CHAPTER 5

He stands so still it’s almost as if he’s carved from marble. Those golden eyes track my movements as I force myself across the ballroom floor. The Bloody Prince has a wild look about him, something untamed despite the clear evidence of an attempt to look civilized. And, behind those eyes, his wolf waits. 

I can smell it on him. The wrongness. 

With Shifters, we’re one with our spirit animals, but the Wyres are cursed. Their spirits had been mutilated, twisted into a completely different being—a being that mirrors the ruthlessness and darkness of their souls. The first Wyre had been a monstrous man, a killer who had no qualms about taking what wasn’t his. He insulted a witch, forcing his pack to live the rest of their existence separated from their spirits. 

Two minds, one body. It would make anyone go mad. 

 I stop just a pace away from where he stands, my eyes locked onto the pillar just over his shoulder. I can’t bring myself to look directly at him. Not yet. I let my gaze wander, a jolt of surprise flashing through me as I finally notice the others. They surround us, though outnumbered. The Bloody Prince had indeed brought an entourage with him. 

Six other Wyres are scattered around their Alpha. Two stood on either side of my parents, their hands clasped in front of them, clearly bodyguards. The other four stood off to either side, close enough to their Prince while leaving enough space to show respect, though they didn’t look too happy. 

I make the mistake of shifting my gaze to one of his guards. The Wyre is just as tall as his Prince, just as muscular and lean. Just as powerful. His dark hair is trimmed short, unlike his Prince. Scruff lines his jaw, concealing the sharp edges I know lie beneath. With the two of them standing so close, I can practically taste their power. Bitter. Metallic. 

Dark. 

“Princess.” 

My focus snaps to the Prince. His voice is cold and expressionless, a deep rumble within the back of his throat. That one word is enough to send shivers cascading down my spine. 

“Alpha Ezra,” my father steps forward slightly, “this is my daughter, Princess Octavia Hart.” I catch my mother’s disapproving look as she takes in my dress. 

Around us, those in the ballroom hold their breath. The Bloody Prince—Ezra—studies me. Molten heat travels down my body, licking along my skin as he studies me. Blood rushes to my cheeks, more in anger than shame. I know I’m being sold off, but he doesn’t have to make it so damn obvious. 

His lips twitch into a sarcastic smile. “I guess she will do.” 

The air hitches in my throat as those around us suck in a quick breath.

“We will iron out the details of the treaty now?” the Bloody Prince asks, turning his back to me. A clear dismissal. My hands shake with barely-controlled rage and I imagine shredding that smile right off his damn face. His guard stiffens, almost as if he can sense my thoughts. 

My father clears his throat, shooting me a warning look. “We can discuss business tomorrow morning. Tonight, we must celebrate.” There are a few half-hearted clapping around the room. 

The Alpha frowns, eyes narrowing. “We usually don’t celebrate until after success is assured.” 

Success meaning what? Trading me? 

“All in good time, my new friend,” Father replies, sounding more lighthearted than his eyes suggest. “We want to welcome you to our home properly.” 

The Bloody Prince doesn’t seem pleased. After a beat of silence, he finally nods. “Then, let us celebrate.” 

Mother motions towards the quartet they’ve hired for the evening. Notes slice through the air, jilted and strained as if even the instruments themselves can feel the tension in the room. The Wyres stay where they are, unmoved as Shifters take to the dance floor and flood towards the tables of food and champagne that lay between the pillars. Yet, as soon as the Bloody Princes nods his head, they stalk to the edges, keeping well away from any Shifter. Not that any Shifters mind. They keep an equal distance away, their knuckles white around their plates and glasses. 

So far, the peace treaty wasn’t exactly off to a good start. 

The Bloody Prince and his guards shift to the right, scanning the room with an almost bored expression. Clearly, this display of wealth means nothing to them. I’d half imagined them to stare, open-mouthed, like the country Wyres they are. I take my place beside Mother, keeping a wary eye on the Prince and his men. 

He bows his head to the guard I noticed earlier, his voice soft—so soft I can’t make out his words over the sound of music and hushed conversations in the room. They look closer than any guard and royal relationship I’ve ever known. I certainly never spoke to our guards like that. I’m sure they’re plotting the worst, that this peace treaty is a farce meant to lure us into false complacency before they rip our throats out. 

The guard’s eyes shift up, catching mine before I can look away. 

“Octavia.” My mother’s voice pulls me away. “Ask the Prince to dance.” 

“Alpha,” I correct automatically. “Not Prince.” 

She gives me a sharp look, letting me know she didn’t give a shit what I called him as long as I did what she wanted me to do. Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a smile that hurts my cheeks before heading in his direction. He ignores me, though I’m sure he can hear me coming. I let my eyes trail across the hard edges of his back, most of his power hidden beneath the black material of his suit. 

