Chapter 17 - Thalia
Dawn hasn't quite broken over the forest. The air tastes like metal. It’s been three days since Rafael Diaz broke my life in half, and we haven’t talked once.
But I have something I need to do.
My hands shake as I press my phone to my ear, listening to it ring. And ring. And ring.
Of course, Yannick doesn't answer. He never does—that's his way of maintaining control, of making us leave desperate messages that can be used against us later.
My breath fogs in the frigid air as I wait for his voicemail to click over.
"It's me," I say, and hate how my voice trembles. "Yannick, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Rafael Diaz, from the Rosecreek pack—he's forcing me to mate with him. I tried to fight him. But he’s keeping me here, he’s forcing— " I break off, pressing my free hand against my mouth to stifle a sob. "Please. Whatever you do, don't hurt Maia. This isn't—I didn't plan this. I swear I didn't. He's giving me no choice."
My performance would be less convincing if I weren't terrified or trapped. Perhaps that’s the silver lining here. I’m not technically lying about any of it.
"The ceremony is in two hours," I continue, forcing steel into my voice. “Nobody will ever know about you sending me here. I promise. Just don’t hurt—”
The message cuts off, my time expired. I stare at the phone, thumb hovering over the redial button, but what else is there to say? Either Yannick believes me, or he doesn't. Either Maia lives or she dies.
And in two hours, I'll be mated to a man who apparently hates me enough to force this bond between us. Or wants me enough. I don’t know which scares me more.
The safehouse looms through the trees behind me, its windows dark except for the kitchen where I know, Rafael is probably already awake, drinking his morning coffee like this is just another day. Like he didn't completely shatter my world two nights ago with an impossible ultimatum: marry me or leave.
My dress hangs in the spare room—white, simple, borrowed from Keira, who didn't ask questions when I called her yesterday, just showed up with options and a careful silence. The sight of it makes me sick. Everything about this makes me sick.
The sun begins to rise as I walk back inside, painting the snow golden-pink. Any other morning, I'd stop to admire it. Now, I barely notice, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping my breathing steady as my world collapses.
Rafael stands at the kitchen counter, exactly as I pictured. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, I catch something raw in his expression before it hardens into that mask of cold authority he's worn since that night.
"The pack center called," he says, voice carefully neutral. "Everything's ready."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The coffee in his mug steams between us, its familiar scent suddenly nauseating. Mere days ago, we shared coffee in this kitchen. Days ago, he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something to be jailed, caged.
"Thalia." My name sounds wrong in his mouth now, all hard edges where there used to be warmth. "We should go soon."
"Fine." I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.
"Did you make the call?"
I freeze, one hand on the doorframe. "Yes. It’s over."
Rafael hesitates. I can’t describe the tone of his voice when he finally responds: "Good."
I shower mechanically, letting the hot water sluice over my skin until it turns pink. The bathroom mirror shows me a stranger—pale face, dark circles under my eyes from two sleepless nights, hair dripping onto shoulders that feel too fragile to carry this impossible weight.
I’ll never go back to Illinois. I’ll never see Maia again, never know what happened to her. My life is no longer mine.
Keira arrives as I struggle with the dress's zipper, and her knock is soft on the bedroom door. She helps me finish dressing in silence, but I feel her questions like physical things, pressing against my skin.
"You don't have to do this," she says finally, arranging my hair with gentle fingers.
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "Yes, I do."
Something in my tone must convince her, because she just nods and returns to her task. When she's done, I barely recognize myself—the white dress is simple but elegant, my black, coily curls are tamed into something almost ethereal, and minimal makeup makes my eyes look huge on my face.
A bride. I'm a bride.
The reality of it hits me like a physical blow, and suddenly I can't breathe. The walls seem to close in, the dress too tight, everything too much—
"Thalia?" Keira's hands catch my shoulders as I sway. "Hey, look at me. Breathe."
I drag in a ragged breath, then another. Through the roaring in my ears, I hear her murmuring soft encouragement, feel her rubbing circles on my back like I'm a child who needs soothing.
"I can't," I gasp, but even as I say it, I know I have to. For Maia. For myself. For any chance at freedom.
"You can," Keira says firmly. "Whatever this is—whatever's going on between you and Rafael—you can handle it. You're stronger than you know."
If she only knew. If any of them knew.
A knock at the door makes us both jump.
Rafael's voice, muffled through the wood: "It's time."
The drive to the pack center passes in a blur of white snow and grey sky. Rafael sits beside me like a stranger on the bus, his profile sharp in the winter light through the window. The heat blasts between us, but I can't stop shivering, my fingers twisting the hem of my borrowed dress.
This isn't how it's supposed to be, I think numbly. Growing up, I had dreams of my wedding day—foolish, girlish fantasies of love and happiness and choice. And trust. Not this silent car ride with a man who won't even look at me.
The pack center appears through the snow like a ghost, looming high into the white sky, its windows glowing warm against the steel-colored morning. Aris waits at the entrance, his face carefully neutral as Rafael helps me from the car. His hand on my elbow feels like a brand.
