The porcelain teacup rattled against its saucer, a tremor that began in my fingertips and worked its way up my forearm. I pressed the cup tighter between my palms, but the shaking only grew worse. If I had been less stubborn, I would have set it down and surrendered to the adrenaline crash that always came after a disaster. Instead, I forced the cup to my lips, desperate for something—anything—that wasn't the memory of last night echoing in my skull.
Across the sitting room, Derick prowled the width of the window, hands tucked behind his back in the way his father did whenever the conversation took a turn he didn't like. Sunlight caught on his signet ring—a coiled silver wolf gripping a green stone—and flashed across the silk threads of his shirt. His hair, still damp from the shower, stuck up in little spikes. The faint line between his brows deepened every time his gaze flicked to me, then to the clock, then back to the skyline beyond the glass.
"She doesn't have to be in the same building as you, let alone your lesson schedule," he said finally. "I'll have her reassigned. Councilor's daughter or not." He planted his palm against the window frame, fingers splaying wide as if he meant to grip the city and shake it for answers.
I set the cup down, aiming for silence and missing; the china clinked anyway, a pin-drop in the hush between us. "And then what?" I asked, keeping my voice steady, chin lifted just enough to suggest I might not shatter if pressed.
He looked at me then. Not the glance of a worried lover, but the full weight of the Crown Prince: eyes clear, jaw cut from granite, every nerve ready to break for me. "Then I deal with the fallout," he said, his voice as calm as steel in the cold. "It's not your problem to fix." The undertone was all wolf—protect, shield, absorb the bullet before it could reach the softer target.
I wove my hands together and pressed them to my lap, feeling the tea's warmth seep into my skin. The argument flickered in my mind: I was the one being taught, the one with the most access, the only one who could watch her up close. I knew how to play a role, even if I'd never learned the royal kind. "She'll know something's wrong if we push her out now," I said. "And then we lose any chance of catching her in the act. She'll just get sneakier." I forced a breath into my lungs and exhaled through pursed lips. "But if I keep going, maybe she'll mess up again. Maybe she already has."
Derick's shoulders slumped, the tension leaking out of him in a visible sigh. "You're not a soldier, Cassy. You shouldn't have to do this."
"I'm not a soldier, but I'm your mate." I surprised myself with the force of it, the way it rang through the air like a challenge. "I don't want to be locked in a tower, Derick. Not now." I caught his eyes, refusing to look away until he blinked first. "She's a snake, but I'm not prey anymore."
He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to one knee beside my chair. His hands cupped my face, fingertips rough from combat training, palms warm against my jaw. The mate bond hummed between us, an electric current that made my bones ache with longing and, just as quickly, soothed every raw nerve. "You're braver than you know," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine so all I could see was the shimmer of his lashes, the faintest gold ring around his pupils. "But you don't have to prove anything to me."
I let myself lean into his touch, feeling the mate bond pulse steady and sure under my skin. For a moment, I could almost imagine that we were just two people with ordinary problems—overbearing parents, dinner invitations, picking the right outfit for a date. But the world would never let us have that. Maybe that was okay.
I drew back, brushing a knuckle along the line of his jaw. "You'd do the same for me," I said. "You already have."
He caught my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist, lingering until the shakes retreated. "Text me after the lesson," he said, voice hardening at the edges. "I don't trust her alone with you."
"Don't trust her at all," I corrected, managing a smile.
He returned it, though his eyes stayed troubled. "Keep your phone on you," he ordered, all Alpha now. "If she tries anything—"
"I'll be fine." My own voice surprised me, soft but full. "She won't see me coming."
I pulled away, giving myself over to the small rituals of preparation. I selected a navy sheath dress—nothing ostentatious, just enough structure to hold my posture upright and make Natalia's inevitable critique a little less biting. No jewelry, no distractions, not even the Silvermoon crest Derick had pressed into my hand the first week I arrived.
When I checked my reflection in the mirror, I saw the scars along my jaw—the ones I'd spent so long hiding with hair or concealer. I didn't bother now. If Natalia meant to rattle me, she'd have to dig deeper.
I met Derick at the door, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back as he walked me to the elevator. "You sure?" he asked, one last time.
I nodded, then squared my shoulders and stepped inside.
The doors slid shut, sealing me in with my thoughts and the faint scent of his aftershave lingering on my skin. By the time the elevator opened on the etiquette floor, I had built a fortress of composure around my heart. I could feel Natalia waiting, but this time, I would not yield an inch.
—
The etiquette suite was colder than usual, as if Natalia had ordered the thermostat set to arctic for the sole purpose of watching me shiver. Every step I took across the marble floor echoed, the heels of my borrowed shoes ringing out in the frosted air. The doors closed behind me with a hush, and I was alone in the room with her and the ghost of every lesson that had come before.
Natalia waited by the central table, her posture so rigid I half-expected to hear the creak of bones. She wore sapphire blue today, the dress a sheath that made her appear taller, more imposing—a queen in exile, waiting for the chance to reclaim her throne. The table was set as if for a state dinner: each piece of silver cutlery aligned with mathematical precision, the fine china plates spaced evenly on a white linen field, the crystal glasses gleaming under the punishing overhead lights. If the cutlery had been any sharper, I could have used it to dissect the tension between us.
