Chapter 2 — The Devil’s Vow

POV: Kim Haemin

I stared at my reflection, and for a moment, I couldn't believe what I saw.

The suit they dressed me in was ivory white, threaded with delicate golden flower patterns. The petals shimmered under the soft chandelier light, woven like secrets into the fabric. The high collar itched slightly against my neck, not from discomfort, but from unfamiliarity. This wasn't just a suit. It was a cage made of silk and expectation. My hair was brushed back softly, a few strands still falling into my eyes. My lips had the faintest gloss. Someone had even lined my eyes subtly, enhancing the way they caught the light.

I looked beautiful.

And I hated it.

A knock came.

"Omega Kim," a maid said softly from behind the door. "It's time."

Time.

Time to be marked. Time to become someone else's property. Time to bury the boy who once believed he could be free.

I nodded once, even though no one could see it.

The halls of the Vasiliev estate were transformed. Crimson roses hung from every corner. Chandeliers glowed low and golden. Men in black suits stood like shadows along the walls, each armed, each watching. The scent of vodka, blood, and cold metal lingered in the air — unmistakably Russian. Every step I took felt heavier than the last.

When I reached the ceremonial hall, everything stopped.

Hundreds of eyes turned toward me.

The Vasilievs had invited everyone. Syndicate leaders. Crime lords. Arms dealers. Government traitors in tuxedos. Higher-rank Alphas who had never bowed to anyone now whispered behind black gloves.

And all of them stared at me.

"That's the Omega?"

"So young."

"He doesn't even smell like he's in heat."

"He looks terrified."

"Of course he is. He's marrying the Lion."

I gripped the edge of my jacket tightly, trying not to shake.

Then I saw him.

Demitri.

He stood at the altar, wearing a black tailored suit that fit him like sin. The jacket was matte, the shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of a scar on his chest. No tie. No smile. Just him. Commanding. Sharp.

Dangerous.

He didn't flinch when he saw me. Didn't even blink.

But his eyes roamed over me with slow calculation, like he was memorizing every inch of the thing he owned.

A sharp, golden gaze that made my skin prickle.

I was guided to his side. The priest spoke in Russian. I understood nothing. But Demitri did. He replied with simple, firm words. Authority laced in every syllable. Then they turned to me.

The translator leaned in. "He has accepted the bond. Do you?"

I looked at Demitri. He didn't move. Didn't soften.

This wasn't a question. It was a sentence.

My lips parted. "Yes."

My voice cracked, barely a whisper.

The priest continued.

Then something in the back of the room shifted. A murmur. A chill.

The doors swung open.

A woman walked in — tall, cold, beautiful. Long dark hair, lips like wine, dressed in black satin with heels that struck the marble like gunfire. Her scent hit the room hard: cinnamon, smoke, threat.

An Alpha.

I didn't know her.

But Demitri did.

His body tensed beside me.

"You can't be serious," she spat, her Russian sharp, venomous.

Someone tried to stop her. She slapped the guard aside and marched straight toward us.

"Demitri! You think you can throw me away for this? For an Omega brat who doesn't even have a heat scent?"

The room was still. Tense.

All I could do was stare.

She reached for me.

"I should rip his throat out and remind you who you belong to—"

A sound cracked through the room.

Loud.

Final.

She dropped.

Blood bloomed across her dress.

I gasped, stumbling back.

Demitri held the gun, still raised. No expression. No remorse. His eyes never left her body.

"You don't touch what's mine," he said flatly.

The room didn't breathe.

Guards rushed forward. The woman lay still.

I stood frozen, my legs trembling.

He just shot someone. In the middle of our wedding. Without blinking.

And it was for me.

He looked at me. For the first time, something flickered in his golden eyes. Something sharp. Possessive. Almost… soft?

No. Not soft.

Dangerously obsessed.

The priest, somehow, continued. Like death was just part of the tradition.

A ring was placed in my hand. Simple, silver. Cold.

I slipped it on his finger.

His hand was warm.

He slipped the matching one onto mine.

Then came the marking.

He didn't hesitate.

Demitri leaned in, slowly, pressing his lips to the side of my neck. The scent thickened. My heart slammed against my ribs.

His teeth grazed my skin.

And then he bit.

Pain bloomed through me. I gasped, clutching his jacket.

The bond snapped into place. Hot. Binding. Irreversible.

I couldn't move.

My body trembled, not from fear anymore — but from the overwhelming intensity of it. My Omega instincts recognized it. This was not just a bite. It was a claim.

The kind no one else could break.

Demitri pulled back slowly. Blood stained his lips.

He whispered, only for me, "You're mine now, Haemin. And nothing will ever take you away."

I couldn't reply.

I didn't know what to say.

My mind was swimming. My body burned. And somewhere deep inside, something ached.

Not from pain.

From the terrifying realization that part of me no longer wanted to run.

Then the final ritual began.

A silver tray was brought forward by one of the guards. On it — two ceremonial daggers, engraved with the Vasiliev family sigil.

Demitri took one without hesitation.

He turned to me. "Give me your hand."

I hesitated.

His voice was lower now. Firm. "It's part of the vow."

With trembling fingers, I extended my hand.

He cut it — swift, clean.

I hissed in pain.

Then he sliced his own palm the same way. Blood welled up from both our hands.

He pressed our palms together, interlocking our fingers tightly. Our blood mixed.

"A bond sealed in blood cannot be undone," the priest announced. "This is the vow of the Vasiliev legacy. To take. To bind. To keep."

Demitri looked into my eyes.

"By scent. By blood. By vow, you are mine."

My breath hitched. The heat from our joined hands burned into my skin. Into something deeper.

The guests applauded.

The orchestra played.

Vodka was poured. Toasts were made. Laughter returned to the hall.

And I sat beside Demitri Vasiliev — the Lion of Moscow, the man who just marked me in front of the entire underworld, who killed his ex-lover with the same ease he used to adjust his cufflinks.

I was his.

Legally.

Biologically.

Publicly.

And yet, inside me, something still whispered.

I will survive this.

Even if I have to smile through blood.

Even if I have to lie through vows.

Even if the devil calls it love.

End Of Chapter 2 .