***TRICIA***

"I think Conry has lost his mind." Blake's voice was low, edged with something sharp as broken glass, as he eased the door open and stepped into the room. The air around him smelled metallic - anger made human. I patted the mattress twice, a small old gesture to steady him. "Sit," I said, fingers finding the familiar line of his jaw as if I could hold him steady that way.

He didn't meet my eyes at first. He sat with his shoulders hunched like a man bent under weather. When he finally spoke it was nearly a whisper.

"I sold your sister to Conry," he muttered. "He struck a deal I couldn't refuse."

The words stirred something inside me. For a second everything muffled - the hearth's hum, the distant clink of cutlery. "You sold my sister," I echoed, feeling the room tilt. "You... without telling me?"

Before I could finish, his hand closed around my throat. It was sudden and brutal. He slammed me back against the wall with such force that the breath left me like something taken and dropped. For a moment my world narrowed to the tight ring of his fingers and the drum of my heartbeat until the room spun.

"I thought he loved me," a small voice inside kept whispering. Everything I'd built - compromises and false loyalties - felt like a debt I now had to pay.

"I'm the Alpha," he said, voice flat as law. "You're here to support me. Do not question my authority."

His grip tightened. I tapped his hand, useless, begging, my taps swallowed into the silence. Then, mercifully, he let go. I crumpled to the floor, breath a small theft from the room.

When my vision steadied I crawled to my feet with the slow dignity of someone unmade and reassembling. I felt hollow, as if the center of me - my taste for power, my appetite for control - had been scooped out. I touched the place his fingers had burned and let out a painful grunt.

I never imagined the man I thought would make me important would see me as a tool to be controlled.

I packed because fury makes hands busy and because movement feels like control. I shoved gowns into trunks, slid letters into pockets, tucked combs into folds of silk. Each fold was a small ritual, a summoning of the woman I had been before ceremony swallowed her whole.

The door creaked. I ignored it and kept folding, believing that if I finished packing I might finish being the person who had stayed silent while my sister was bartered. When at last I closed the trunk and turned, my breath snagged.

Blake was on his knees.

The memory of my throat, the pressure of his hand, sat like a bruise. For a moment I thought it a trick - a new manipulation - but his head bowed, not swaggering, and when he lifted it, his eyes were wet with something not pride.

"What are you-" I began, but he cut in, words clumsy and raw.

"I don't know what came over me," he said. His voice cracked in places that hurt more than his hands ever did. "I sold her because I thought I was securing the pack. I thought-God, Tricia, I thought I could buy safety. Besides, you saw what she did at the party. Who knows what else she's capable of. All in all, I was wrong. I was... blind." He folded his hands like a supplicant, a strange, human gesture from a man who never begged.

The apology landed like a wound stitched with a tremor. He reached up, fingers trembling, and touched the place his palm had burned. Awkward, human - his hand didn't demand; it sought forgiveness.

For a long time I watched him: the rise and fall of his chest, the small shake of his shoulders, the way light made his eyes look younger than the man who'd strangled me. Two different men had swapped faces.

"You don't get to decide who I am," I said at last, voice small and raw. "Not like this. Not with my blood."

He flinched as if struck, then bowed his head. "You're right," he whispered. "I was a coward, thinking I could do what was necessary in the dark while still calling myself a leader. I failed you. The decision should have been yours to make. I am sorry."

The shame in him was real - not performance. This cut him open. He rose awkwardly, and for a moment I wanted to run into the night and never turn back.

Instead I stepped forward and sat across from him on the bed. The room hummed quiet. Outside, wind kept time with the trees. "Why?" I asked because I needed the word like air. "Why her? Why trade blood for a promise that sounds like a threat?"

He swallowed. "I really am sorry. I don't have an excuse. I thought I was protecting the pack. I was wrong." His words sounded honest, but doubt stayed with me.

I thought of nights I'd spent dreaming of a throne I didn't want and of the quiet bargains I'd made to belong. I thought of the way men like Blake wear duty like armor while the people inside suffocate. I remembered my sister's laugh - the small way she cut through everything with light.

"You were supposed to be better," I said. "You were supposed to be better than a man who bargains with women."

He closed his eyes. For once he couldn't argue duty into oblivion. "Tell me how to fix it," he said, voice raw.

"How are you going to fix selling my sister to your rival without starting a war that will cost packs?" I asked, tears blurring my vision.

