Chapter Thirty-Three
T HIRTY - T HREE
I’m to be married in the great hall at Trevelyan.
Oliver takes me there, as if my father has already passed on his responsi bility for me.
I’m glad it’s Oliver. He doesn’t expect me to happily prance down the hall to my wedding.
He takes a moment to reassure me and offer his sympathies and quietly promise it will mean nothing, that Bishop would never bind me to any contract.
Then he holds out his arm, and as I take it, we exchange a look that says we’ll get through this, all of us.
When we arrive at the great hall, it’s nothing like a wedding.
There’s no music, no sounds of bright chatter, no ushers waiting nervously at the door.
I’m not carrying flowers. Audrey isn’t standing at the front, beaming at me.
Lenora isn’t there, looking concerned but trying to be happy for me.
I’m not wearing my mother’s jewels or a ring given to me by my groom-to-be.
Amazing, really, that I know all these details of weddings, despite having avoided them.
We reach the room to hear shuffling and murmuring inside, anxiety whipping through the air. No one is happy. Everyone is on edge.
Can’t Silas see what he’s doing? He’s been Alpha for nearly two decades. He must be able to manage his Pack better than this.
But has he needed to manage them? Or did he inherit a stable and functioning Pack that didn’t require anything more than his inner circle could provide?
Silas’s grip on the Pack is slipping, and I should be delighted. He’ll pay for murdering my aunt, the maids will be freed, and the Pack will finally be under the leadership of a good man. So why do I find myself trembling as I walk in that door?
You’re plummeting headfirst into hell, Father. I should be overjoyed. But I’m not. I’m terrified. You aren’t done with us yet. I know you aren’t.
I take deep breaths. Silas will try to drag us to hell with him. I’m sure of that. But we’ll be ready. For now, we just need to get past this sham of a wedding. Let him think he’s won.
The room is arranged like a formal wedding, with chairs down the sides.
When I enter, heads turn, but I keep my gaze on Bishop, standing at the front, wearing a fresh suit, hands folded in front of him.
Seeing me, he manages a smile that I think is supposed to be reassuring, but even from here, I see the worry in his eyes.
His gaze flits out to the assembled wolves, as if he’s searching for a face.
Beside Bishop stands a stranger. The vicar, a young man with sweat dripping from his hairline, despite the open windows and cool breeze.
Does he have any idea who—or what—he’s dealing with here?
Even if he doesn’t, he has a reason to sweat.
He’s been summoned to officiate at a wedding with only men in attendance.
Two dozen men, all emanating a certain something that is unmistakable in such numbers. Strength. Power. Danger.
Seeing me, the vicar tries for a smile and holds out his hands.
“My dear,” he says. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you. And thank you for coming on such short notice.”
He relaxes, as if my civility proves I’m not being dragged to the altar against my will. To reassure him, I move closer to Bishop, who puts an arm around my waist, leans in, and whispers, “You do look lovely,” loud enough for the vicar to hear.
Silas starts pontificating in his booming voice. I don’t know where he is—I didn’t bother to look. His speechifying gives Bishop a chance to lean toward me and murmur, “I’m so sorry. I will fix this, I swear it. This is only a formality.”
“I know.” I look up at him. “But something else is wrong. You keep looking for someone.”
“Julius. He isn’t here.”
“What?” I scan the assembled wolves. He’s right. There’s no sign of Julius.
“Silas says he’s needed for Felix and Henry. He won’t let him come.”
“When did you last see him?”
“An hour ago. I told him about the wedding.”
“How was he?” I ask.
Bishop pauses. “Tired but fine.” Another pause. “Harry isn’t here either.”
“What?”
Bishop squeezes his eyes shut. “Ignore me. I’m on edge and thinking too much.”
I squeeze his arm. “I don’t like any of this, but we’ll get through—”
“My dear,” Silas calls. “If you could take your hands off your groom for a few minutes and let the vicar do his work, you may touch him all you like afterward. Bishop, that is, not the vicar.”
Laughter at that, the wolves relaxing even as the vicar goes bright red.
“Ignore my father,” I murmur to the poor man. “He’s already been sampling the wedding wine.”
I sneak one last glance at Bishop, who offers a tight smile, mouthing I’m fine before lifting his chin, erasing any emotion from his face, and turning to the vicar.
“You may begin.”
The ceremony proceeds as, I presume, wedding ceremonies do. Then it’s over. I’m married. To Bishop. And it’s wrong. It’s so horribly wrong.
