The gates of Varkholme were carved from obsidian and bone.
Subtle.
The carriage wheels crunched over frost as we crossed into enemy territory. Snow didn't fall here like it did in Valewyn. It drifted slower. Heavier. Like it meant something.
I stared out the window, chin propped on my knuckles.
"So this is where I'll be politically imprisoned for two years," I muttered.
The seal on my wrist pulsed faintly.
Too faintly.
Good.
I uncorked the small vial hidden inside my sleeve.
The liquid inside shimmered faintly — smoky silver.
Power-dampening tonic.
Mother had insisted.
"If they cannot measure you," she'd said, "they cannot plan for you."
I tilted it back and swallowed.
It burned going down.
The effect was immediate.
The wild hum beneath my skin dulled. The air no longer bent subtly toward me. My senses narrowed.
On the surface?
I would look… ordinary.
Underneath?
Still lethal.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Let's make this convincing," I whispered.
The carriage doors opened.
Cold air hit my lungs like a challenge.
And then I saw him.
High King Darian Varkholme stood at the top of the stone steps leading into the fortress.
He was taller than I expected.
Broad-shouldered, built like a war monument carved from muscle and discipline. Dark hair fell just past his collar, wind pulling at it. His eyes—
God.
Silver.
Not gray.
Silver.
Sharp enough to gut someone.
He wore black leathers reinforced with plated steel, a wolf-head clasp at his throat. No crown.
He didn't need one.
Power radiated off him like gravity.
He looked like someone who had never lost.
I stepped down from the carriage slowly.
And for one reckless, unguarded second—
The world narrowed.
His gaze met mine.
And something inside me went very, very still.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Oh.
That's inconvenient.
⸻
Darian
She was smaller than he expected.
Not weak.
Just… refined.
Snow caught in her dark hair like stardust. Her skin almost glowed against the bleak gray of Varkholme's stone. Storm-gray eyes studied him without flinching.
She looked—
Damn it.
She looked like something carved from light.
An angel dropped into a wolf's den.
He hated it instantly.
He was supposed to hate her.
She was Aldric's daughter.
A bargaining chip.
A leash disguised as a bride.
But when she stepped fully into the courtyard, chin lifted despite the dozens of wolves surrounding her—
His wolf went silent.
Not aggressive.
Not territorial.
Silent.
Watching.
Assessing.
Interested.
No.
Absolutely not.
He had given up heirs. Given up mating bonds. Given up softness.
Power required sacrifice.
He would not unravel because of a pretty political offering.
He inhaled slowly.
Her scent reached him.
Snow.
Steel.
And something deeper.
Muted.
Hidden.
Strange.
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Why did she feel… restrained?
⸻
Seraphina
He was staring at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
Rude.
I lowered my gaze slightly, letting my shoulders soften.
Play the part.
Weak.
Diplomatic.
Non-threatening.
"My king," I said, voice smooth and carefully subdued.
The words tasted wrong in my mouth.
He descended the steps slowly.
Measured.
Predatory.
When he stopped in front of me, he was close enough that I could feel his body heat through the cold air.
Up close, he was worse.
Sharper jaw. A thin scar along his collarbone disappearing beneath leather. Eyes that looked like they'd seen battlefields and buried friends.
"You are Princess Seraphina," he said.
His voice was low. Controlled. Like a blade wrapped in velvet.
"I am."
His gaze dragged over me — not leering.
Assessing.
Calculating threat level.
Good luck with that.
"You will find Varkholme does not indulge weakness," he said coldly.
Internally, I rolled my eyes.
Externally, I dipped my chin.
"I am not here to indulge anything, Your Majesty."
His mouth twitched faintly.
Barely.
But I caught it.
Interesting.
He extended his arm stiffly.
"Walk."
Romantic.
We climbed the fortress steps together.
The doors closed behind us with a deep, echoing thud.
No going back.
⸻
Darian
She moved too gracefully.
Even pretending to be subdued, her steps were balanced. Controlled. Ready.
His warriors noticed.
He noticed them noticing.
"She is under my protection," he said without looking at them.
A silent warning.
He did not understand why he said it.
The words came before thought.
Annoying.
Inside the great hall, torches lit the carved stone walls. Wolves watched from balconies above.
She didn't shrink.
Good.
He turned to her once they reached the center of the hall.
"This is not a marriage of affection," he said evenly. "It is an agreement. You will be treated with respect. You will not interfere in my rule."
Direct.
Clean.
Controlled.
"I wouldn't dream of it," she replied softly.
He didn't believe her.
There was something in her eyes.
Not submission.
Strategy.
But her power—
It felt low.
Too low.
Aldric's daughter should not feel… quiet.
Suspicion coiled faintly in his gut.
⸻
Seraphina
He was cold.
Dismissive.
Professional.
Like I was a business transaction he'd already mentally filed away.
Which, to be fair, I was.
"You will be given chambers adjoining mine," he said. "For security."
Adjoining.
Oh.
That was bold.
"Separate entrances," he added immediately, voice flat.
Ah.
There's the boundary.
I nodded. "Of course."
His jaw tightened faintly, like he was irritated that I wasn't arguing.
I almost did just to see what would happen.
But no.
Patience.
He gestured to two women waiting near the staircase.
"These are your attendants. Lyra and Maelin. They answer to you."
The women stepped forward.
Lyra had copper hair braided tightly down her back, sharp green eyes, and the posture of someone trained with blades.
Maelin was softer-featured, darker-skinned, quiet but observant.
They both bowed.
"My lady," Lyra said.
I studied them briefly.
Not servants.
War-trained.
Interesting.
"Thank you," I said gently.
Lyra's eyes flicked up in surprise.
Ah.
They expected arrogance.
Noted.
Darian's attention lingered a moment longer on my face.
Long enough that the air felt charged again.
Then he stepped back.
"Rest," he said coldly. "The ceremony will take place tomorrow."
And just like that—
Dismissed.
He turned and walked away without another word.
Rude.
Powerful.
Inconveniently attractive.
I exhaled slowly once he disappeared down the hall.
"Well," I muttered under my breath, "that was tense."
Lyra's mouth twitched faintly.
"You're not afraid," she said.
"Should I be?"
Maelin studied me carefully.
"He has killed kings."
"Good," I said lightly. "I've always preferred ambitious men."
Lyra blinked.
Then, slowly—
She smiled.
The beginning of something.
They led me down a long corridor toward my chambers.
As we walked, I let my senses stretch slightly — just enough to test the dampening potion.
Still working.
Good.
Behind one of those walls—
His chambers.
Close enough to feel.
Close enough to be dangerous.
Two years.
A Blood Moon.
A lycan king who looked at me like I was something he wasn't allowed to want.
This was going to be complicated.
And I had the distinct feeling—
Neither of us was prepared for it.