C1 Reborn on My Wedding Day

Violetta gasps, sitting bolt upright in bed as her eyes fly open.

"No… no, please! Not the ice. Don't leave me in the dark!"

The scream tears from her throat, scraping her vocal cords raw. She claws frantically at her neck, her lungs seizing in a ragged, shallow gasp as her muscles brace for the biting, sub-zero chill of the Shinedown dungeons.

"Where am I?" she chokes out, her voice trembling. "The dungeons... the chains..."

She instinctively curls her toes, expecting the damp, rotting stench of wet stone. She can still taste it on her tongue; the hatch metallic bite of her own blood, the sour reek of mold, and the echoing, cruel clink of Timil’s wine glass.

"Timil?" she whispers, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Sareta?"

But her fingers don't meet frostbitten skin. They sink into the impossibly smooth, warm friction of high-end silk sheets.

A violent shudder wracks her frame. She presses a hand to her sternum, feeling the frantic, thudding rhythm of her pulse. Sweat beads along her hairline.

"This isn't right," she mutters, blinking rapidly as her vision pulses. "This isn't the Penumbros district."

Blinding sunlight pours through towering arched windows, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It paints the polished hardwood floors in liquid gold. The air doesn't smell like death; it’s thick with the heavy, sweet perfume of blooming jasmine. On the wall, a heavy, gilded pendulum clock swings with a steady, mocking *tick-tock, tick-tock*.

Violetta throws the heavy velvet duvet off, her bare feet hitting the warm floorboards. She holds her hands up to the light, turning them over. She rubs her thumbs aggressively over her palms.

"No way," she whispers, her voice cracking. "This is impossible. I died. I felt the cold stop my heart."

She stares at her soft, pale hands. "Where are my calluses? Where is the Dawnrest steel?"

The thick, yellowed calluses earned from years of gripping a broadsword and leading the Dawnrest Pack into frontline warfare are completely gone. Her skin is unblemished. They are the hands of a sheltered noblewoman who has never drawn blood.

A phantom ache throbs in her chest. Five years. Five years of bleeding for the Shinedown Pack. Five years of building Timil’s corporate and military empire across Veilcova, only for him to forge treason documents and lock her away. She can still hear the heavy iron door slamming shut.

Adrenaline spikes, sharp and electric. She lunges toward the large, ornate vanity mirror. Her fingers dig into the mahogany edge, knuckles bleaching white. She forces her chin up.

When her eyes lock onto the reflection, the breath vanishes from her lungs.

"Atina," she breathes, the name turning to ash on her tongue. "I’m back in the illusion. I’m... I’m Atina again."

She traces the thick, jagged, deep-red scars crawling up her neck like angry lightning bolts.

"Five years," she whispers to the glass, her voice dropping into a lethal, icy calm. "I gave that pathetic excuse for an Alpha five years of my life. My strategies. My blood. And he threw me into the ice the second he got what he wanted."

She leans closer, her gaze hardening. Deep within the muddy brown of her irises, a spark of brilliant, blazing violet ignites. The phantom chill in her bones evaporates, burned away by a roaring, molten wave of fury.

"You think you won, Timil?" she murmurs, a slow, terrifyingly calm smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. "You wanted a brainless, ugly little pawn for a wife? Let’s see how you handle a goddess."

Before the sheer gravity of her regression can fully settle, a violent *BANG* shatters the quiet.

The heavy oak door flies open, slamming against the plaster wall with enough force to make the crystal vanity jars rattle in their places.

Alpha Timil strides into the room like he owns the damn world. He looks exactly like the arrogant, mid-tier warrior she remembers. His tailored white and gold wedding tunic exaggerates his broad shoulders, but the fabric pulls tight, hinting at unearned pride rather than earned muscle. He walks right past Violetta, his eyes sliding over her as if she’s a piece of furniture, and stops in front of her mirror to fuss with his diamond cufflinks.

"Are you serious right now, Atina?" Timil sighs, his voice dripping with theatrical annoyance. "The entire High Council of Veilcova is sitting out there in the grand hall. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to keep the elders waiting because my bride can't even get her act together?"

Violetta doesn't flinch. She folds her arms, leaning casually against the vanity, her weight shifted to one hip.

"Embarrassing?" she repeats, her tone dangerously smooth. "I wouldn't worry about embarrassment, Timil. I'd worry about the vows."

Timil scoffs, finally turning to face her. He looks her up and down, his nose wrinkling in open, visceral disgust. "Gods, look at your face. Grab the veil and cover that up a bit more, will you? I don’t need my investors throwing up before we even exchange vows. It’s a bad look for the Shinedown Pack."

"Is that all I am to you?" Violetta asks, tilting her head, her brown eyes locking onto his. "A bad look?"

"You're a means to an end, little mouse," Timil snaps, stepping into her personal space. He tries to use his height to intimidate her, his ego flaring. "And right now, you're a liability. What’s with the creepy look? Did your brain short-circuit?"

He reaches out and grabs her upper arm with a rough, bruising grip.

Violetta doesn't pull away. She looks down at his hand clamped on her arm, then slowly drags her gaze back up to his. A chilling, beautifully toxic smile spreads across her scarred face.

"I'm just thinking about how incredibly lucky I am, Timil," she says. Her voice is perfectly level, laced with a venom so sweet it sounds almost affectionate.

Timil lets out a harsh, arrogant chuckle, his chest swelling at what he assumes is her usual pathetic devotion. He leans down, his breath smelling faintly of cheap mint and unearned confidence as he whispers right in her ear.

"You’re damn right you’re lucky, you scarred little mutt," he rumbles, tossing her arm aside like trash. "I'm the only Alpha in Kasantos who would ever give a freak like you a ring. So hurry the hell up, get downstairs, and play your part. Once the ceremony is over, I’ll make sure you learn exactly what your place is."

Violetta doesn't break eye contact as he turns on his heel and struts out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

Her smile only grows wider, a faint, violet aura flaring to life just beneath her skin.

"Oh, Timil," she whispers into the empty room, her voice dropping into a dark, seductive promise. "You have absolutely no idea what's coming for you.”