"Tricia." He reached for my hands.

I let him take my hand. That surrender was not forgiveness but acknowledgment: two lives bound in ways that refused to be neatly cleaved apart. He lifted me and drew me close. His arms were solid and familiar, the smell of him an anchor despite everything.

He kissed my hair first - an apology without words - then my forehead. "I will fix this," he promised. "Words are not enough. I'll bring her back in a way that won't shatter the pack."

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to hurl myself into the current and let it carry me. His confession softened something inside the rigid shell I'd built, and forgiveness - uneasy and fragile - unfurled like a small flag.

We sat in the dim blue and let silence do the work of prayer. I forgave, but not fully. Doubt settled over me like a winter cloak - heavy and honest.

When he tightened his arms around me I did not pull away. The embrace felt like possibility braided with threat. I knew, with the stubborn certainty of someone who had loved and been hurt, that forgiveness is not a clean slate. It is a ledger that shifts across years.

He held me while the night moved outside in slow breaths, and I let myself be small and human - caught between the ache of betrayal and the hush of choosing. For now we were bound by vows and mistakes; later the truth would have a voice. Until then, we would learn, or unlearn, ourselves. Either would be honest. Either way, my doubts would stay; and he, if he was the Alpha I still hoped for, would spend his days proving otherwise.

I finally let sleep take me, unaware the news I'd receive tomorrow would change my story.

***VERA***

The night felt long. The moon was bright and full, shining through the trees. Crickets chirped softly, and the wind rustled the leaves. The sound was calm, steady. It gave me a bit of comfort, even though my heart stayed restless.

"Bear with me. We'll be there soon," Alpha Conry whispered close to my ear. His voice was crisp, like dry leaves brushing the ground. My pulse jumped when his lips brushed my skin. I'd never felt that kind of warmth before. It scared me, but it also drew me closer without asking.

"Okay, sir," I said quietly. I turned my head away and pressed my fingers to the spot his lips had touched. It burned in a way I didn't want to admit.

"Do you know why I bought you from Blake?" he asked, holding my chin and making me look at him. His eyes were sharp but calm, like he could see everything I was hiding.

"No," I whispered. My voice was too weak for more.

"Your strength caught my eye. You don't bend to pressure," he said. His words hit harder than I expected. Then he moved ahead, spoke quietly to one of his men, and returned.

The man he spoke to looked strong. Tall, dark hair, scars running down his arm like stories written in skin. I could tell he had seen war.

"We're here," Conry said, patting my back lightly.

The mist grew thicker, wrapping everything in white. I couldn't see the castle at first. Then, slowly, its shape appeared through the fog-tall walls, dark stone, towers that seemed to touch the sky. The moonlight made it look alive. Warm lights glowed behind the windows.

Even though it was late, the castle wasn't asleep. Voices filled the courtyard. Merchants moved goods. People talked and laughed. It felt strange to see so much life at night. My old pack was never like this.

One building stood taller and brighter than the rest. That was his. Conry held my hand and led me forward with a faint smile.

"Welcome to my castle," he said with quiet pride. There was no arrogance, only confidence.

We stepped inside. The air was warm and smelled of wood, smoke, and something sweet. The walls were lined with old carvings, and the torches made them glow gold. Servants moved quickly, eyes curious but respectful. I lifted my head higher. I was used to stares.

For a moment, I thought about all I had left behind-Blake, the way he looked at me like I was less; the way my sister was chosen instead; the shame, the anger; and the night I ran until my legs gave out.

Conry squeezed my hand, pulling me back to the present. "You didn't break tonight," he said softly. "That's rare."

I didn't know what to say, so I whispered, "I did what I had to."

His eyes stayed on mine. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead. The touch was light-not like Blake's rough hands, not like the people who only saw me as nothing.

The castle buzzed with life. The mist still hung outside, but for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel like I was standing alone in the dark.

I didn't know what would happen next, or if I could trust him. But right there, with his hand in mine and the castle lights on my face, I felt something shift inside me-something quiet, something new.

"Clean her up and prepare her for the banquet," he told one of the maids who greeted us at the door. His tone was soft but firm.

"Yes, sir," she said, taking my hand gently. "My name is Rachel. Tell me if you need anything." She smiled brightly.

"Sure... thank you," I replied, still unsure of the kindness. Going from being a reject to someone treated with care felt unreal. I only hoped it wasn't another illusion.

