The estate felt like a bowstring pulled to the point of snapping.
I had spent the night staring at the vaulted ceiling of my bedchamber, the silence of the room feeling louder than any noise. My fingertips still throbbed with a dull, rhythmic heat—a phantom echo of the moment my claws had tasted Silas's skin. Every time I closed my eyes, I didn't see the blood; I saw his face. I saw that terrifying, worshipful light in his eyes, as if by hurting him, I had finally become real to him.
But beneath the heat of the memory, a cold, hard knot of confusion was tightening in my gut.
I hurt him.
The thought circled my mind like a bird of prey. It didn't make sense. I was coming to terms with the fact that I wasn't a "dud"—my wolf was real, her voice was loud, and the aura I had thrown in the library suggested I came from a line of power I had never been told about. To even have an aura at all, my parents must have been Alphas.
But even so, I was a fledgling. Silas was a High Alpha.
In the stories we were told as children, High Alphas were made of something ancient—a primal, weave-bound magic that ran deeper than bone. Their skin was a fortress, a metaphysical shield that made even a strong, seasoned Alpha's claws as useless as glass against stone. I shouldn't have been able to leave a scratch on him, let alone draw blood that left him heaving for air. I wasn't that powerful. I couldn't be.
"He is iron," my wolf whispered, her voice sounding older, more certain. "But we are titanium. We do not just strike; we endure. We pierce what others cannot even dent."
I pushed the thought aside as I reached the morning room. The long mahogany table had been pushed to the wall, replaced by a flurry of activity. Poppy was there, looking frantic but focused, holding a clipboard like a shield. Beside her were three women—tailors from the city, their scents muted by heavy powders.
But it was the table that stopped me. It was covered in a sea of fabrics: deep, bruised purples; blacks as matte as charcoal; and a shimmering, translucent silver that seemed to catch the light even in the shadows.
"There she is!" Poppy called out, her eyes widening as she took me in. "Come on, Sera. We have three days, and the Alpha has been... specific."
I walked toward a bolt of silver silk, my fingers hovering just above the surface. "Silas did this?"
"He spent an hour with the head tailor last night," Poppy whispered. "He said the dress had to be 'strong enough to move in, but beautiful enough to burn every bridge you left behind.' He wants you to look like a Queen who just finished a war."
The thought of Silas—stern, terrifying Silas—discussing silk for me made my stomach do a slow, dizzying flip.
"Up on the pedestal, dear," the head tailor commanded.
I climbed onto the dais, feeling exposed as they began to drape me. They stripped away my robe and began pinning with ruthless efficiency. The silver silk was cold as it slid over my skin. It was gossamer-thin but felt heavy, weighted with tiny, hand-sewn crystals. The neckline plunged, and the back was almost entirely open, designed to show the strength of my shoulders.
"It's too much," I whispered, staring at my reflection. I looked like a stranger. "I don't know if I can wear this."
"You aren't wearing it yet," a deep, raspy voice rumbled from the doorway.
Silas stood in the entrance, leaning against the frame. He had changed his shirt, but I could see the faint, stiff lines of bandages beneath the dark fabric. The sight of them sent a jolt of guilt and heat straight to my core. He didn't move; he just stood there, his gold-rimmed eyes traveling slowly up my body.
My breath hitched, but it wasn't just from the intensity of his gaze. I stared at his chest, tracing those rectangular ridges.
They should be gone, I thought, a cold shiver of dread tracing my ribs.
Wolves healed fast. Alphas healed faster. But a High Alpha? They were legendary for their regenerative speed. Silas should have closed those wounds in an hour; by now, there shouldn't have been so much as a faint white line left on his chest. Yet, I could smell the faint, sharp sting of antiseptic and the heavy, iron-rich scent of blood that hadn't fully clotted.
My claws hadn't just scratched him. They had bypassed his nature. They had left a mark that his magic was struggling to erase.
"The back needs to be lower," Silas said, his voice dropping to a low, rough register.
"Alpha," the tailor stammered, "any lower and we risk the structural integrity—"
"Lower," he repeated. He walked into the room, his presence so massive it seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. The tailors scrambled to make adjustments, their fingers trembling.
Silas stopped at the edge of the pedestal. I stayed perfectly still as he reached out, his hand hovering inches from the bare skin of my shoulder. He didn't touch me, but the heat radiating from him was a physical weight.
"Julian used to make you wear high collars," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine. He noticed me staring at his bandages, and his jaw tightened. "He wanted to hide the marks. He wanted the world to think you were a closed book."
"Silas," I whispered, the name feeling like a prayer and a plea. "The wounds. Why are you still wearing bandages? You're a High Alpha. You should have healed before you even reached your study last night."
His gold eyes flared, a flash of something that looked like raw vulnerability crossing his face before he masked it with cold indifference. "It's nothing. A lingering sting."
"It's not nothing," I argued.
Silas stepped closer, leaning in until his nose brushed against mine. The smell of him was intoxicating—cedar, rain, and the underlying heat of a fever. He caught my waist to steady me, his large hands sinking into the silver silk, pulling me a fraction closer. The tailors had long since retreated to the corners of the room.
"Perhaps," Silas whispered, his breath hot against my cheek, "it's because the wolf who gave them to me hasn't given me permission to heal yet."
The air between us charged, the bond snapping taut like a live wire. He looked at me with a hunger that made the silver silk feel like it was melting off my body.
He let go of me as if my skin had burned him, his fingers twitching. He turned on his heel, his movements slightly less fluid than usual. He reached the doorway, stopping with his back to me.
"Three days, Seraphina," he said, his voice regaining its icy distance. "Don't get used to the silk. You still have to be a wolf underneath it."
He paused, his head tilting toward the window where the afternoon sun was beginning to dip. "And Seraphina, tomorrow is the full moon. You should decide where you want to shift."
The world went still. I felt the blood drain from my face as my heart plummeted.
The first moon.
Every wolf underwent their first transformation at sixteen, but I had been a dud. I had spent years watching others run, feeling the phantom itch in my skin that never led to a change. I had forgotten that once the wolf woke up, the moon would demand its due. This wasn't the Silver-Moon; this wasn't my pack territory where I knew every thicket and hiding spot. I was a stranger here, and in the world of wolves, you didn't run on another Alpha's land without permission. To do so was an act of war—or a death sentence.
I looked at Silas's broad back, my voice trapped in my throat. I was about to break for the first time, and I had no idea if he would let me run free or keep me locked in this silver cage.