Chapter One:

{Earlier that evening…}

༺ ELARA ༻

“Are you going to keep staring at him all night?”

I jumped, nearly choking on my wine as a voice spoke right beside my ear.

My gaze snapped away from the far end of the hall.

Sigrun was standing right beside me, a soft, mischievous smirk curving her lips. I hadn't even noticed her walk up to me.

“Gods, Sigrun!” I gasped, clutching my goblet. “I wasn’t staring.”

She raised a delicate eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at Darren for the better part of ten minutes. I walked all the way down from the dais, made small talk with a few dignitaries, and stood beside you for minutes without you noticing.”

“I was looking at the beautiful tapestry behind him!” I blurted.

Sigrun glanced across the room toward Darren, who was standing stoically behind Alpha King Varul as dignitaries walked up to pay their respects to the Alpha.

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “The tapestry is on the opposite wall, Elara.”

I pushed my glasses higher up the bridge of my nose, feeling heat creep up my neck. “Oh.”

Sigrun snorted, taking a cup of spiced cider from the tray of a passing servant, who bowed before moving on.

“God, you’re so adorable when you lie,” she said with a snicker.

She took a sip of her drink, letting out a dramatic, longing sigh as she glanced at my wine.

“Drink up on my behalf, will you? Being three weeks postpartum and nursing twins means I’m strictly banished to watered-down cider while everyone else gets the good stuff.”

Though her tone was sullen, the radiant glow on her face gave her away. She was practically vibrating with delirious happiness.

It was the last day of the seven-day grand feast celebrating the birth of Prince Ronan and Princess Sigrid, and the entire North had turned into one big, endless storm of drinking, roasting meat, and deafening music, especially here in Pillak Towers.

I was already feeling the beginnings of a migraine pulsing behind my temple from all the noise.

“Have you taken a sensory break tonight?” Sigrun asked, as though she could read my thoughts.

She’d once told me she thought I had something called ADHD, something people in her world actually had a name for. In moments like this, when the world was too loud, I had to admit the possibility seemed very plausible.

“No. I’m fine,” I lied.

“Elara.”

“No, really. The noise has been manageable tonight.”

Sigrun sighed at me, but let it go.

“What are you doing down here anyway?” I asked, adjusting my glasses again. “I thought you were resting upstairs in the nursery.”

“I was.” Sigrun glanced toward the sea of drunken nobles. “But I had to come down to greet a few of the visiting mages before Queen Astrid arrives from the South. Plus…”

She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“…Varul is utterly hopeless at small talk. If I leave him alone with these emissaries for too long, he just might execute someone just to get out of a conversation.”

A snort escaped me.

Across the room, the Alpha King stood towering and stone-faced, surrounded by three visiting dignitaries who were talking loudly. Alpha Varul looked painfully bored.

My eyes returned to Darren. He stood a few paces behind the Alpha, clad in dark royal leathers. His sandy hair fell slightly over his forehead, his arms crossed tightly over his broad chest.

I frowned, tracing the rigid line of his shoulders.

Something about his posture felt wrong.

Even from here, I could make out the tightness in his jaw.

He looked like he was trying very hard to hold himself together.

“Sigrun?” I murmured, my brow furrowing. “Does Beta Darren look… different to you tonight?”

Sigrun stepped closer to me, tilting her head.

“Different how? He’s wearing his signature ‘I despise everyone’ look.”

Then she added drily, “Much like the look on my husband’s face, if I’m being honest. They’re both very allergic to small talk.”

“No, I mean…” I hesitated. “He looks… tight. Like he’s in pain or something.”

“Darren always looks tight, Elara,” Sigrun deadpanned, taking another sip of her cider. “And I imagine he must find it painful to socialize.”

“Perhaps,” I answered.

But my eyes remained on Darren.

I watched him murmur something into Alpha Varul’s ear.

The Alpha offered a brief, distracted nod, and Darren immediately turned on his heel and strode out of the hall through the side doors.

My brows drew together.

Where is he going?

A sudden ruckus of loud laughter snapped me out of my curious thoughts.

One of the emissaries had just slapped Alpha Varul hard on the shoulder in a fit of what looked to be inebriated laughter.

The Alpha King’s jaw locked. His eyes flashed lethally as he slowly glanced down at the offending hand.

A couple of royal guards stationed nearby immediately stepped forward, their hands moving toward their weapons.

Sweet gods.

Sigrun winced. “Right. Duty calls before my husband starts a war.”

She squeezed my arm gently. “Go and get some fresh air in the courtyard, Elara. I can see a vein pulsing at your temple.”

She pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks for being around this past week, even though I know how overwhelming settings like this can be for you.”

Before I could argue, Sigrun turned and glided gracefully toward her husband.

The moment Alpha Varul spotted his wife approaching, the terrifying tension in his shoulders melted.

His stoic expression softened, and as soon as Sigrun reached his side, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The lethal Alpha King was instantly tamed.

He raised one hand, and the guards halted mid-step.

Sigrun murmured something to the inebriated emissary, who was still blissfully unaware of how close he’d come to death.

She smiled, smoothing over the offense he’d committed, while Alpha Varul stood beside her with an expression that suggested he was only tolerating the situation because his wife had asked him to.

A moment later, Sigrun gently steered him away from the emissary.

I couldn’t help watching them.

There was something almost absurd about it.

The most feared wolf in the entire realm could apparently be stopped from murdering an id.io.t with nothing more than one smile from his wife.

A servant pushed past behind me, carrying a massive silver platter of steaming roast venison. The slick, greasy smell hit my nose. My stomach churned violently.

The drums thumping in my ears, the partying, the roaring voices—it suddenly became too much. Maybe it was time for that break, after all.

I turned on my heel and wove my way rapidly toward the side exit, slipping out through the double doors.

The moment the doors clicked shut behind me, the suffocating roar of the feast collapsed into a low, muffled hum.

I exhaled. Once. Twice.

The freezing night air hit my lungs like a shock of cold water, and the ache in my temple subsided.

Better. I closed my eyes. Gods, so much better.

I stood there for a few moments, letting the silence settle over me.

Then I headed toward my favorite hidden spot in the courtyard, a little secluded corner I'd discovered on the third night of the feast.

“Alright,” I whispered into the quiet dark. “Five minutes. Then I return to the party.”

Suddenly, a sound broke the silence. It was a heavy, muffled thud.

My eyes snapped open.

Another thud echoed from down the walkway, sharp and jarring against the stone.

I frowned, stepping cautiously into the shadowed corridor beneath the vaulted stone arches.

Thud.

Then came a frightening wet growl scraped raw from someone's throat.

I stopped dead in my tracks as fear coated my senses. “I-I-Is there anyone there?”

The silence was immediate.

Against common sense, I took another quiet step forward.

And then I saw the silhouette of a man’s large form crouched in the deepest recess of the archway.

His head was bowed and one arm was braced against the pillar as if holding himself up.

Somehow, I could recognize the broad lines of his shoulders, which shuddered violently.

“Darren?” I breathed.

His head snapped up toward me and I froze. Through the pitch black, his eyes were burning a fierce, terrifying crimson.

“Get… back inside,” he rasped.

His voice was wrong—deeper, harsher, vibrating with a guttural, animalistic strain that rattled the flags beneath my feet.

My heart began to stutter. “Are you hurt? Did–did someone—?”

“No. Leave.”

“But—”

“I said Fu.ck.ing leave, Elara,” he growled, turning his face away.

My breath caught. He said my name.

Not the plain, dismissive “Lady Thompson” I was used to getting from him.

It was my name. I had no idea he even knew it.

Ignoring every warning bell firing in my brain, I took another cautious step toward him in the dark. Like a moth drawn to a flame.

“Don’t!” he growled.

“Darren, you’re clearly in pain—”

“Fuck, I said do not come any closer, Elara.”

A loud, sickening crack echoed from his shoulder, like bone shifting beneath skin. His crimson eyes flared up at me in the darkness. “Run.”

I flinched.

He groaned in pain, and every self-preservation instinct I had disappeared into thin air.

Urgently, I stepped even closer, despite myself and laid a hand on his shoulder; he was burning hot.

“Darren, let me help you—”

In one fraction of a second, there was space between us.

In the next, my spine slammed backward against the stone pillar with a force that knocked the air straight out of my lungs.

My glasses flew from my face, clattering uselessly onto the ground.

The courtyard instantly melted into a useless, blurry smear of moonlit shadows.

Before I could even gasp, his furnace-hot weight pressed flush against me, pinning me to the stone. His wild, ragged breath scalded my lips.

My hands instinctively flew up, landing against his leather-clad chest. Beneath my palms, his heart was hammering unnaturally.

“Darren?” I whispered, trembling.

A low, feral growl vibrated out of his throat, sinking straight into my bones as his fingers wrapped around my wrists and pinned them flat against the cold pillar above my head.

“I told you to run, Birdie,” he hissed in a voice that sounded otherworldly.