The celebration still roared behind her, laughter and clinking glasses echoing against marble and mirrored walls, but Arin was no longer part of it. She had been escorted without a word to a quieter wing of the palace, one meant for brides and ceremonies of the flesh. There, her heavy ceremonial robes were stripped away and replaced with a sheer, gauzy nightdress of ivory silk and a robe that trailed behind her.
The fabric clung to her skin like cold water, leaving little to the imagination. Her hair, long and dark, had been brushed until it shone like river glass. Perfumed oil had been dabbed behind her ears, at her wrists, and at the curve of her throat.
She looked like a bride prepared for her groom.
But inside, she felt like a sacrifice being led to the altar.
She sat at the edge of a long, cushioned chaise, back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap to keep them from trembling. The maid who had led her there bowed in silence and left, closing the chamber door behind her.
For a few blessed moments, she was alone.
Then the door opened again, and Alpha Oswald stepped inside.
Her father.
His presence chilled the room more than the cold stone ever could. She rose quickly, instinctively, and found herself gripping the back of a chair without realizing she had moved. Her breath hitched.
He was all authority, all command. His shadow stretched long across the floor.
"What was the meaning of that?" he demanded, voice sharp and unrelenting.
Arin tried to stand taller, even as her knees wanted to give beneath her. "F–Father," she began, only to stumble over the words. "He cannot stand me."
"How he feels is inconsequential," he barked. "You are queen now. So act like it."
Arin's lips parted. "I don't want to be here," she said, voice quieter than she wanted but no longer trembling. "Take me back. Please, Father. Please."
He didn't respond immediately. He stood there, staring at her like she were something broken that needed to be repaired, or discarded.
"I can't do this," she continued, and the fire inside her began to spark beneath the despair. "He humiliated me. Everyone saw it. And now I'm expected to lie with him like I'm nothing more than a contract in a gown. A piece of meat with royal blood."
She stepped closer, chin lifting. "Take me back to the North. We can say the bond failed. Or that I was unfit. I'll run if I have to. I'd rather be a fugitive than his puppet."
At last, he moved like a blur, his fist meeting the side of her face and flinging her to the floor.
"You are weak," he said as he stared down at her with disgust. "You should have died along with your mother."
Arin stiffened. The words landed like a slap, but she refused to crumble, not even now. Not even as she was helpless at his feet.
"I have no doubt," Oswald went on coldly, "that Nova would not have been so disappointing."
Her nails dug into the fabric of the chaise. He knew exactly how to hit her where it hurt. But this time, she didn't flinch. She just stared at him, her expression unreadable, her rage sharpening to glass inside her.
"You have no other choice," he continued. "The bond has been sanctified by blood. By the old laws. To sever it now would risk war between the North and the Crown. Roan's enemies would strike. Our allies would scatter. Everything I have built, everything would burn."
She was breathing hard now, chest rising and falling beneath the thin silk.
Oswald bent and smoothed her hair back, a touch that should've been fatherly, but felt like a command masked in false tenderness.
"The future of the North lies in your hands," he said, voice low, dangerous. "Do not disappoint me again."
Her throat burned from swallowing the scream building inside her. But she said nothing.
A knock at the door made both of them pause. Then, it opened.
Usera stepped inside with her usual brand of slinking elegance, dressed in deep crimson silks that clung to her like blood. Her eyes too much like Nova's swept the room with poorly disguised disdain.
"How touching," she said, voice syrup-sweet and poisonous. "But the king awaits his bride."
Oswald nodded once, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve before turning back to Arin. "I know you'll make me proud," he said, as if that settled everything.
She didn't reply. Only watched them both leave, Oswald's hand gently guiding Usera out like she were porcelain. And Arin wondered how the man who had never once held her like that could summon such softness for the woman who had made her life a battlefield.
The moment the door shut behind them, Arin jumped up and another maid entered. She didn't lift her head.
"His Majesty is ready to receive you," she said.
Arin didn't move.
The defiance inside her crackled like fire under skin. But she understood the stakes. She knew that disobedience wouldn't earn her escape, it would only cement her disgrace. And worse, it would give Nova everything.
So she breathed. Deeply. She lifted her chin.
As she eyed her reflection in the mirror she realized she was going to need more powder to hide the bruise on her face.
*
The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by flickering sconces and moonlight slanting through stained glass. The king's chambers stood at the far end, behind towering oak doors flanked by guards who did not meet her eyes.
The maid opened the door.
Arin stepped inside and froze.
The air caught in her throat. Her bare feet stilled against the cold floor.
Nova.
Naked. Twisting against Roan like something born of silk and sin, all smug curves and smirking dominance.
Roan.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, hands gripping Nova's hips. His head tilted back, mouth slack.
He knew she was there. She saw it in the way his muscles tensed. In the stillness that overtook him. Then his eyes opened.
They locked with hers.
And he did nothing.
Didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't even pretend to care.
His queen stood at the door, and he simply stared like she were the one intruding. Like her pain was entertainment.
Nova turned lazily, eyes finding Arin like a cat regarding prey. Her mouth curled into a satisfied smile, smug and victorious.
She moaned.
Louder. Deliberately.
Arin stood there, numb with horror.
Then something inside her cracked, snapped and the ache gave way to fury.
She turned. Her nightdress whipped behind her as she stormed from the room, the door slamming with a force that rattled the sconces. She didn't know where she was going. Didn't care.
She needed to flee.
Down the corridor, past confused guards calling her name, barefoot and wild and burning. Her chest heaved with every breath, but the tears refused to fall.
Only rage moved her now.
Roan had made a mockery of her. Nova had orchestrated it like a symphony. And her father had sealed it with blood.
She was not Roan's queen.
She was not his mate.
She was a pawn, a placeholder, a name in a book meant to fulfill an ancient prophecy and feed male pride.
And she was helpless.