The scent of roses filled the bath chamber; steam drifted from the half-open door. Everything smelled rich and warm, and my chest thudded as I stepped inside. When she opened the door fully, I gasped. Two wide tubs waited, filled with hot water and petals floating on the surface.

"Get in. I'll bring you clean clothes," Rachel said with a smile before leaving.

I hesitated, then dipped my foot in. The warmth spread through me, soft and soothing. Soon, I sank under the surface. The night's pain seemed to melt away. Only the sting of bruises remained, but even that faded slowly. I closed my eyes and stayed there for a long while.

When I stepped out, Rachel returned with two dresses-one red, trimmed with silver beads, and another black, simple yet elegant.

"Which would you like for the banquet, milady?" she asked, bowing playfully.

I smiled faintly. "The black one."

"Good choice," she said with a grin.

The dress fit perfectly, as if it had been made for me. When I was ready, Rachel led me to the dining hall.

The hallway was quiet except for the sound of my steps. The air carried the smell of roasted meat and herbs. My palms grew damp as we reached a tall oak door.

"Go in," she said softly before stepping aside.

I pushed it open.

The room was dim but warm, lit by golden candles that flickered along the walls. A long table stretched between us, but only two plates were set-one for him, one for me. Alpha Conry sat at the far end, calm as ever. His dark eyes followed me as I walked closer.

"You came," he said, voice low and steady.

"Yes, Alpha," I replied, bowing slightly.

"Sit."

I sat down. The servants filled our glasses, then slipped away, leaving only the soft crackle of fire.

"You clean up well," he said.

"Thank you," I murmured.

He leaned back, studying me. "You're not what they say."

"What do they say?" I asked, curious.

"That you're fragile," he replied. "But I've seen you stand when others would fall. You don't break easily. That's rare."

The words caught me off guard. No one had ever said my strength was something good.

"I just do what I must," I said quietly.

He smiled faintly. "That's what strength really is."

The food arrived-roasted meat, bread, and a thick, sweet sauce. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I began to eat.

"Do you like it?" Conry asked.

"It's good," I said honestly.

He chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The silence that followed was calm, almost comforting.

"I didn't bring you here out of pity, Vera," he said at last. His tone was firm but kind. "I brought you because I want you to be my Luna. Since I first saw you, there's been a pull I can't explain."

I looked up at him, heart pounding. His eyes were steady, sincere.

He lifted his glass. "To a new beginning," he said.

I raised mine slowly. "Cheers," I whispered. Our glasses touched softly, the sound echoing in the quiet hall.

I searched his face for a crack in his calm, but found none. Then he stood and patted my back gently. "Think about it and give me your answer tomorrow," he said before walking out of the hall.

Could he truly want someone like me as his Luna? Or was I just another piece in a game I didn't understand?

Questions filled my mind as I walked back to my room. Each one heavier than the last.

***CONRY***

Returning to my room, the weight of the night finally settled on my shoulders. The visit to Blake had drained more out of me than I cared to admit. My head ached, my body sore from travel, but it was the memories of the day that truly tired me.

I sank onto my bed with a quiet sigh. The sheets were cool against my skin, grounding. For a moment, I just stared at the ceiling, watching the faint shadows from the torches dance across the stone. The castle had grown silent; even the air seemed to rest.

A gentle knock broke the stillness.

"You called for me," a familiar voice said softly through the door.

"Come in," I replied.

The door creaked open, and Esther stepped in. She moved with the same calm grace she always had - a kind of peace that followed her like a scent. Since my mother's passing, she had become a quiet constant in my life - not as family, but as something close.

I straightened. "What's your honest opinion about Vera?" I asked, my voice low.

She smiled - that small, knowing smile that always came before truth. "I see the way you look at her," she teased lightly. "She'll make a fine partner. I tested her earlier - she passed with grace."

Her words loosened something inside me. Esther didn't give compliments easily. If she spoke well of Vera, then perhaps I wasn't chasing a fleeting feeling.

"Thank you, Esther. That will be all," I said, leaning back.

She nodded, her eyes soft but perceptive, and quietly left. Her footsteps faded down the hall, swallowed by the hush of the night.

Alone again, I tried to rest. But sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her - Vera. The way she stood, composed yet uncertain. The way her eyes held strength and fear in equal measure. I had seen many women before, but none quite like her.

I told myself to wait for morning. But my heart was impatient.

