Chapter 1: Ashfall's Payment

Nyra's POV

"If you cry, I'll make sure the boy hears about it."

My stepfather said it through a smile, for the crowd. His fingers dug into my arm, right over yesterday's bruise.

"I'm not crying," I whispered.

"Good. Keep it that way."

The veil was Mira's. It still smelled of her rose oil, thick and sweet, and through the lace the great hall of Blackmoor was nothing but gold light and shadows. I couldn't see the faces, but I could feel hundreds of eyes crawling over me.

Somewhere near the front, a woman laughed. "That's the bride? I thought Ashfall was sending the pretty one."

"Ashfall sends what Ashfall can afford," someone answered, and more laughter rolled through the hall.

Garrick's grip tightened. "Smile."

"They can't see my face."

"Then smile anyway, you stupid girl."

So I did. I smiled behind a veil nobody would lift, in a dress that didn't fit, in a pack house I had sworn I'd never step into again. And I thought about a small warm hand clutching my sleeve that morning, and a sleepy voice asking, Mama, when are you coming back?

Soon, baby. Soon.

I had never lied to him before today.

The doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and the room went silent.

It was the kind of silence that comes when a storm is about to break. Even Garrick stopped breathing. Then came the footsteps, slow and heavy. The steps of a man who has never had to rush for anyone.

I knew those steps.

Five years. I had told myself five years was long enough to forget the sound of a man walking. I'd been wrong. My heart remembered before my mind did, and it started slamming so hard against my ribs I thought the whole hall could hear it.

Don't look up. Don't you dare look up.

The footsteps stopped right in front of me.

Then his scent hit me. Pine and cold rain, with a little smoke underneath. My knees nearly gave out. Under the high collar of my dress, the old scar on my collarbone began to throb as if someone had pressed a hot coin against it.

"This is her?"

His voice was deeper than I remembered, and so much colder.

"My daughter, Alpha Thorne," Garrick said quickly. "As promised."

"Your daughter." A pause. "I was told your daughter had golden hair."

Garrick's hand twitched on my arm. "My... my eldest. My stepdaughter. Mira took ill last night, and we didn't want to delay the treaty."

"So you sent me the spare."

The hall burst into laughter. My face burned behind the veil, and I was glad, for once, that nobody could see it.

"Does it matter, love?" A woman's voice, smooth as honey, came from just behind him. "A payment is a payment. At least this one looks quiet."

Lyra.

I'd know that voice in my grave. The last time I heard it, I was on my knees in the snow with my back split open, and she was standing over me saying, Throw the liar over the border.

My hands curled into fists.

The old elder at the altar cleared his throat. "Alpha, it is customary for the groom to lift the bride's veil before the vows."

"Leave it."

"Alpha, the custom..."

"I said leave it." He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "I don't need to see the face of a debt."

Nobody laughed this time. I think even they felt the sting of it.

"Hands, please," the elder murmured.

A large hand closed around mine.

It was warm and rough, with calluses across the palm where a sword would rest. The second his skin touched mine, the scar under my collar flared so hot I gasped out loud. I couldn't help it.

He went very still.

His thumb shifted, just slightly, and pressed against the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. My heart was racing like a trapped bird's, and he felt every beat of it.

"Why are you shaking?" he asked, low enough that only I could hear.

"I'm cold, Alpha."

"Liar."

He leaned closer. Through the lace I could just make out the sharp line of his jaw and the pale scar running along his temple. That scar was new. Five years ago his face had been perfect, and I had kissed every inch of it by the river.

"Listen to me carefully," he murmured, and his breath brushed the veil against my cheek. "Whatever your stepfather told you to do in my bed tonight, forget it. You'll get my name and a roof over your head. Nothing else. You won't touch me, you won't speak to me unless spoken to, and you won't ever pretend to be something you're not. Understood?"

My throat was so tight I could barely get the word out. "Understood."

"Good." He straightened. "Get on with it."

The elder began the vows. Lucan repeated his part flatly, as if he were reading out a list of grain prices. I, Lucan Thorne, take you as my wife, under the moon and before my pack.

Then it was my turn.

"I, Nyra Vale," I started, and my voice cracked. I swallowed and tried again. "I take you, Lucan..."

His name tasted the same on my tongue as it used to. Five years ago I had whispered it a hundred times in the dark, laughing and breathless. Lucan. Lucan. I'd never thought I'd have to say it like this, to a stranger who wore his face.

His fingers tightened around mine. Hard.

"Say that again."

The elder blinked. "Alpha?"

"Not you." He was looking down at me. I could feel his stare burning straight through the lace. "Say my name again."

The whole hall had gone quiet. My mouth was dry. "Lucan."

For one long, terrible second, he didn't move. His grip on my hand was almost painful, and I swear something rumbled low in his chest, like a wolf stirring in its sleep.

Then he let go of my hand so suddenly I stumbled.

"Finish it," he snapped at the elder.

"I... yes. By the moon and the blood of our ancestors, I declare you bound."

Lucan turned to face the hall. "Blackmoor accepts Ashfall's payment. The debt is settled."

And just like that, he walked away from me.

He didn't look back once. I watched the blur of his broad back cut through the crowd, and I watched a slim figure in red slide her arm through his like she belonged there. The music started up again. People went back to their wine. Garrick muttered something about the long ride home and disappeared without even saying goodbye.

I stood alone at the altar, a wife for less than a minute, and nobody came near me.

I told myself that was fine. I told myself I only had to survive. I'd keep my head down, I'd stay invisible, and one day I'd find a way back to my son.

That was when I smelled roses, the expensive kind that sticks in your throat.

"Well," said a honey-smooth voice beside me. "Let's see what Ashfall sent us."

Before I could stop her, a hand with long red nails caught the edge of my veil and lifted it just high enough to see my face.

Lyra's smile froze.

The color drained from her cheeks so fast I thought she might faint. For one beautiful second, she looked afraid.

Then the smile came back, slow and sharp, and she leaned in close until her lips were right beside my ear.

"Hello, kitchen girl," she whispered. "You really should have stayed gone."

She let the veil fall back into place, patted my cheek through the lace like I was a pet, and added sweetly:

"Tell me. How is the boy?"