The hall was still trembling with the shock of Rhys Kaelen's declaration when the Shadow Alpha tightened his grip on Elara's wrist and drew her toward him. Not gently. Not violently. Something colder—efficient, impersonal, the way one might take hold of an object rather than a person.
Gasps rippled around them, but Rhys didn't acknowledge any of them. His expression remained unreadable, carved from stone and shadow, his attention fixed only on what he intended to do next.
Cassian recovered first.
"You can't take her!" he snapped, shoving forward. "This ceremony is under Vaelor authority. You can't interfere with—"
Rhys's head turned at last, a slow pivot of cold, predatory control. His gaze cut straight through Cassian's outrage and landed on something deeper—fear, uncertainty, pride trembling on the edge of shattering.
"I already have," Rhys said.
His voice wasn't raised, but the hall fell silent anyway.
Cassian's jaw snapped shut before he opened it again, forcing more bravado into his stance. "You'e provoking a direct violation of inter-pack protocol. If you think the Vaelor will accept this—"
Rhys took one measured step toward him.
The heir flinched.
Only slightly, but enough that the entire room saw it.
"You want to talk protocol?" Rhys murmured, voice low enough that only those closest could hear—yet it carried unmistakable danger. "Then explain why you initiated a live-broadcast rejection of candidate you summoned."
Cassian's mouth opened. Closed.
Rhys didn't wait.
"You humiliated her on a stage meant for unity," he continued. "You turned tradition into spectacle. If you think I won't answer that insult, you underestimate me."
"This isn't your pack," Cassian growled. "You have no right to—"
"I have every right," Rhys said. "Touch her, and you start a war."
The word war hit the crowd like a dropped bomb. Elders inhaled sharply. Guards tensed. Even the cameras seemed to freeze in the air, as if afraid to move.
Elara felt the shift like a cold draft up her spine. Rhys wasn't bluffing. That was the terrifying part. He meant it.
And Cassian knew it.
The heir's nostrils flared. His jaw clenched. His pride warred visibly with common sense, but slowly—painfully—Cassian stepped back.
Rhys didn't spare him another glance. Instead, without warning, he turned and jerked Elara forward with him. She stumbled once but managed to catch herself before falling into him.
His fingers stayed closed around her wrist, firm and unrelenting.
Not comforting.
Possessive.
She glared sideways at him, breath tight with a mix of humiliation, anger, and confusion.
"You could have at least warned me," she muttered under her breath.
He didn't slow. "You needed no warning."
"Most people do before being dragged out of their own ceremony."
His gaze flicked to her for a fraction of a second. "You are not 'most people.'"
"That's not an explanation."
He didn't bother giving one.
Her frustration bubbled hot beneath her ribs. "If you're going to treat me like a pawn, you could at least pretend I'm human."
That made him stop.
Dead in his tracks.
Elara's breath caught. The hall went silent again. Even Cassian watched, wide-eyed.
Rhys turned toward her with a slow, deliberate precision, as if considering whether to crush her spirit immediately or take his time with it. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—but soft in the way furst is soft: beautiful, cold, and lethal.
"You are a pawn," he said. "Nothing more."
Her stomach twisted, but she refused to drop her gaze.
"Then maybe you should have chosen a different one," she shot back quietly.
A foolish spark of defiance.
A dangerous one.
He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "You will not speak to me again unless I ask you to."
Her breath hitched. Her pulse hammered. The words weren't shouted—they didn't need to be. They slid under her skin with the weight of command, of power honed with absolute certainty.
Elara didn't reply.
Couldn't.
Rhys resumed walking, dragging her behind him without another pause.
The Shadow Alpha moved through the hall like a storm given human form. Wolves parted for him instinctively, even if their expressions flickered with fear or resentment. Some bowed. Most didn't dare move at all.
The doors of the ceremonial hall swung open at his approach, guards stepping aside so quickly they nearly tripped over each other. Rhys didn't slow until they were outside, the cold night air swallowing them whole.
A sleek, armored transport vehicle waited in the courtyard. Dark metal, matte finish, no pack insignia—Shadow Pack design, built for stealth and intimidation.
Rhys opened the door, not for her but for efficiency, shoving her lightly inside before stepping in behind her. He closed the door, sealing them in darkness interrupted only by dim silver lights embedded in the ceiling.
As the engine ignited and the vehicle surged forward, Elara finally spoke again, unable to contain the question clawing at her chest.
"Why me?"
Rhys stared straight ahead. "You speak without permission."
Her jaw snapped shut.
The rest of the drive unfolded in suffocating silence, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the faint crackle of the secure radio system. The air inside felt heavy, thick with things unsaid, with things she wasn't allowed to ask.
Hours passed.
Forests blurred past the tinted windows. Mountains rose in the distance. Civilization faded into nothing. The road narrowed until it became a jagged path carved into the landscape.
At last, the fortress appeared.
It rose out of the wilderness like a wound carved into the earth—massive stone walls, dark towers, battlements dusted with frost. No warm lights. No welcoming torches. Only a cold, silent structure built for secrecy and survival, its presence looming like a shadow given shape.
The Shadow Pack's stronghold.
Elara's breath caught. She had heard rumors, stories whispered late at night about the forsaken place where Rhys ruled. None of them had prepared her for this.
The vehicle rolled to a stop at the iron-bound gates. They groaned open slowly, the sound raw and ancient. The courtyard beyond was empty, save for a few watchful wolves standing along the walls, their expressions unreadable.
Rhys stepped out first.
He didn't offer her a hand this time. He simply waited until she followed, his shadow falling over her as heavily as the fortress itself.
Without a word, he turned and led her inside.
Cold stone hallways wound through the fortress like veins, dimly lit by lanterns that cast flickering, uneven light. The air smelled of iron and earth—nothing like the polished, perfumed halls of the Vaelor ceremony. This place was real. Raw. Alive in its own harsh way.
Rhys pushed open a heavy door and motioned her inside.
It wasn't a throne room.
It wasn't a prison cell.
It was something in between—an austere chamber with a long table at its center, stone walls lined with maps and weapon racks. A fire crackled faintly in the corner, the only source of warmth.
Elara stepped in cautiously.
Rhys didn't follow her to the center of the room. He closed the door behind them and moved toward a shelf. A moment later, he returned with something clutched in his hand—a thick, iron-bound document, heavy enough to make the table shake when he slammed it down.
Dust lifted in the air.
Elara flinched.
He pushed the document toward her with one finger.
"You will be my Luna," he said, each word crisp and inarguable. "These are the terms."
Her breath froze.
Her world tilted.
She stared down at the iron-bound document, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to process the enormity of what he had just said.
Rhys waited, silent and unyielding, his shadow stretching across the table toward her.