CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KNOX
I stride away from the pavilion, my boots crunching against the gravel path as a war wages inside me.
My father's urgent mind-link still echoes in my head, demanding my immediate presence, but all I can think about is Aubrey's confused expression as I abandoned our conversation.
The cherry blossom petals swirl around my feet, carried by the evening breeze as I reluctantly put distance between us.
"Damn it," I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair. I'd finally gotten her to talk to me after days of avoidance, finally started to break through that carefully constructed wall she's built around herself, and now this.
The blood on my uniform has begun to dry, turning from bright crimson to a rusty brown that flakes off with each movement.
I should have changed before seeking her out, but after weeks of her slipping away every time I approached, I couldn't risk losing another opportunity.
Now I've left her alone with questions I promised to answer, and the frustration gnaws at me with each step I take away from her.
"You're making a mistake leaving her like this," Liam growls in my mind, his frustration mirroring my own.
"You think I don't know that?" I snap back. "But when the King mind-links with 'come immediately,' you don't get to say no."
The castle looms ahead, its weathered stone walls glowing amber in the setting sun.
Guards stand at attention as I approach, their armor gleaming, their faces impassive as they bow their heads in respect.
I barely acknowledge them, my mind still tangled in thoughts of Aubrey and what she must be thinking right now.
The familiar corridors of the royal wing feel suffocating tonight.
Ornate tapestries depicting our pack's history line the walls, illuminated by the warm glow of crystal sconces.
Their flickering light catches on the golden threads woven through scenes of battles and coronations, reminders of the legacy I'm meant to uphold.
Usually, these images fill me with pride, but tonight they only add to the weight on my shoulders.
I pause outside my father's study, taking a deep breath before knocking.
The heavy oak door, carved with our pack's crest – a wolf howling beneath a crescent moon – feels like a barrier between two worlds.
One where I can be just Knox, a man trying to figure out his complicated feelings for his mate, and another where I'm Crown Prince, heir to responsibilities that sometimes feel like shackles.
"Enter," my father's voice calls from within, authoritative even through the thick wood.
I push open the door and step into the familiar space, immediately assaulted by the scent of old books and the ever-present aroma of the blackberry tea my father favors.
The study's walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, filled with ancient tomes and royal records dating back centuries.
A massive desk dominates the center of the room, its surface cluttered with scrolls and maps illuminated by the soft glow of oil lamps.
Noah is here, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the lamplight as he stands beside my father. His usually impeccable appearance is slightly disheveled today – his collar unbuttoned, his dark hair falling across his forehead. Something about his expression sets me on edge immediately.
My father hunches over an ancient manuscript spread across his desk, his fingers tracing intricate runes surrounding our old pack crest. The parchment looks fragile, yellowed with age, and I recognize it as part of the sacred texts usually locked away in the archive vaults.
Whatever has prompted him to retrieve such a precious document must be serious.
I clear my throat, announcing my presence, but he doesn't look up, too absorbed in whatever secrets the manuscript holds. It's my mother who notices me first, her emerald silk dress rustling as she turns from where she stands by the window.
"Knox!" her voice rises with concern as her eyes land on my uniform. "Is that blood? Are you hurt?" She rushes toward me, her hands already reaching to check for injuries.
Before I can respond, my father's voice cuts through the room, deep and grave. "There are reports of violence in the outer territories." He finally looks up from the manuscript, his eyes sharp as they lock onto mine. "Targeted attacks against common folk, supposedly carried out by royal guards."
The stark contrast between my parents' reactions doesn't escape me.
While my mother immediately worries for my safety, my father doesn't even spare a moment to ask if I'm injured.
The blood covering my uniform means nothing to him compared to the political implications of whatever happened.
It's always been this way—the kingdom first, his son's well-being a distant afterthought.
The accusation in his tone is unmistakable, and my jaw tightens in response. "We were dealing with rogue wolves at the borders," I explain, keeping my voice steady despite the anger building in my chest. "They've been terrorizing villages, stealing livestock, threatening children."
"And you felt it necessary to use such force that witnesses speak of a massacre?" My father rises from his chair, his imposing height made more significant by the authority radiating from him.
"Witnesses?" I challenge, stepping further into the room. "What witnesses? Who's spreading these lies?"
My father doesn't answer directly, which is answer enough. There's only one person who would twist the truth this way, one person who's made it his mission to undermine everything I do.
"Answer the question, Knox," my father demands, his Alpha voice rumbling through the room. "Did you or your men use excessive force against civilians?"
"Absolutely not," I state firmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "We targeted only the rogues threatening our people's safety. Any claims to the contrary are fabricated."
My mother steps forward, placing a calming hand on my father's arm. "Of course," she says soothingly. "Even if someone like Jax would say otherwise, as he has always done, I believe our son completely."
At the mention of my half-brother's name, something shifts in my father's expression.
The hardness in his eyes softens, and a familiar wistfulness replaces his stern demeanor.
It's the same look he gets whenever Jax is brought into any conversation – this automatic benefit of doubt, this inherent favoritism that's existed for as long as I can remember.
I keep my face carefully neutral, swallowing the bitterness that rises in my throat.