After a long moment of struggle, I rose, poured water into a basin, and splashed my face. The chill sharpened my thoughts. I reached for my fragrance oil - pine, warm and steady - and dabbed a little along my neck. It wasn't vanity; it was a habit of clarity. The scent always reminded me to be composed.

I didn't know if I was being bold or foolish. Maybe both. But I couldn't rest with her image burning behind my eyes.

The corridors were still. Golden armor plates lined the walls, reflecting the flickering light of torches. My steps echoed faintly on the stone, steady and rhythmic, almost in time with my heartbeat. With each step, it grew louder - heavier - as if urging me forward.

By the time I reached her door, my pulse was wild. I hesitated, then knocked twice.

Almost instantly, the door opened - as if she had been awake, waiting.

"Hi," I said softly, my voice lower than I meant it to be. "I'm sorry to intrude this late."

She shook her head gently. "It's fine," she said, stepping aside.

Her room felt different from mine - warmer somehow. The faint scent of rosemary and fresh wood lingered in the air. Moonlight poured in through the window, washing the space in silver. Everything about it felt quiet, safe, and almost sacred.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing toward a chair beside her bed. Her tone was calm, but her eyes flickered with something uncertain.

I nodded, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. The linen she wore shimmered faintly in the light, catching on the edges of her shoulders. She looked soft - yet there was something strong in the way she held herself.

Before I could think, I stepped closer. My hands moved almost on their own, resting lightly at her waist. I leaned down, searching her eyes for refusal. When it didn't come, I tilted my head and brushed my lips against hers.

The moment our lips touched, the world seemed to slow. Her breath hitched softly, and for a second, everything else - the walls, the silence, the weight of my position - vanished. There was only her warmth, her scent, the trembling stillness between us.

Then she made a small, uneasy sound - barely there, but enough. I froze. I wanted to stop, but my heart beat too loudly to think. My fingers lingered against her side before I forced them to still.

In that pause, realization struck me. She was innocent. Completely.

A wave of regret rushed through me. I drew back slowly, breathing hard, guilt coiling in my chest. "I should have been more patient," I whispered.

Her eyes met mine, and I saw it - relief. Not fear, not judgment. Relief. That look hit harder than any wound ever could.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, my voice heavier now. "I didn't know you were a virgin."

I sank into the chair beside her bed. My pulse was still erratic, but my mind had gone still.

I expected embarrassment or silence from her - maybe even anger - but instead, she smiled. It was soft, shy, and utterly disarming.

"I don't think I would've regretted it," she whispered. "If you were my first."

Her words stopped the air in my lungs. I just looked at her, unsure if I was hearing right. She wasn't playing games. Her eyes were too honest for that.

Something inside me shifted. The tension, the doubt, all of it fell away.

I reached for her hand, holding it gently between mine. Her skin was warm, grounding. "Please," I said, my voice steady now, "be my mate. Help me build something lasting - something real."

It wasn't a demand. It wasn't even a plea. It was truth.

She looked away shyly, her voice small but clear. "Sure."

The word hung in the air, soft and certain.

I smiled - not wide, but real. For the first time in a long while, I felt peace. The storm inside me eased, replaced by quiet warmth.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the torches outside and the slow rhythm of our breathing.

I rose slowly, still holding her gaze. "Get some rest," I said. "You've had a long day."

She nodded, though her eyes lingered on me in a way that made it hard to leave. I turned toward the door, my hand brushing the handle, when I felt a soft tug at my sleeve.

I turned.

Before I could ask, she leaned in and pressed her lips gently to mine - a quick, uncertain kiss, but one that set my chest on fire.

It wasn't passion this time. It was something else - quiet, brave, and full of unspoken things.

When she pulled back, her cheeks flushed. "Good night, Alpha," she whispered.

I couldn't find my voice for a moment. Then I nodded, managing a small smile. "Good night, Vera."

As I stepped into the hallway, the air felt colder than before. My pulse hadn't slowed; it was still hammering, echoing through me.

By the time I reached my room, her kiss was still there - faint on my lips, stubborn in my mind. I sat on the edge of my bed, running a hand through my hair, and let out a long, quiet breath.

No matter how hard I tried, I knew I wouldn't sleep tonight.

Because for the first time, the thought of her didn't just stir me - it settled somewhere deeper. Somewhere permanent.

And that, I realized, scared me more than anything else ever had.