Chapter 2

Irene's Pov

Being stuck in the Sovereign Wing was like living inside a very expensive, very quiet heart monitor. Everything was silent until it was not.

When the noise happened, it was usually just the sound of my own heart thumping against my ribs. It had been three days, and I had already learned that boundaries were a joke here.

The doors in this place did not have real locks. They had latches, but in a house full of people who could rip a door off its hinges, a piece of clicking metal was basically just a polite suggestion.

I felt like a ghost. I moved through the hallways trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to leave a scent.

But Matthew was everywhere. Even when he was not in the room, his scent was.

It was that dark, earthy mix of cedar and something sharp, like lightning before a storm. It followed me into the kitchen, it sat on the furniture, and it mocked me from the hallway.

By the fourth day, I was losing my mind. I needed to move.

I found the private gym in the basement of the wing. It was a place full of heavy bags and mats that smelled like industrial cleaner and old sweat.

It was the first place I had felt like I could actually exist since I got here.

I started my combat forms, moving through the sequences my father taught me back home. Punch, pivot, elbow, kick.

I focused on the burn in my lungs and the snap of my joints. It was the only way to drown out the constant, low-level anxiety of being an intruder in this pack.

I was mid-spin, aiming a roundhouse kick at an imaginary target, when a voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Your balance is off. If I were actually trying to kill you, you would be on your back before that foot hit the floor.”

I stumbled, my foot catching on the mat as I whipped around. Matthew was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest.

He was not wearing his enforcer jacket today, just a black t-shirt that looked like it was struggling to contain his shoulders. He looked bored, but his eyes were tracking my every movement.

“I didn’t ask for a coach,” I snapped, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “And I thought this was supposed to be a private gym.”

“My wing, my gym,” he said, pushing off the wall. He walked toward me with that terrifyingly smooth gait.

“And you are leaning too far into your right hip. You are telegraphing your moves like you are sending a formal invitation to be tackled.”

“I am practicing,” I said, my voice tightening. “Maybe if you weren’t lurking in the shadows like a creep, I could focus.”

He reached me in three strides, stopping just outside my personal space. The air between us was suddenly charged. It felt like the atmosphere before a massive electrical surge.

“Show me,” he said. It was not a request.

“No.”

He moved faster than I could track. He lunged, and instinct took over.

I dropped low, sweeping my leg out to catch his ankles, but he was already gone. He was behind me.

I spun, throwing a palm strike toward his chest, but he caught my wrist in a grip that felt like a steel cuff.

“Slow,” he whispered.

“Let go,” I hissed, twisting my arm.

Instead, he pulled. I was jerked forward, crashing right into his chest.

The contact was like a physical explosion. The moment my skin hit his, something inside me snapped.

It was not the mate bond—I would have known if it were that—but it was something raw and chemical. It was a Primal Recognition.

My wolf was not just whining now; she was howling, clawing at the walls of my mind to get closer to him.

His grip on my wrist tightened, but not in a way that hurt. His other hand found the small of my back, pinning me against him.

I could feel the heat of his body through his shirt. For a second, the mocking look on his face vanished.

His pupils were blown wide, turning his eyes into dark pits of fire. My breath hitched, and I knew he could hear the way my pulse was racing.

He smelled like citrus, and I was suddenly, terrifyingly aware that I did not want to pull away.

He let go so abruptly I almost fell. He cleared his throat, his face snapping back into that cold, emotionless mask.

But I saw the way his fingers twitched at his side.

“Council meeting in twenty minutes,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Don’t be late. And fix your stance.”

He turned and walked out without looking back. I stood there for a full minute, staring at the empty doorway.

My heart hammered a rhythm I did not recognize.

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting at a massive mahogany table in the main house, feeling like a prisoner on trial.

My mother and the High Alpha were at the head of the table, looking like the ultimate power couple. Matthew was sitting directly across from me, his face a wall of granite.

The council members were old, scarred wolves who looked like they had not smiled since the nineties. They were debating the merger, talking about logistics and borders, until one of the elders stood up.

“There is the matter of the bloodlines,” the old man said, his voice rasping. “This union is a political necessity, but we cannot risk the purity of the Blackwood succession. We need to ensure that the new arrivals understand their place."

He continued, "I propose a formal decree: any romantic or sexual involvement between the joined branches of this new family is strictly forbidden. It would be seen as an act of internal subversion. The penalty for such treason will be immediate exile. No exceptions.”

The room went silent. I felt a chill run down my spine.

Exile was a death sentence for a pack wolf. It meant being stripped of your identity, your protection, everything.

“I think that is a wise precaution,” the High Alpha said, his voice cold. “Matthew? Irene? You are the faces of this merger. Do you understand the weight of this?”

“Perfectly,” Matthew said. His voice was flat, showing absolutely nothing.

I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I looked down at my lap, trying to ignore the way my skin was still tingling from the gym.

Then, I felt it.

Under the table, hidden from the view of the council, a hand brushed against mine. It was not an accident.

Matthew’s fingers slid against my palm, a slow, deliberate contact that felt like a brand. I looked up, startled, and caught his gaze.

For a split second, the mask was gone. The cold, ruthless enforcer was not there.

Instead, I saw a hunger so intense it made my lungs seize up. It was a look of pure, unadulterated territoriality.

He was not looking at me like a stepsister or a pack mate. He was looking at me like I was something he owned, something he wanted to devour.

He looked at me like I was something he wouldn't let go for a second.

His fingers curled around mine for just a heartbeat—a silent, rebellious acknowledgement of the fire that just started in the gym before he pulled away.

He then returned his attention to the council like nothing had happened.

I sat there, my hand burning where he touched me, realizing that we were both standing on the edge of a cliff. We just heard the law and we knew the price.

And yet, the look in his eyes told me one thing very clearly…Matthew did not care about the rules.

I was in so much trouble.