She didn't look up at first, content to let me marinate in the silence. When she finally did, her gaze swept over me in a scan as impersonal as a barcode reader. "Punctuality," she announced, "is a rare and admirable trait. Let us hope it is not the only one you possess."
I inclined my head, refusing to be baited. "Good morning, Natalia," I replied, the words clipped but polite.
"Sit," she commanded, gesturing at the chair closest to her own. "Today's lesson will be about public appearances. You will be expected to observe and learn, not improvise."
I slid into the seat, keeping my back straight and my chin level, the way Derick had taught me. I folded my hands atop the table and waited.
She circled me, heels striking the marble in a cadence that reminded me of a firing squad lining up. With every pass, she observed some new flaw: "Shoulders back." "Chin down, not up." "Hands folded, not splayed." I corrected each with the mechanical precision of a puppet, but I noted the way her eyes lingered on my face, hunting for cracks in my composure.
"Your background is—how shall I put this—lacking in the refinements expected of a royal consort." She said it with the hint of a smile, a serrated blade wrapped in silk. "You must be twice as polished to avoid embarrassing the Silvermoon name."
I kept my breathing even, not trusting myself to speak without letting the edge of my temper slip through. Instead, I nodded. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind."
She smirked, as if delighted by my submission. "Very well. We begin."
The next forty minutes blurred into a symphony of instructions and corrections. Natalia demonstrated the perfect way to lift a wine glass—by the stem, never the bowl, always with three fingers. She quizzed me on napkin etiquette, on the correct sequence for using the flatware, on how to dab rather than wipe the corners of my mouth. With each answer I gave, she responded with a coldly clinical "Adequate," or, more often, "Insufficient. Again." My wolf stirred beneath my skin, hackles rising every time her voice slid over my name like oil on ice.
She allowed herself small flourishes of cruelty: a finger tapping the scar at my jaw, a too-casual comment about "the unfortunate state of your hands." I traced the line of my thumb along the edge of my palm, feeling the rough patches where my nerves had regrown after old wounds. I didn't flinch. Every word she spoke was ammunition, and I collected each piece for future use.
Throughout the lesson, I watched her microexpressions as closely as she watched my posture. When she mentioned Derick's name, her lips curled at the corners, a flicker of something that looked like resentment or maybe loss. When she corrected my use of formal titles, her nostrils flared, the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkling with suppressed irritation. The perfume she wore—something sharp and floral, with an aftertaste of vinegar—grew stronger whenever she leaned in to criticize. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots: the lessons, the surveillance, the betrayal.
Midway through a demonstration of how to accept a compliment ("Always gracious, never eager"), Natalia abruptly set her glass down with a clink that echoed like a pistol shot. "We'll be suspending our sessions for the remainder of the week," she said, her tone shifting from frigid to saccharine in a single syllable. "In three days' time, the full moon will rise. As is tradition, the Crown Princess will be formally introduced to the pack before the run."
My mind reeled for a heartbeat. I'd known the full moon was coming—every wolf did, the tug in our blood as sure as the sunrise—but I hadn't expected to be trotted out in front of the entire kingdom like a prized hound. I waited, unwilling to show surprise.
"The ceremony is ancient," Natalia continued, voice syrupy. "The entire court will be present. It is imperative that you do not embarrass yourself—or the royal line. I will, of course, be available for consultation should you wish to avoid any… missteps." She smiled, teeth white as piano keys.
I noted the rhythm of her tapping fingers, the way they drummed an angry tattoo against the linen whenever she spoke of my "royal future." And when she lifted her teacup to her lips, her knuckles whitened around the handle, the only hint of her real feelings showing through the immaculate veneer.
"Thank you for the information," I said, matching her sweetness note for note. "I appreciate your… guidance."
The lesson closed with a final recitation: the correct order for greeting foreign dignitaries, the expected posture for receiving gifts, the precise angle for curtsying. I performed each with the blank perfection of a wax mannequin, feeling the heat of her stare even when my eyes were lowered.
As I rose to leave, Natalia placed a hand lightly atop my own. Her skin was cold and dry, as if she'd drained all warmth to fuel the fire in her eyes. "You have improved," she said, and for the first time, the compliment almost sounded genuine. "Do not waste my efforts by faltering now."
I pulled my hand free, inclining my head. "I won't," I promised. My wolf, restless and impatient, promised something else entirely.
I walked out of the suite without looking back, the sound of her heels trailing me to the elevator. When the doors closed, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. The adrenaline buzzed in my veins, not with fear but with the clarity of a new plan forming.
Natalia wanted a spectacle at the full moon run. She would have it—but not the kind she imagined. I would face the court, the cameras, the pack, every set of eyes hungry to see whether the orphaned girl from nowhere could measure up. I would walk into the fire she'd stoked and walk out the other side unburned.
And if she thought the game ended at the table, she had forgotten who set the rules now.