"Are you sure about this?" Aris asks quietly as we approach. His eyes search my face, and I wonder what he sees there.
"Yes," Rafael answers for both of us, his voice brooking no argument.
The small ceremony room has been hastily decorated on the bottom floor—white flowers, candles, the traditional symbols of a shifter mating ceremony arranged on a table near the window. A woman I don’t know stands ready to officiate, and a handful of witnesses mill about—Keira and Zane, Percy looking uncomfortable in a suit, Olivia bouncing her baby against her hip.
They all look confused, concerned. Of course, they do—their teammate is suddenly mating a woman he barely knows, a woman who arrived mere weeks ago with a past full of shadows.
"Ready?" Rafael murmurs as we take our places before the woman. Triste, I think her name is. His hand finds the small of my back, steadying me as I sway slightly.
I want to scream. Want to run. I want to turn and beg him to explain why he's doing this and why he kissed me like I meant something to him, only to turn around and force this bond between us.
Instead, I nod.
Triste's voice fills the small space, ancient Latin rolling off her tongue like smoke. The words seem to hang in the air between us, heavy with power. Candlelight flickers across her face as she reads from a leather-bound book, her hair catching the light like spider's silk.
I try to focus on the details—the way the wax drips down the white candles, the faint scent of lilies from the hastily gathered bouquets, anything but the weight of Rafael's hand on my back, and the inevitability of what's coming. The witnesses fade to shadows in my peripheral vision.
All I can see is Triste's weathered hands as she traces sigils in the air between us, all I can hear is the steady rhythm of those Latin phrases building to something terrible and permanent.
Rafael's fingers press harder against my spine as the power builds. When Triste instructs us to join hands, his palm slides against mine, warm, familiar, and wrong. This should be a choice. This should be love. This should be anything but what it is.
The final word falls upon me, a fatal blow: “... surgit!”
The bond snaps into place. There is no great force, no thunderclap. Just a dull sense of finality, a death sentence.
And yet, it’s too much. It's too much.
My legs give out as the room spins wildly around me. The last thing I register is Rafael's arms catching me, his scent wrapping around me as the world goes dark at the edges.
My freedom. My choice. My heart.
All gone in the space of a few Latin words.
"Take her home," I hear Aris say, his voice coming from very far away. "We'll handle the paperwork."
The drive back to the safehouse passes in fragments. Snow falling. The heat blasting. Rafael's hands are tight on the steering wheel. Every few seconds, a new wave of sensation rolls through me as the reality of the bond settles into place, making me dizzy with the force of it.
Rafael carries me inside—when did we arrive?—his steps careful on the icy path. The tenderness in his touch feels like a mockery after everything. I want to tell him to put me down, that I can walk, but my tongue feels too heavy to form words.
He deposits me gently on my bed, then steps back, his expression unreadable. Through the bond, I catch flickers of his emotions—concern, guilt, something deeper that I can't quite grasp.
"Rest, Thalia," he says softly.
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my life and the ghost of his touch on my skin.
I don't remember falling asleep, but when I wake, darkness has fallen. The dress feels like a prison. I claw my way out of it, leaving it in a heap on the floor. The shower runs hot enough to burn, but I can't seem to get warm. I bury myself in the softest, most comfortable clothing I have. It doesn’t help me feel any more like a person.
The bond pulses between us, and there is a constant awareness of Rafael's presence down the hall. If I focus, I can almost track his movements—pacing, restless, as unsettled as I am by this new connection.
Hours pass like years. Finally, unable to bear the solitude any longer, I find myself outside his door. My hand shakes as I knock.
"Yes?" His voice is carefully neutral.
I push the door open. Rafael sits at his desk, pretending to read something on his laptop. The room smells like him—pine and rain—and the bond flares at his proximity.
"Are you going to make me sleep here tonight?" The words come out bitter, sharp. "Since I'm your mate now?"
He doesn't look up. "Sleep where you want."
"Is that what this is going to be?" I step closer, anger rising hot in my chest. "You force me to mate with you and then act like I don't exist?"
Now, he does look at me, and the coldness in his eyes makes me flinch. "What did you expect? Romance?"
"I expected an explanation!" My voice cracks. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
"I told you why."
"No, you didn't. You threatened me into this marriage without—" I break off as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
A message from Percy: Congratulations again! Still shocked but happy for you both. Dinner soon? Veronica sends her love.
The fifth such message today from various members of the pack. They’re trying so hard to be supportive of this sudden union. They don’t understand. How could they?
"Your friends are very confused," I say quietly.
"They'll get over it."
“I guess if we never tell them,” I scoff.
Something flashes in his eyes—pain? Regret, perhaps? But his voice remains steady. "Go to bed, Thalia. It's been a long day."
I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want to grab him and shake him until he tells me the truth.
Instead, I turn and walk away, each step feeling like glass under my feet.
In my room, I curl into a ball on my bed, trying to shut out the constant awareness of him down the hall. My new mate. My jailer. The man who kissed me like I was precious and then turned me into his prisoner.