process, her face giving away zero emotion. The silence in the room is suffocating, heavy with unspoken threats, but she ignores the pressure. When the beds are pristine, she stops and waits. I point a finger toward the dining area down the hall.

She pivots deliberately and heads toward the kitchen.

I watch her walk away. She is fiercely defiant, yet stone-cold composed. It is only hour one of her captivity. But looking at the rigid set of her shoulders and the fortress she hides behind, a stark realization hits me. Breaking through her iron-clad walls is going to be a profound challenge. None of us had anticipated a spirit this fortified.