CHAPTER 16: BULLSEYE

Osric takes a long, heavy breath, his chest rising and falling as if he is swallowing glass. He does not break eye contact with me, his old grey eyes searching my face for any flicker of hesitation. "Very well. Why?"

The entire garden holds its breath. A biting gust of morning wind sweeps through the open courtyard, rustling the heavy black wool tablecloth, but no one moves. The silence is absolute, heavy enough to crush the chest. My tongue feels dry as dust against the roof of my mouth. I press my thumbnail hard into the center of my left palm, driving the sharp crescent into my skin until the stinging pain keeps my knees locked and my voice steady.

"I'm twenty-one," I say, my voice carrying clearly across the silent gravel, reaching every maid, guard, and elder standing in the court. "We've been promised since I was a child. We've lived under the exact same roof, attended the exact same pack banquets, and walked the exact same stone halls. In all that time, Tristan has never once touched me."

Thessaly scoffs loud enough to shatter the quiet, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and waving a manicured hand dismissively. "That's no excuse for treason, girl. An Alpha's restraint is a sign of noble discipline and high breeding, not a license for a foolish she-wolf to wander off into the woods with a rogue."

"I'm not giving an excuse, Elder," I reply smoothly, keeping my shoulders squared and my face entirely blank. "I'm giving a question. Why hasn't he?"

Garrick scowls, leaning his heavy elbows forward over the dark wood of the council table until the timber groans under his weight. "Perhaps because you're a plain, sullen creature with no fire in your veins. Perhaps he simply found you unappealing as a mate."

"Perhaps because he can't," I cut in gently, letting the words drop like stones into the quiet space between us.

Osric slams his hand flat down on the marble edge of the table. The sharp crack echoes off the stone walls of the manor like a gunshot. "Careful, girl."

"I'm being careful," I say, meeting his furious, grey-eyed gaze without flinching. "I'm asking the council what it's been afraid to ask behind closed doors for three years."

The words hang in the freezing morning air like iron weights. Victoria’s face drains of all color, her lips parting in silent horror. She takes an instinctual step back, her eyes darting frantically between Osric and Tristan. Beside her, Tristan’s composure shatters completely. His jaw twitches, his nostrils flare, and the dark vein in his temple throbs violently under his pale skin.

Tristan lunges forward with a guttural snarl, crossing the gravel in two long, violent strides.

Before any of the guards standing along the hedge can move a muscle to intervene, his heavy, leather-gloved hands close violently around my throat. The sheer force of his impact drives me backward across the courtyard until my spine slams hard against the rough stone wall of the manor. A sharp shock of pain radiates up my shoulders and down my spine. His fingers clamp down hard directly over the fake red marks on my neck, pressing inward with brute force until real, agonizing bruises begin to form beneath his heavy knuckles.

My feet scrape desperately against the cold gravel floorboards. Deep inside my chest, my suppressed wolf remains entirely silent and dormant, unable to shift, unable to growl, and unable to fight back against an Alpha's physical weight. I claw frantically at his iron wrists, my nails scraping uselessly against his leather guards, my air supply cutting off instantly. As the dark spots begin to dance across my vision, I force my hands to drop flat to my sides instead of struggling. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me fight a losing battle.

"Say another word," Tristan growls through his teeth, his face inches from mine, twisted with blind panic and unbridled rage. "Say another word before this council. I dare you."

"Tristan, stop! They're watching!" Victoria screeches, her refined, tearful voice pitching high and frantic as she grabs for his arm. "Let go of her! You're making it worse!"

"TRISTAN. ENOUGH," Osric roars, standing upright, his voice cracking across the garden like thunder.

Tristan’s hands snap open at the Alpha command.

I drop instantly to both knees on the cold gravel, coughing violently as a ragged, burning line of oxygen rushes back into my lungs. My throat feels crushed, every gasp bringing a searing pain that makes my eyes water. I stay on the ground for two long breaths, resting my weight on my hands, clutching the sharp gravel until my senses stop spinning.

