Chapter 2

Lyra

Today was the day I became a wife. As the heavy silk of my gown brushed against my legs, I couldn't stop the relentless wondering: what had he offered my father in exchange for me? I had tried to catch the frantic whispers of the maids as they cinched my corset, but their secrets remained just out of reach.

I remembered a northern Alpha who had once tried to touch my hand during a gala. My father had barked a price so steep the man’s face drained of color until he looked like a ghost. For my father to agree to hand me over to Alpha Draven, the price must have been a king’s ransom.

“Don’t forget to smile,” Maya whispered, pulling a strand of hair into place. I caught her gaze in the mirror.

Despite the years of her sharp tongue and hateful glares, a flicker of something…pity, perhaps, shone in her eyes. A strange ache settled in my chest; I would actually miss her.

I was a vision in royal blue, the fabric draped over me like a heavy ocean. A thick gold necklace weighed down my throat, and my silver-white hair was pulled back into a sleek, tight ponytail.

Despite the weight of the jewelry, a spark of genuine hope warmed my blood. Soon, I would be away from this house. I could finally speak. I could finally find my own voice.

The door creaked open, and my father stepped in.

“Look at her,” he murmured, his eyes scanning me with the chilling admiration one might give a prized statue.

“I can't believe you are finally leaving.”

For one fleeting heartbeat, I thought I detected a tremor of genuine emotion in his voice. Then, he leaned in, his shadow falling over me.

“No matter where you go, Lyra, I am watching. So behave. No talking. Just smile, like the doll you are.”

He took my hand, his grip firm and cold. The fragile happiness I’d nurtured withered instantly. I forced my lips to curve upward, burying the sadness deep beneath the surface. It doesn’t matter, I told myself.

Today, I leave him behind.

When we stepped into the Great Hall, the air seemed to vanish as the guests drew a collective breath.

“Wow, she’s beautiful.”

“A goddess...”

“So the rumors were true. The Princess of Moonveil is a living myth.”

I kept my gaze fixed forward. To them, my beauty was a wonder; to me, it was a cage I had inhabited since birth. I remembered the night I had pressed a knife to my own cheek, desperate to ruin the currency my father traded in. He had caught my wrist, his voice a low hiss:

“The only reason you are alive is because of your beauty.” I had dropped the blade, and I hadn't picked it up since.

As we walked down the aisle, my blood turned to ice. Every step toward the altar felt like a step toward a door that was finally unlocking. I couldn't remember the last time I’d heard the sound of my own voice.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird seeking an exit.

Then, I was standing before him. Alpha Draven.

My father stood beside me, his eyes glistening with fake, practiced tears. I ignored him and looked at my groom.

Draven was strikingly handsome, more so than any Alpha I had ever seen. His eyes were the color of cold steel, and his jet-black hair offered a sharp, beautiful contrast to his pale skin.

I felt a surge of relief. At least he was pleasant to look at. I recalled the maids murmuring about how men marry for love, and how they cherished beautiful wives. Perhaps, in the Blackthorn Pack, I would be more than a trophy. I smiled at him, my heart full of hope for our future.

“Under the Moon, do you take her as your wife, Alpha Draven?” the priest intoned.

“I do,” Draven said, his voice a deep, resonant chime.

“Under the Moon, do you take him as your husband, Princess Lyra?”

The silence stretched. I didn't know if I was permitted to break the rule yet. My eyes instinctively sought my father, the way I had been trained to do since I was a child.

Nod, he mouthed, his expression a thin veil over a threat.

I obeyed.

“Alpha Draven of the Blackthorn Pack is now the husband to Princess Lyra of Moonveil,” the priest declared.

“This union is blessed by the Moon; what she has joined, no man can break.”

We walked hand-in-hand toward the carriage. It was my first time actually stepping inside one; usually, I was just the ornament sitting on a stool at my father’s parties, smiling at jokes I didn't understand while he guarded me like a jealous dragon.

As the carriage door clicked shut, isolating us, I felt the words bubbling up in my throat. I opened my mouth to finally introduce myself to my husband.

“You were trained to be quiet,” Draven said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“So be quiet.”

My world shattered. The hope that had been rising in me turned to lead. Was this just a different cell in the same prison? I tried to tell myself he just didn't know. He didn't realize I had a voice to give.

“I...” I started, my voice raspy from disuse.

Draven recoiled, his gray eyes flashing with shock and then—disturbingly—fury.

“You talk?”

I attempted a small, hopeful smile, ready to explain. But his next words broke what was left of my spirit.

“If I knew you were broken, I wouldn't have bought you,” he spat, his face contorted with anger. “He told me you were a mute.”

He threw open the carriage door and stormed out. I fought the hot sting of tears.

Don't cry, I lectured myself. If your eyes get puffy, you lose your value. I put on the mask. I wore the smile I was born to wear.

The door opened again, but it was my father who climbed in, his face a mask of rage.

“Why did you try to speak?” he hissed. “I told you, your beauty is the only thing keeping you alive. Do not destroy my plans.”

A tear escaped, rolling down my cheek, but I quickly blinked the rest back. Then, with terrifying speed, his face softened. He reached out and caressed my hair as if he hadn't just been shouting.

“You are more useful when you are quiet, Lyra. Don’t you want to be useful?”

I nodded slowly, my throat tight.

“Good girl. Now, stay quiet.” He stepped out of the carriage.

A few minutes later, Draven returned. The anger had vanished, replaced by a satisfied, chilling smile. He reached out, his thumb grazing my cheek.

“You truly are as beautiful as they say,” he murmured. “But you’ll look even better when you’re silent.”

He looked triumphant, like a man who had just won a rare prize at an auction. I felt the weight of his gaze, but my heart felt hollow. I was a trophy. I was a wolfless curse wrapped in a beautiful package.

The freedom I had tasted was nothing more than a cruel delusion. I hadn't been free; I had been traded.

I sat back against the velvet seat, praying to the Moon that felt very far away, wondering if this new prison would be my end.