Chapter 1 #2
"I wouldn't have to. The pact would do it for me. Ancient magic cares nothing for innocence or fairness. It only cares about balance." He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "Your grandmother understood this. That's why she spent your entire life preparing you rather than helping you run."
He's right, and I hate him for it. Helena never tried to break the pact or hide me from its reach. She trained me instead. Combat, strategy, supernatural politics, and survival. She made me into a weapon because she knew I would need to be one.
I just didn't expect to feel so powerless when the moment finally arrived.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "I'll stay. I'll play your political bride. But don't expect me to be grateful, and don't expect me to submit."
That slow smile returns, curving his lips without touching his eyes. "I expect nothing but defiance from you, Iris Carswell. Your grandmother's reports made that clear."
The words jolt through me. "Reports?"
"Did you think I accepted this arrangement blindly? I've known about you for years. Known what you are, what you're capable of, what fire burns beneath that careful control." He leans closer, and his voice drops to something intimate and dangerous. "I've been waiting for you."
The confession should terrify me. It does terrify me. But there's heat beneath the fear, a reckless pull toward the possession in his tone that I refuse to examine.
I shove it down and take a step back. "Then you know I won't be easy to keep."
"I'm counting on it." He gestures to one of the guards by the door. "Take her to the Omega Suite. She'll need rest before the formal presentation."
The Omega Suite. I don't know what that means, but I don't like the sound of it.
"One more thing," he says as I turn to follow the guard. I pause but don't look back. "Welcome to Fenrir's Reach, little wolf. I have a feeling you're going to make things very interesting."
“I’m not a wolf.”
“Yet,” he responds with a feral grin.
I walk away without responding. His words follow me down the corridor, settling into my skin where I can't scratch them out.
The room is a cage dressed in silk and velvet.
The guard deposits me inside and closes the door behind him. I hear the lock engage and the heavy tread of boots taking position in the hallway. No pretense of freedom here. No illusion of choice.
I stand in the center of the room and force myself to breathe.
The space is beautiful, objectively speaking.
A massive four-poster bed dominates one wall, draped in furs and covered in pillows that look soft enough to drown in.
A fireplace crackles in the corner, casting warm light across thick rugs and polished wood furniture.
The windows are large and offer a stunning view of the mountain range stretching into the distance, all snow-capped peaks and endless sky.
The windows are also barred.
I begin my inventory systematically, just as Helena taught me.
The door is solid oak reinforced with iron.
The lock is sophisticated, beyond my current skill to pick without proper tools.
The bars on the windows are set deep into the stone, too thick to cut and too close together to squeeze through.
The fireplace flue is too narrow for even a child to climb.
There's a bathroom attached, all gleaming tile and modern fixtures.
A closet filled with clothes in my exact size, hanging in neat rows.
Three days of travel, and he already knows how I dress down to the cut of my jeans.
A vanity stocked with toiletries and cosmetics.
Every comfort provided, every escape route eliminated.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and allow myself thirty seconds of pure, unfiltered despair.
Helena is dead. The blood pact is active.
I am trapped in a fortress full of wolves who see me as either a curiosity or a threat, bound to marry a man who looked at me like I was already his.
My entire life has been building toward this moment, and now that it's here, I feel desperately, horribly unprepared.
The thirty seconds end. I get to work.
My bag contains the few possessions I was allowed to bring. Clothes. A photograph of Helena and my parents. Notes in my grandmother's cramped handwriting. And a small bottle of white pills that I've taken every morning since I turned sixteen.
I shake the bottle and count the contents through the amber plastic. Twelve pills left.
Helena called them vitamins. Said they were important for my health, for keeping me strong and balanced. I never questioned it because I never questioned her. But now, sitting in a wolfshifter fortress while an Alpha waits somewhere above me, I wonder what I've been swallowing all these years.
I wonder what happens when they run out.
The fire crackles. Outside, the sun begins its descent behind the mountains, painting the snow in shades of orange and gold. Somewhere in the fortress, wolves are going about their lives, following their routines, obeying their Alpha without question.
I am not a wolf. I am not pack. I am a human woman with twelve pills, a head full of training, and absolutely no idea what comes next.
I unscrew the bottle and shake one pill into my palm. It sits there, small and white and completely unremarkable. Helena gave me these. Helena, who spent my entire life preparing me for this exact situation. Helena, who never did anything without a reason.
What was she protecting me from?
I swallow the pill dry and tuck the bottle back into my bag, hiding it beneath a fold of clothing. Eleven left now. Eleven days, maybe less if I can't maintain my normal schedule.
The lock clicks, and I tense, but no one enters. Just the guard checking that I haven't miraculously escaped through solid stone. His footsteps retreat, and silence fills the room.
Eleven pills.
My skin prickles with warning, and I remember the way Stellan's nostrils flared when I entered the hall. The way his eyes tracked me like he could scent something I couldn't. The way he said he'd been waiting for me, as if he knew exactly what would walk through those doors.
Whatever Helena was hiding, I don't think it's going to stay hidden much longer.