Amanda
His fury is a physical thing. It presses in on me from all sides, a storm contained in the body of one man. I brace myself for the words, for the cold, cutting dismissal that will finish the job Lila started.
He moves. I flinch.
But he doesn't speak. He doesn’t touch me. His hand, large and calloused, closes on the collar of the ugly brown cloak. His knuckles brush the side of my neck, a spark of heat against my cold skin.
Then he rips it from my shoulders.
A single, violent tug. The cheap fabric tears with a sound that is shockingly loud in the tense corridor. The cloak falls to the floor, a dead thing at my feet.
I stand before him, shivering in my simple dress, exposed. From the doorway to the great hall, a collective gasp ripples through the assembled pack. They can all see us. They can see their Alpha, his face a mask of thunder, and the trembling girl he is supposed to bind himself to.
Thorn ignores them. His gaze is locked on me, but it is distant, as if he is fighting a war somewhere deep inside himself. His hands go to the heavy silver clasp at his own throat, a beautifully wrought piece in the shape of a snarling wolf's head.
He unfastens it.
The Alpha's cloak slides from his shoulders. It is a magnificent, terrible thing. A garment of pure authority. It is fashioned from wool so black it seems to swallow the torchlight, and across the back, the silver-threaded crest of the Blackmoon pack gleams like a captured moon. It is his power. His identity. His very station made manifest.
He holds it for a moment, the heavy fabric draped over his arms. Then he steps forward.
He wraps it around me.
The weight is staggering. It settles over my shoulders, heavy and warm, a startling comfort that makes my knees feel weak. It is long on me, the hem brushing the stone floor, cocooning me completely. I am drowning in the scent of him. Pine and winter and something else. Something wild and uniquely Thorn.
I look up, my eyes searching his for an answer, for any clue to this insane, impossible gesture.
But he isn't looking at me. His gaze is directed over my head, into the hall. I follow it.
Lila stands frozen just inside the doorway. Her mask of smug triumph is gone, shattered. Her beautiful face is twisted into a snarl of disbelief and pure, venomous rage. In this moment, she is not beautiful at all. She is hideous. She looks at me, wrapped in his cloak, and I see her defeat.
A strange feeling surges through me. A hot, liquid rush of something I have not felt since I arrived in this cold, hard place.
Power.
Thorn's hand lands on the small of my back. His touch is not gentle. It is firm. Possessive. A brand that sears through the thick wool. It stakes a claim.
“Walk,” he commands. His voice is a low growl, meant for my ears alone.
He propels me forward. We step over the ruined brown cloak and through the doors into the great hall. A wave of silence washes over the pack. Every wolf, from the highest elder to the lowest omega, stares. Their shock is a palpable force in the air.
I keep my eyes forward, fixed on the ceremonial platform at the far end of the room. I can feel Thorn's presence at my side, a wall of heat and muscle. A shield.
He is publicly declaring something. Something that has nothing to do with a political treaty or a loveless arrangement. Draping his cloak over another is not a custom I know, but the meaning is universal. It is unmistakable.
Mine.
I lift my chin higher. The garment that cocoons me is not just a cloak. It is a statement. A warning. A promise. The weight on my shoulders no longer feels like a burden. It feels like a crown.
I glance at Thorn’s profile as we walk. His expression is still hard, his jaw set. But the storm in his eyes has changed. The fury is still there, but it has a purpose now. It is a weapon he has aimed, not at me, but for me.
I thought I understood this man. I thought he was just ice and cruelty. I was wrong. Alpha Thorn is a creature of deep, dangerous currents, and he just pulled me into the heart of his storm.