I push myself back up to my feet, swaying slightly on my bare soles, and force a cold, steady smirk onto my bruised lips.

"Alphas take she-wolves every month, Elders," I rasp out, my voice raw, scraped thin, and bleeding, every word costing me a sharp spike of agony in my throat. "That's how our blood works. That's how the territory stays dominant. Those who don't take mates tend to go feral when their rut finally hits, every three to six months, because their physical strength demands an outlet."

I pause, taking a slow, painful breath, letting my gaze sweep across the silent, rigid faces of the council.

"And yet no one has ever heard of Tristan's rut. Not once. Not in all these years. Not a single scent of it, not a single isolation period, not a single mention in the pack ledger. An Alpha who cannot claim his mate cannot sire an heir. Do you want the future and legacy of the Shadow Glint pack to die with him?"

Tristan steps back, trembling, his heavy hands twitching violently at his sides as he stares at me with wide, terrified eyes.

"He has never touched me, and I was promised to him by blood-oath," I continue, my voice sharpening into a lethal blade that cuts through every layer of royal vanity in the court. "Is he not strong enough to have a rut at all? Or is he completely impotent? Either way, there is no future here for Shadow Glint under his reign. I would rather seek comfort with a rogue in the wild than live out my life as a sterile widow to a living husband who can't pass on the Alpha line."

Garrick stops chewing the inside of his cheek entirely. His jaw drops open, his heavy face slack as he exchanges a dark, horrified glance with Thessaly. Thessaly’s sharp eyes dart instantly to Tristan’s trembling frame, her expression twisting from cold contempt for me into deep, calculating concern for the pack's succession. She sniffs the air again, but this time her gaze stays fixed on Tristan's pale, sweat-sheened forehead.

"The blood-oath was meant to secure our southern borders and guarantee the next lineage," Thessaly whispers, her sharp voice barely carrying over the wind, but loud enough for the whole front row to hear. "If the heir is hollow, the oath is a shackle around our own necks."

"Look at him," Garrick mutters low to Osric, nodding toward Tristan's shaking hands. "He couldn't even keep his composure before the elders. He attacked a she-wolf to quiet her instead of denying the claim with his wolf."

Victoria takes two frantic steps toward the table, her hands clutching her skirts in desperation. "Elders, please! You cannot listen to the poisonous lies of a disgraced she-wolf! She is trying to ruin his reputation to save her own skin!"

"Silence, Victoria," Osric says, his tone deadly quiet.

Osric steps around the heavy table, his boots crushing the gravel underfoot until he stands five paces from Tristan. He looks at the trembling Alpha, then at the deep purple bruises darkening on my throat, and then at Victoria's trembling hands.

"A true Alpha's blood manifests in his strength, his lineage, and his restraint," Osric says, his measured voice cutting cleanly through the garden. "If your blood is silent, Tristan, then Shadow Glint has no future under your name. We will not hand our territory to an empty title."

"I am your Alpha!" Tristan shouts, his voice cracking with desperation as he looks around at the silent guards. "My father left me this pack!"

"Your father left us a lineage, not a hollow shell," Osric replies flatly. "And if you cannot prove that blood flows in your veins, the council will strip the title before sunrise."

Victoria’s jaw drops, her eyes wide with terror as she stares at Osric. She reaches for Tristan’s arm again, but he shoves her hand away, staring at the floorboards as if the world has collapsed beneath him.

Bullseye, I think, though my throat is burning and my legs are shaking so hard beneath the black gown that I can barely keep my balance against the wall.

Osric does not look back at me. He keeps his cold, calculating eyes locked entirely on the young Alpha standing before him, his voice dropping into a quiet, terrifying command that shatters the heir's authority completely.

"Bring the pack healer. Today."

Tristan's face drains of every last drop of color, his knees visibly buckling as the council turns its back on him.