Eve Of Me

Jenn’s POV

Alva insisted we go to the infirmary, and as she wasn’t taking no for an answer, I had no other choice.

The infirmary was quiet except for the soft shuffle of movement. I laid back against the pillows while the healer worked carefully on my feet, her fingers gentle as she cleaned and wrapped each shallow cut.

Every now and then she would murmur something under her breath, not quite to me and not entirely to herself either. My body ached with the slow, draining weight of exhaustion, but my mind refused to rest.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of silver cutting through the forest, felt again the thunder of massive paws behind me and the crushing pressure of two dominant forces colliding in the darkness.

My wolf was quieter now, curled deep within me like a watchful shadow, but I could still feel her tension, and it rippled through me like a storm.

The door to the infirmary opened without ceremony.

I did not need to turn my head to know who had entered. The bond stirred faintly, like a distant echo instead of the familiar pull it used to be. Wade stood just inside the doorway, his broad frame outlined against the soft light that poured from the corridor.

His scent reached me a moment later, familiar and painful all at once. When he saw me on the bed, his shoulders eased slightly, though the tension in his posture did not fully leave.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and careful.

The healer answered before I could. “She will recover, Alpha. The injuries are minor, but she was close to collapse when she arrived. Shock and exhaustion do as much damage as claws sometimes.”

Wade nodded. His eyes moved over me, taking in the bandages, the pallor of my skin, the faint tremor I had not yet been able to control. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but no words came out of his mouth.

Before that moment could settle into anything meaningful, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor and the door opened again.

“Alpha,” another healer said urgently, “it is Morgan. She collapsed again. Her pulse dropped suddenly and she is not responding as expected.”

Wade did not hesitate. His body turned toward the door at once, his gaze flickering briefly and urgently back to me. “I have to go,” he said.

I looked away, too tired and worn out to start any kind of drama.

The quiet that followed felt heavier than any argument ever could have been.

Alva did not speak right away. She simply reached out and took my hand in both of hers, grounding me with her warmth. When they finally discharged me, Alva insisted on walking me back to my room herself.

Each step along the large hallways felt slow and deliberate, my body still struggling to remember normal movement after fear had driven it beyond its limits. Every passing pack member bowed their head respectfully, but their eyes were filled with unease.

Word had already spread that I had returned from the forest injured and shaken. Whispers trailed behind me like thin strands of tension I could not cut.

Inside my room, I cleaned myself slowly and changed into fresh clothes, moving with care. Alva lingered near the doorway for a while, but eventually duty pulled her away.

By the time afternoon arrived, the pack house had transformed into controlled chaos. Preparations for the upcoming ball were underway in full force. Servants hurried through the halls with arms full of fabric and fine tableware.

Decorators measured spaces and argued over color schemes. I passed them all quietly as I made my way outside. No one stopped me. No one tried to involve me. Everything seemed to orbit Morgan now, as though the future of the pack had already tilted in her direction.

I left for my fitting shortly after sunset.

The tailoring house sat on the quieter edge of the territory, a wide stone building surrounded by lantern-lit paths and neatly trimmed hedges. Inside, the atmosphere was hushed and professional, filled with carefully controlled movement and the faint rustle of fine fabrics.

The head seamstress greeted me with a polite smile that did not quite hide her confusion when she glanced at her ledger.

“Luna…” she said slowly, “your name is already marked as completed,”

I frowned. “That’s not possible. I haven’t been here yet.”

She flipped through the pages again, her brow furrowing deeper with every second. “Your measurements were delivered earlier today, along with full design confirmation. The gown itself arrived this morning.”

A strange unease settled into my chest. “Who delivered it?” I asked.

“I’m not certain,” she admitted. “The box bore no crest I recognized. We were told it was to be taken directly to your chambers for safekeeping.”

For a long moment, I could not speak. My fingers curled slowly at my sides as an unfamiliar chill slid along my spine. There was no need to ask who most of the pack would assume had sent it. Wade was the obvious answer.

Yet every instinct inside me rejected that conclusion with quiet certainty.

“I see,” I said at last.

I did not stay for any further discussion. Whatever waited in that box was already in my room, and the longer it waited alone, the more uneasy I felt.

The walk back to the pack house felt longer than usual. The eyes of the pack followed me as I passed, curiosity and concern etched into their expressions yet one spoke to me.

Inside, the pack house was alive with activity. I did not need to ask who was surrounded by that much attention. I kept my gaze fixed ahead and climbed the steps to my wing of the pack house without slowing.

When I entered my room, the first thing I saw was the box.

It rested at the foot of my bed, larger than any garment box I had ever seen, and wrapped in layers of white and silver cloth that shimmered softly in the bedroom light.

My wolf stirred and my pulse quickened as I reached the edge of the box. The wrapping was secured with thin silver ribbons tied in intricate knots, each one precise and deliberate. I undid them slowly, aware of the strange tension thrumming beneath my skin, and lifted the lid.

The fabric inside glowed softly in the low light.

The gown nestled within was unlike anything I had ever seen.

Layers of flowing material shimmered in muted shades of pale silver and warm gold, woven together so seamlessly that they looked like captured light rather than cloth. Delicate embroidery traced the bodice in patterns that echoed the shape of movement and strength, not fragility.

The design was elegant without being delicate, powerful without being harsh. Every line, every curve of the dress felt intentional, as though it had been created with an intimate understanding of the body it was meant to adorn.

My breath left me in a slow, unsteady exhale.

For a moment, the room fell away, leaving only the quiet presence of the gown and the sudden, inexplicable warmth spreading through my chest. I did not need to touch it to know that this dress had not come from Wade.

And as the light danced faintly across threads of silver and gold within the folds of fabric, I realized with unsettling clarity that whoever had sent it knew exactly who I was.