MARKED FOR PRETEND - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

The palace air had shifted.
Not just for her, but for everyone.
Even the girls who once laughed behind their sleeves now watched her like she might burn them with a glance. Some stepped aside when she passed. Others stared too long, as if waiting for her to explode into feathers or fangs.
She almost preferred the fear. It was easier than pity.
Noted, they said.
But no one explained what it meant.
She hadn’t been chosen like the others. She hadn’t been dismissed either. Her name had appeared — uncalled for, unsanctioned, and now it branded her like a question no one wanted to answer.
She wasn’t sure which part terrified her more:
That they didn’t want her here…
Or that someone did.
“She’s still here?”
Chelsea paused behind a half-open door.
“She was supposed to be dismissed.”
“Exactly. Her name wasn’t even on the original scroll.”
“They said it changed itself.”
“No, I heard it was a clerical error. Some kind of Council mix-up.”
“She’s not even a wolf. They can’t seriously consider her.”
“They don’t have to consider her. She’s already noted.”
“And what does that even mean? Noted?”
“It means someone wanted her kept in play.”
“Who?”
“That’s the part no one can answer.”
The rumors twisted through the palace like smoke through rafters.
Every hallway. Every servant’s quarters. Every Matron’s glare.
Same words. Different lips. Different tones.
But every version circled the same flame:
“Why was she claimed "
And the question that always came next—
“More importantly… by who?”
She turned away before they saw her.
Back pressed to the stone wall, she clenched her hands.
Even she didn’t know.
By morning, the palace walls echoed with rumors.
The Selection had ended. Names had been sealed.
Yet Chelsea Ravenspell remained.
Not chosen. Not dismissed.
Just.......Claimed
There were only five girls left in the East Wing—those “Claimed” for further observation.
Three from established packs. One from a healer’s bloodline.
And Chelsea.
The one with no last name worth printing.
The one who wasn’t even a wolf.
Arelle led the tension like it was a parade.
“Careful, she might curse your soup,” she whispered loudly over breakfast.
The others laughed.
Chelsea didn’t.
She kept her eyes down and her fork steady, pretending the porridge didn’t taste like chalk and pity.
But inside, something in her stirred.
They were given more etiquette training—“in case a Council seat or Luna title was offered.”
But Chelsea knew what this really was: testing.
They watched how she walked, how she spoke, how she reacted to pressure.
And that afternoon, they got what they were waiting for.
They were dancing again.
Spinning in pairs beneath the glass ceiling of the training hall, girls wrapped in silks and nerves. Chelsea was assigned to Arelle, of course- a deliberate pairing.
“Try not to trip,” Arelle muttered sweetly as they took position.
The first turn was tight. The second too sharp.
And on the third, Arelle deliberately stepped into Chelsea’s foot.
Chelsea winced. Stumbled. Steadied herself.
“Clumsy isn’t cute, Witchling,” Arelle whispered, just loud enough for the Matrons to hear. “It won’t get you a crown. Or a mate.”
Chelsea turned to walk off.
But Arelle grabbed her wrist.
And something inside Chelsea snapped.
The pulse started at her fingertips—like static, like fire.
A sudden, invisible shock threw Arelle backward, landing her flat on the polished floor.
The hall went dead silent.
Arelle’s mouth dropped open. Her hands shook.
Matron Irene stormed forward, eyes blazing.
“WHAT just happened?”
“I—” Chelsea swallowed. “I didn’t touch her. She grabbed me.”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
“Then look again.”
No one moved.
But from across the mezzanine, someone was watching.
Chelsea looked up, just in time to see Alpha Kaden standing behind the balustrade.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes locked on her.
********
That night, Chelsea stood at the window of her room. Moonlight spilled over the marble floor like water, silver and cold. Her gown pooled at her ankles, forgotten.
She rolled up her sleeve slowly.
The mark on her forearm pulsed with faint light a crescent moon, sharp-edged and ancient looking, not a tattoo, not a burn.
A scar. But not from any blade.
She hadn’t been born with it.
She remembered the fever when she was twelve. The burning under her skin. The way the witch who raised her had gone silent when the mark appeared.
“Some things come before we’re ready,” the old woman had whispered.
“And some things… come whether we’re ready or not.”
It had always been there, and yet… lately it hummed under her skin. Especially when he was near.
Alpha Kaden.
She barely knew his face. He hadn’t spoken more than a whisper to her.
“Whatever it is in you… it’s starting to awaken.”
What did he mean?
She touched the curve of the mark gently.
“You belong to the Alpha that cannot be loved…”
The witch who raised her had said that once, years ago, in the middle of a storm. Her eyes had gone cloudy. Her mouth slack with something Chelsea had never understood.
Until now.
Because the whispers were changing.
Not just about her being a witch. Not just about her mark.
Now the whispers said something else entirely.
“He’s never chosen anyone. Never.”
“Until her.”
“Why her?”
“What does she have that the others don’t?”
And Chelsea?
She didn’t know the answer.
But she felt it.
Beneath her skin.
In her blood.
And deep in the crescent that pulsed under her sleeve like it had teeth.
She breathed in deep.
Claimed. Not chosen.Not dismissed.
Just claimed.