Mira.
The days following the feast are cold. Not with weather, but with a silence that is louder than any argument. My father, Alpha Valerius, paces the halls of our keep like a caged lion. Word from the border patrols is grim. Skirmishes with the Shadowpine pack. A hunter found dead on our side of the river. Tensions are a frayed rope, ready to snap.
He summons me to his study. The room smells of old leather and his simmering rage. He doesn't ask me to sit.
"The pack is at risk," he says, his back to me as he stares out the window at the darkening forest. "Our alliances are not as strong as they once were."
I say nothing. I am a ghost in this house, a piece of decor. I learned my lesson.
"Alpha Kaelen of the Sunstone pack has made an offer."
He turns to face me. His eyes are hard, like chips of granite. I see no father in them, only an Alpha making a calculation.
"He is old," my father continues, his voice flat. "Twice widowed. But his pack controls the southern pass. An alliance with him would secure our flank."
Ice floods my veins. I know what is coming. The words form before he says them.
"He requires a mate to seal the pact. He has asked for you."
My breath leaves me in a rush. "No."
The word is small, but it hangs in the air between us like a shard of glass. Kaelen is a lecherous old wolf whose hands wander too freely during council feasts. His wives died young. The whispers said they were relieved to go.
"It is not a request," my father says, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. "It is your duty. You cannot fight. You cannot shift. But you can serve your pack in this."
"You mean I can be sold," I say, my own voice trembling with a fury I did not know I possessed. "This is my purpose? To be a broodmare for some decrepit Alpha?"
He takes a step toward me, his shadow swallowing me whole. "You will do as you are told, Mira. The betrothal is set. Now get out of my sight."
I flee his study, his words chasing me like wolves.
Two days later, we stand in a clearing on the edge of our territory. Neutral ground. A place for tense meetings and broken treaties. My father stands with his Betas. Lyra is not here, a small mercy. But Darius is. He stands beside my father, an advisor, looking smug in his tailored leather armor. His eyes find mine and he gives me a small, pitying smile. The look says it all. This is where useless things end up. Traded away.
Alpha Kaelen has not yet arrived, but another party has. The Alpha of the dreaded Shadowpine pack. A murmur of fear and hatred ripples through our warriors as they emerge from the trees.
And then I see him.
He is not what I expected. He is younger than the legends say, but the stories of his brutality are etched onto his skin. A long, jagged scar cuts from his temple down across his left eye, which is a startling, pale silver. The other is a deep, forest green. He moves with a predatory grace that makes the air crackle. He is power given form.
This is Fenrir. The Alpha who killed his own father to take control of his pack.
His gaze sweeps over my father and the other Alphas gathered. It is a look of utter dismissal, as if they are gnats buzzing in his path. Darius puffs out his chest.
"The Shadowpine cur finally crawls out from his den," Darius calls out, his voice laced with arrogance.
Fenrir’s head turns slowly. His eyes do not land on Darius. They pass over him, over my father, over everyone, until they stop. On me.
My heart stutters. It is not a look of lust, like the ones I have gotten from other males. It is not a look of pity or disdain. It feels like he is peeling back my skin and looking directly at my soul. He sees something. For the first time, I feel like I am not invisible.
My father steps forward, clearing his throat. "Fenrir. Your wolves have crossed our borders. This aggression must end. We are prepared to make a proposal of peace."
Fenrir does not even glance at him. His eyes are still locked on me.
He cuts my father off, his voice a low growl that vibrates through the ground. "I have a better offer."
The clearing falls silent. Even the birds in the trees seem to hold their breath.
"Your alliances are weak," Fenrir says, his voice resonating with absolute certainty. "I will offer a non-aggression pact for ten years. My pack will not touch your borders. Not a single warrior, not a single hunter."
My father’s eyes widen. It is an offer beyond anything he could have hoped for. The kind of offer that saves a pack from a losing war.
Suspicion wars with greed on his face. "In exchange for what?"
Fenrir’s pale eye seems to gleam in the fading light. His gaze never wavers from mine.
"Her."
