C2

Elira Ashwyn stands before the cold stone altar inside the grand pack hall of the Ashwyn lodge, her plus-size frame tightly wrapped in a cheap, unadorned white linen tunic. She is barely four feet five inches tall, her rich black skin glowing under the dim torchlight, contrast pure against the pale fabric.

She hasn't slept in days.

She didn't bother requesting a decorated ritual gown from the clan elders because she refused to waste a single silver coin. Every piece of wealth she possesses must go directly to the medicine wolves treating Elder Maelis for shadow-rot.

Elira has bound her dark hair with a simple strip of raw white leather, her expression stoic, pure, and cold.

The high ceremonial hall sits almost entirely barren. Only a few lower-ranked pack members linger near the stone pillars.

"Do not pace, Elira," Garrick Ashwyn says, stepping closer to her with a tense sigh. "The Frostclaw male will arrive soon. The snowstorm in the outer valley delayed his march."

Elira’s heart thumps once against her ribs, her breath hitching in her throat.

She knows the vicious rumors spread across the territory about the male she is forced to mate. Kaedrin Thornvale is an outcast of the Frostclaw Bloodline, a rogue warrior who owns no pack lands and spends his nights brawling in lawless border dens.

Thinking of binding her wolf to a stray bloodline rogue makes Elira's stomach turn, but she has no choice.

"Why haven't the Frostclaw elders arrived to witness the union?" Lady Morwen Ashwyn asks, her eyes narrowing as she adjusts her embroidered velvet mantle.

Morwen looks regal and ruthless, her face painted in clan colors. She clearly hates that the Frostclaw Bloodline shows so little respect for this mating contract, but Elira doesn't care about honor.

Elira leans close to Morwen, her low voice laced with pure venom. "The moment the blood vow is sealed, you hand over the fifty thousand silver tokens for Elder Maelis's healing crystals."

"We are bound by pack law, stray," Morwen snaps back, her voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "Stop asking. You will get the silver once the contract bears your blood."

Footsteps echo from the arched entrance.

Cerys Ashwyn glides into the sanctuary, her arms wrapped tightly around Torric Blackthorn's thick arm. She wears heavy gold chains and silk robes, her smug face practically dripping with satisfaction.

Torric’s yellow eyes lock onto Elira in her simple tunic. A sudden flare of deep guilt and lingering lust flashes in his gaze.

He had not wanted to attend this forced union, but Cerys had dragged him here to watch his former mate bind herself to a worthless rogue.

"I can't believe you are actually going through with this," Torric mutters, his voice tight as Cerys pulls him closer to the altar.

"Keep your eyes on me, Torric!" Cerys growls, her claws digging into his leather sleeve. "She is mating an outcast bastard today! You belong to me now, and so does our unborn pup!"

Cerys turns her sharp gaze toward Elira, her lips twisting into a mocking sneer. "Where is your grand bridegroom, sister? Is he too drunk in a border tavern to claim his heavy little stray?"

Elira turns her head slowly, her dark brown eyes burning with cold rage. "Mind your tongue in the sacred hall, Cerys. You are carrying a child, yet you act like a rogue in heat."

"How dare you!" Cerys screeches, her wolf surging to the surface.

Before she can take a step toward Elira, the massive oak doors of the sanctuary crash open.

A towering male steps across the threshold. The heavy mountain wind swirls behind him, catching the thick fur of his dark cloak.

Every whisper in the hall dies instantly.

The male takes a long, deliberate step forward, his broad shoulders easily filling the entryway. His massive frame, towering over six feet, radiates an suffocating, high-ranking Alpha pressure that makes the low-ranked wolves in the back instantly bow their heads. His sharp jawline and piercing grey eyes look as if they were carved by ancient mountain gods.

Cerys gasps, her hand flying to her throat as her eyes track his movement. She had expected a dirty, scarred vagrant. The male standing before them looks like a supreme war commander.

Cerys leans toward Morwen, her voice shaking. "Mother... who is that? Is that one of the high commanders of the Frostclaw Bloodline?"

Morwen frowns, her eyes wide with shock. "That... that cannot be the outcast."

Cerys turns to Torric, but Torric looks completely diminished next to the towering Alpha who just entered the room. A sudden surge of bitter jealousy strikes Cerys's chest.

Kaedrin Thornvale ignores every gaping face in the hall. He walks straight down the center aisle, his heavy leather boots thumping against the stone floor until he stops directly in front of Elira.

He looks down at the short, plush female in her simple white tunic. His intense gaze sweeps over her dark skin, her strong shoulders, and the quiet fire burning in her dark eyes.

"I apologize for the delay," Kaedrin says, his voice a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrates right through Elira's chest. "I had to execute three rogue trespassers on the southern border before riding here."

"It doesn't matter," Elira replies flatly, keeping her voice steady despite the sudden spike of heat in her blood.

She glances down at his wrist as he raises his hand to sign the parchment.

A heavy, dark-steel cuff lined with ancient glowing runes rests against his skin—the crest of the Ravenshade Moon Dominion. It is an artifact worth more than the entire Ashwyn pack house combined.

Elira's eyebrows shoot up in shock.

How does a penniless outcast possess an ancient Dominion Alpha artifact?