In Bishop, I saw a flicker of something I might want, something I thought I’d never want, and I desperately longed to explore that possibility with him.
Maybe it would have ended with a love that lasted the rest of our days.
Maybe it would have ended next week, the two of us going our separate ways with fond farewells.
But I wanted that choice, damn it. I wanted it for both of us.
It’s like seeing the flicker of a flame, drawn to the promise of it, reaching to touch it—and being yanked into a raging inferno instead, one that engulfs and destroys that tiny flame and all the promise it bore.
After the ceremony, my father sends Claude to pay the vicar and escort him to the waiting coach. They’re getting the poor man out before he hears anything he shouldn’t. Getting him out, too, presumably, to file whatever papers are needed to make this marriage official.
The moment the vicar is out of earshot, Bishop and I are engulfed by the Pack.
Bishop’s allies know this wasn’t how our story was supposed to end.
Even most of the others will realize this isn’t a joyous occasion.
In their well-wishes, I don’t see hypocrisy or thoughtlessness.
I see camaraderie and sympathy, especially for me.
I was brought against my will, married against my will, but they fall over themselves to make me feel welcome, to assure me I am welcome.
I did find something here, at Trevelyan, with these men, these wolves, this Pack.
Just as I found something with Bishop. If I don’t embrace the gift that has been given me, that’s not an insult to them.
Choice. It all comes down to choice, and the little voice inside me raging that I could have been happy, with Bishop, with the Pack, and that chance has been snatched from me forever.
Because of my father.
Because of Silas Stockwell.
We’re accepting the well-wishes as Bishop steers me through the room, clearly wanting to get me alone to talk. We’re halfway there when Silas walks through the door, and I pause. I didn’t notice he’d left.
It doesn’t matter. We’ll accept his well-wishes and endure his smug satisfaction, and then—
Bishop makes a noise, deep in his throat, and it’s a terrible noise, an animal noise, not of rage or warning but of pain.
I spin, heart in my throat, expecting to see a knife jutting from his back.
Instead, he’s staring, slack-faced, eyes wide with the terror of a small child, and that look freezes everything in me as I follow his gaze.
Behind Silas are two of his wolves… dragging someone by the forearms, their captive bound and gagged.
Time stops, and all I can see is Lenora. My aunt, dragged into this very room in the same way by the same two wolves.
But it’s not Lenora.
It’s Julius.
Julius’s head rises, his eyes finding his cousin’s, and he shakes his head.
No, his eyes say. No.
No what? No, he’s all right? No, don’t react?
Or no, we’re done for. Silas knows everything, and we are done for.
“I hate to interrupt the celebration,” Silas says. “But I have terrible news.” He pauses and then says, “Henry is dead.”
I jerk as if slapped. Bishop’s hand tightens on mine as murmurs rise all around us, in question and confusion, and I realize now why Harry isn’t here.
“Yes,” Silas says. “Our valiant enforcer—my dearest friend—has died, and this man—this doctor —would have you believe he succumbed to his injuries. It’s a lie.”
More murmurs, the tide rising, some anger but mostly confusion.
Julius hasn’t stopped looking at Bishop. He shakes his head again, his eyes screaming his innocence.
“One of your brother wolves caught this mongrel murdering your Pack brother. Apparently, that was his wedding gift to his cousin. Yes, Henry chased my daughter the other night, but only because he thought she was trying to escape. He made a mistake. He didn’t intend treachery, much less treason.
I’d have needed to punish him, but in the end, he’d have proven his loyalty again.
Now he’ll never get the chance, because of this coward’s actions. ”
Anger rumbles around us, but little of it falls on Julius. I catch whispers, too low for Silas to hear. Whispers that Henry Cain was a brute, that he’d have hurt me if he’d caught me, they all know that.
Silas doesn’t hear the whispers. Bishop doesn’t seem to either. His gaze has moved from his cousin to Silas. It fixes on Silas’s hands, and my heart stutters.
Bishop is watching Silas’s hands. Making sure they don’t get anywhere near Julius. Making sure he doesn’t grab his chin and snap his neck in a heartbeat.
I clench my fists, frantically skimming through my repertoire of spells for the best one to stop Silas if he makes a move toward Julius.
“The only question,” Silas continues, “is who devised this scheme. It wasn’t Julius. Our doctor doesn’t have that level of cunning, of deviousness. He only carried out someone else’s order. But who? Who would see Henry as a threat? As a danger?”
Silas turns slowly on his heel until he’s facing us.