Internally, though, my thoughts rage against the injustice of it all.
For years, I've brought reports about Jax's questionable activities – the strange meetings with known criminals, the unexplained disappearances of his critics, the territories that fall silent after his visits.
And for years, my father has dismissed them all, blinded by whatever bond he shares with his firstborn.
I believe there's truth to the rumors about Jax, more than my father will ever acknowledge.
I just haven't found concrete evidence yet – evidence even he couldn't ignore.
But until that day comes, I've learned to keep these thoughts to myself, especially in moments like this when my father is already defensive about him.
A strange silence falls over the room as my father stares distantly toward the window, lost in thoughts of his favored son.
The tension grows thicker with each passing second, no one willing to interrupt whatever memories hold him captive.
I share a glance with my mother, whose lips press into a thin line of resignation.
Finally, Noah clears his throat, the sound almost jarring in the oppressive quiet. "My king," he says gently, "we should discuss the other matter we called Prince Knox here for."
My father blinks, returning to the present moment with visible effort. "Yes," he agrees, straightening his shoulders. "We have more pressing matters to discuss."
Noah gives me a meaningful look, his eyes communicating that we'll talk more later, away from this charged atmosphere. I give him an almost imperceptible nod of understanding.
"Knox," my father begins, his tone shifting from accusatory to authoritative, "it's time we discussed your situation with Lady Aubrey."
I stiffen, immediately defensive. "What about it?"
"You've found your mate, yet you continue to delay formalizing the bond." He circles his desk, each movement deliberate and regal in his midnight blue robes embroidered with silver thread. "The kingdom needs stability, especially now. You must take responsibility."
"My personal life is my business," I argue, crossing my arms over my chest. "The bond will happen when we're both ready."
"You made an oath," he reminds me, his voice hardening again. "To find a Luna and produce an heir. The throne cannot remain vulnerable."
"What's the sudden urgency?" I demand, frustration making my words sharper than intended. "We have time."
"Two days," he declares, stopping directly in front of me, close enough that I can see the silver threads in his dark beard. "You have two days to decide. After that, your mother and I will make the choice for you."
Fury burns through me, hot and immediate. "You can't force a mating bond!"
"No, but I can arrange a public ceremony that makes it nearly impossible for either of you to back out without causing a political incident." His expression is implacable, unyielding. "The kingdom needs its Luna for the Awakening Ceremony."
Something about his tone sends a chill down my spine, despite the anger still coursing through my veins. There's an urgency here that doesn't make sense, a desperation poorly hidden beneath his commanding exterior.
"Noah will explain the rest," my father says, already dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "You're excused."
I stand rooted to the spot for a moment, stunned by the abrupt end to the conversation and the ultimatum laid before me.
It's not that I don't want to take responsibility for Aubrey – but I'm not ready for that step in my life.
Marriage, mating, formalizing a bond that will tie us together forever – these are decisions that should be made when I'm prepared to shoulder the weight of them, not forced upon me by arbitrary deadlines.
This timeline feels wrong, manipulative in a way I can't quite define.
"Come on," Noah says quietly, appearing at my side. "Let's go for a run."
Twenty minutes later, we're deep in the forest, our wolves racing through the underbrush.
The cool night air rushes through my fur as I follow Noah's smaller, sleeker form between ancient trees.
Pine needles and fallen leaves cushion our paws, and the familiar scents of the forest – earth, moss, and the distant hint of wildflowers – help calm the storm of emotions still raging inside me.
"Where are we going?" I demand through our mind-link, jumping over a fallen log without breaking stride. "And why all the secrecy?"
"You'll understand soon enough," Noah replies cryptically, increasing his pace.
The forest grows denser, older, the trees stretching higher toward the star-studded sky. An almost imperceptible shift occurs in the energy around us – the air feels heavier, charged with something ancient and powerful. I recognize our direction now, and unease settles in my gut.
"The Ancient Heart?" I question, slowing slightly. "Why are we going there?"
Noah doesn't answer, just pushes forward with renewed determination.
Few wolves are permitted to enter this sacred grove where our pack's first Alpha established their claim.
Legend says it's connected to the Moon Goddess herself, a place where visions and prophecies manifest. As children, we were taught to fear and revere this space in equal measure.
Whatever Noah wants to show me must be significant if it requires bringing me to such hallowed ground.
We reach the edge of the clearing, and Noah shifts back to his human form. I follow suit, my skin prickling in the night air as I take human shape once more. The bioluminescent fungi that grow only in this grove cast an ethereal blue glow across the clearing, illuminating Noah's grim expression.
"Follow me," he says softly, as if afraid of disturbing the sacred space.
He leads me deeper into the Ancient Heart, past the ceremonial stones used in pack rituals and toward the massive oak that stands at the very center – the First Tree, said to have been planted by the Moon Goddess herself when she blessed our kingdom with her favor.
But as we approach, something feels wrong. The energy that usually emanates from the tree – warm, protective, life-affirming – is different now. Colder. Discordant.
Noah stops abruptly, pointing to the base of the ancient oak. "Look."
I step forward, my bare feet silent on the moss-covered ground. What I see makes my stomach churn.