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The Cursed Alpha’s Mute Bride – Episode 02
The kitchen seemed to lose all warmth as Gertrude’s order settled between them. Wren stared at her stepmother, certain she must have misunderstood. The eastern creek was not merely far from Wolfhart Castle. It ran through Silver Pack territory, where trespassers were said to vanish without leaving bones behind.
Gertrude’s fingers rested on the smoky stone at her throat. “Why are you still standing there?” she asked. Behind her, music swelled again in the great hall. Anneliese’s engagement feast continued as if Wren’s humiliation had been nothing more than entertainment between courses.
Wren pointed toward the courtyard pump, then mimed washing her face. The water there was clean enough. Gertrude understood every gesture—she simply pretended otherwise whenever understanding might require compassion. Her smile sharpened as she shook her head.
“You will not sully my courtyard or frighten our guests with that miserable face. Go to the creek.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Unless the cursed little mute is frightened of Alpha Hunter Silver.”
Every wolf knew his name. Hunter Silver ruled the neighboring territory with an iron discipline that had made his pack powerful and his enemies scarce. Rumors painted him as a ruthless predator, a beast so savage that he feasted on virgins beneath the full moon. Wren doubted the wildest stories, but borders were deadly facts.
Gertrude reached past her and dragged a finger through the cake’s frosting. “Unlike Anneliese, who has suitors lining up for the privilege of pleasing her, you have nothing to protect. No reputation. No prospects. If Silver’s wolves find you, perhaps they will do us the favor of keeping you.”
The cruelty was delivered with a pleasant expression, as if she had offered practical household advice. Wren fought the urge to shrink away. Refusal would bring guards, punishment, and another public scene. Worse, Gertrude might send one of the younger kitchen girls in her place simply to prove she could.
Wren took a wool cloak from its peg and fastened it over her stained dress. The flour on her skin suddenly felt like a brand. She spared one glance for the ruined sugar roses, then slipped through the servants’ passage before courage could desert her.
Night air met her in the courtyard, cool and damp with the promise of rain. Behind the tall windows, golden figures turned through a dance. Anneliese shone among them, laughing in Nikolaus’s arms, while Gertrude returned to the celebration without looking back.
Wren crossed the stable yard and followed the eastern trail. Each step carried her away from torchlight and deeper into the forest. Moonlight leaked through the branches in pale ribbons, catching on wet leaves and stones slick with moss.
The woods had once comforted her. As a child, she had hidden among these trees whenever the castle felt too full of rules and watchful eyes. Tonight every rustle sounded like a paw against the earth, and every distant howl reminded her that she had no wolf to defend her.
Her pulse beat painfully at the base of her throat. The curse lived there, though no one else could see it. Wren had been young when Gertrude’s hand closed around the same black stone she wore tonight and darkness poured into the room like smoke.
She remembered waking unable to call for her father. Her voice had been reduced to a few strained breaths, while the bright presence of her young wolf disappeared from her mind. Gertrude had leaned over the bed and whispered the rule that would shape every lonely year to come.
Only true love could break the spell. Someone had to see Wren as she truly was, love her without deception or coercion, and speak the words I love you. Until then, silence would bind her throat and smother the wolf sleeping somewhere inside her.
Gertrude had laughed when she revealed it. She knew exactly how impossible the cure would seem to a motherless girl she intended to make despised. By the time Wren understood enough to seek help, the pack already believed she had been born defective.
A branch cracked in the darkness. Wren spun, clutching her cloak closed, but saw only a hare dart through the ferns. She forced herself onward. Fear could not clean the flour from her dress, nor could it soften Gertrude if she returned before obeying.
The border announced itself with claw marks cut deep into an ancient cedar. Silver Pack scent clung to the bark—pine, smoke, and the unmistakable warning of powerful wolves. Wren paused with one foot on either side of the invisible line.
Crossing meant trespass. Turning back meant placing herself in Gertrude’s hands again. Wren thought of her stepmother’s necklace, of the curse sealed inside her own body, and of the defiance she had protected in the kitchen. Then she stepped into Hunter Silver’s territory.
The forest changed beyond the border. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but the silence felt alert rather than empty. The trees grew closer, their roots twisting across the trail, while the creek’s distant murmur became the only guide she could trust.
Cold mist touched her face before she saw the water. The creek cut through a small clearing, silver beneath the moon, flowing over black stones polished smooth by years. Wren listened for voices or footsteps. Nothing moved except the current.