When he fails to acknowledge my existence, I clear my throat. 

Loudly.

Turning, the Alpha’s lips curl into a sardonic grin. “Yes, Princess?” I bristle at his tone. 

“Would you like to dance?” I grit out, motioning towards the dance floor. Other couples have already swept towards the center, twirling around the room. The Wyres, I notice, make no move to join in. 

The Alpha doesn’t even glance toward the dance floor. His head tilts slightly. “Do you always do as you’re told?” 

My lip curls. “Do you always sound like an ass?” 

A spark ignites in his eyes and, for a moment, I almost think he’s about to rip my head off. But then he does something even more startling.

He laughs. 

It reverberates through me, straight down to my bones. I’m taken by surprise, unable to move when he holds out one large hand. Any hint of humor is gone in an instant, replaced with a challenge. It sears into me, pricking at my skin with a mixture of heat and irritation. 

My hand looks small as his fingers curl around it. The Bloody Prince looks straight ahead as he sweeps me onto the dance floor. I wince, feeling the slight prick of his claws at my back, though I know no one else can see them. His other hand grips mine in an iron-clad clasp, grinding my fingers together. 

“You’re bolder than you should be,” the Alpha mutters, twirling me around hard enough to nearly make my neck snap. “That’s a dangerous thing to be.” 

I grin, biting back the pain. My own claws slip out, digging into his shoulder. “I would disagree,” I reply brightly. “One must be bold if she’s to be shipped off to a monster.” 

“Is that what you think of me?” The curls along his forehead shift as his head tilts. He doesn’t react to the insult, though a shadow weaves through the gold in his eyes. 

I recognize a warning when I see one. 

“I don’t think of you at all, actually,” I tell him. 

There’s a low growl in the back of his throat and, for a split second, I see his wolf. Predatory eyes narrow, assessing me. Searching for a weakness. I don’t give him one. Instead, I raise my chin, fighting back the tears of pain that prick my eyes. He will not see me cry. 

His grip tightens and I swear I feel the blooming warmth of blood at my back. “You hate me.” It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Pain radiates down my spine, pricking my palms as I finally feel his claws retract. 

I’m so focused on not appearing weak that I don’t hear when the music changes. The Prince stops so suddenly and I stumble into his chest. Hot hands encircle my waist, pinning me. He makes it look so easy, so effortless to hold me there. I can feel the strength in his arms as he grips me. Bending low, his lips brush my ear. 

“Just remember, Princess,” he murmurs, “the more spirit you have, the more fun it will be to break you.” 

My mouth parts but no words come out. With one last cruel smile, the Bloody Prince bows his head before sweeping past. I’m left standing in the middle of the dance floor, all eyes locked on me as I try to process his words. At first, all I feel is the shame snaking through my gut. Then comes the anger. 

Whirling around, I stare daggers at his receding back as he heads toward his guards. If he can sense my fury, he doesn’t show it. Gripping my skirts, I whip around, heading straight for the glass doors that lead to the patio. If I lose my temper now, I know I’ll pay for it later. Mother and Father would make good on their threat and then I’d lose everything.

I will not let him win. 

Cold air wraps around me as soon as I step outside, instantly cooling my heated skin. For a brief moment, I think of nothing but to tear off this stupid dress and let my wolf run free, escaping into the woods never to return. Maybe turning my back on this life wouldn’t be so bad. I could make my own way in the world of the humans. But that would mean leaving my pack, my family, and everything I’ve ever known behind. 

I’m a coward. 

The Bloody Prince’s reputation precedes him alright. He’s cold and distant, uncaring with a subtle river of cruelty running through his veins. I try to imagine what my life will be like when I’m forced to be his and I fail. Any future with him is sure to be as terrible as he is. 

My life, as I know it, is over. 

Air catches in my throat, choking me. I can’t breathe, can’t think. Images of that future flash through my mind too quickly for me to grasp before fading to pure blackness. Any ounce of anger I felt before is stamped out by fear. Wiping my sweaty palms along my skirt, I try to breathe, trying to calm myself. 

“Octavia?” Tristan’s soft voice makes me turn. 

He steps from the shadows, the moonlight disappearing into the inky blackness of his hair. Green eyes gleam in the darkness, filled with wary concern. He’s dressed up tonight, probably dragged along by his parents. The suit doesn’t fit him. It’s too stiff, too formal. I’m so used to seeing him in t-shirts and ripped jeans that it takes me a moment to process it.

He looks more mature. More serious. The fabric is tight against his biceps as his fingers curl into his palm. Dark hair flips into his eyes and I resist the urge to brush them back. When he looks like this, it’s almost too easy to forget why I’m so pissed at him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, taking a hesitant step forward. 

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “What do you think?” 

Tristan’s jaw tenses, drawing my eye. “We need to talk.”