CHAPTER 2

Ciara's POV

I woke to unfamiliar softness.

For a moment, I lay still, disoriented, staring at a ceiling that was not mine. Dark wooden beams crossed overhead, and between them, painted constellations gleamed in silver leaf.

The bed beneath me was too large, too warm, the sheets too fine. Nothing about this room belonged to my father's house.

Then memory returned in a rush. The rejection. The snow. Draven's black eyes looking down at me.

I sat up too quickly. Pain lanced through my temples and my body screamed in protest. Every muscle ached like I had been beaten, and my fingers and toes burned with a terrible pins-and-needles sensation that made me gasp.

"Careful, miss."

A young woman appeared at my bedside, her hands gentle as she eased me back against the pillows. She wore a simple gray dress with a white apron, her dark hair pulled back in a neat braid. A maid.

"Where..." My voice came out hoarse, raw. "Where am I?"

"Lord Draven's residence, miss." She poured water from a crystal pitcher into a glass and held it to my lips. "You gave us quite a fright. Three days you have been unconscious."

Three days.

I drank greedily, the cool water soothing my throat. Three days lost to darkness while... what? What had happened after I collapsed?

"Lord Draven brought you here himself," the maid continued, setting the glass aside. "Carried you through the door and ordered the healer summoned immediately. She said you were very lucky. Another hour in that cold and..." She trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

Another hour and I would have died.

I stared at my hands, at the bandages wrapped around my fingers where frostbite had threatened. He had actually saved me. Draven Stormclaw, the bastard son, the wolf everyone whispered about in fearful tones—he had actually carried me to safety and called for help.

I had not dared to hope. When I tried to beg, it had been pure desperation with no expectation of mercy. Men like him did not show mercy. Everyone knew that.

Yet here I was. Alive. Warm. In his home.

"I will bring you something to eat, miss." The maid moved toward a side table where a covered tray waited. "The healer said you must regain your strength slowly. Broth and bread to start."

The smell of food made my stomach clench with sudden hunger. I could not remember the last time I had eaten. Before the ball, perhaps. A lifetime ago.

The maid set the tray across my lap and removed the cover, revealing a bowl of rich chicken broth, soft bread still warm from the oven, and a small plate of sliced fruit. Simple fare, but it looked like a feast.

I had just lifted the spoon to my lips when the door opened.

Draven Stormclaw entered like he owned not just the room but the very air within it. He moved with a predator's grace, all power and dangerous certainty. In the daylight streaming through the windows, he looked even more formidable than he had in the snow. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that cruel beauty that marked him as his father's son despite the circumstances of his birth.

His black eyes found mine immediately, and something in his expression softened—just for a heartbeat—before the familiar mask of indifference settled back into place.

"Out," he said to the maid without looking at her.

She curtsied and fled, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I set down my spoon and moved to stand, to show proper respect to my... what? Savior? Captor? I did not know what to call him.

"Sit." The command was firm, but his hand moved as if to steady me, hovering just above my shoulder before he caught himself and stepped back. "You can barely hold yourself upright, and I have no need of your formal courtesies. Not from you."

The way he said it—not from you—made heat creep up my neck. As if I was somehow different. Exempt from the rules that governed everyone else.

I sank back against the pillows, suddenly aware of how I must look. My hair tangled, wearing a nightgown that was not mine, weak as a newborn pup. Not exactly the dignified image I had spent years cultivating.

Draven moved to the window, though I noticed his gaze flicked back to me twice before he settled his attention on the view outside. "I imagine you have questions."

"Why?" The word escaped before I could stop it. "Why did you save me?"

He was quiet for a moment, his profile sharp against the light streaming through the window. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully casual. "Why does anyone do anything? Perhaps I was seized by an uncharacteristic bout of compassion. Perhaps I enjoy disrupting the natural order of things."

He glanced over his shoulder, and there was something almost playful in the curve of his mouth. "Or perhaps the Moon Goddess appeared in a vision and insisted I develop a conscience. Stranger things have happened."

The lightness of his tone felt deliberate, a deflection. But deflection from what?

"You're mocking me," I said quietly.

"Am I?" He turned fully now, and as he moved closer to the bed, "Or am I simply being considerate, sparing you the burden of overthinking what might have been nothing more than... impulse."

The word felt wrong on his lips. Men like Draven Stormclaw did not act on impulse.

"I don't believe you," I said, surprising myself with my boldness.

His eyebrow rose.

He moved closer, close enough that I could see the silver flecks in his black eyes. "No? How remarkably stubborn of you."

"You're the Alpha's son," I pressed on, refusing to be distracted by his proximity. "Even if circumstances made your position difficult, you don't do things without reason. So there must be something you want from me."

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. 

The way he looked at me then made my breath catch, as if he was seeing something in me that no one else ever had. His hand moved, almost unconsciously, reaching toward mine where it gripped the sheets.

Then he seemed to catch himself and pulled back, the mask sliding into place once more.

"Very well," he said, his voice dropping lower, taking on a quality that made my pulse quicken. "If you insist on seeing machinations where there might be none, who am I to dissuade you?" 

He tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made the air between us feel charged. "Perhaps it amuses me to have the Beta's rejected daughter under my roof. Perhaps I find a certain... satisfaction in the scandal it will cause."

"It's because of Kaden," I said slowly, watching his face. "Because I was engaged to your brother."

Something dark and dangerous flashed across his expression, his jaw tightening.

"The timing is rather perfect, is it not?" I continued. "Your brother publicly rejects his promised bride, and you—the bastard he despises—take her in. The scandal alone would be—"

"Delicious?" he supplied, though there was an edge to his voice now. He moved closer still, bracing one hand on the headboard above me. This close, I could feel the heat radiating from him, see the way his throat worked as he swallowed. "Yes, I suppose there would be a certain... poetry to it. If that's the story you wish to believe, Ciara, then by all means."

"Then I'm still useful to you," I said, hearing the desperation creep into my voice despite my best efforts. "Keep me. I'll do anything. Whatever you need, I can—"

"Hush." The word was gentle, almost tender, and his hand moved again—this time settling over mine before he seemed to realize what he had done.

We both froze.

His hand was warm, his fingers rough with calluses, and the touch sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with fear. For a moment, neither of us moved. I stared at where our hands met, watching his thumb brush—just once, so softly I might have imagined it—across my knuckles.

Then he pulled back as if burned, something like confusion flashing across his face before he schooled his features once more.

"Careful with such offers," he said, stepping back and putting distance between us, running a hand through his dark hair. 

For a moment, he looked almost... lost. Then he straightened, his hands clasping behind his back. "The truth is, I cannot simply keep you here. Saving your life is one thing. Harboring the Beta's daughter without proper cause is quite another. Even I must observe certain... proprieties."

My chest tightened. The spot where his hand had touched mine still felt warm.

"My father," I said slowly, "when he made me kneel in that snow, he did not expect me to survive. He wanted me to freeze. To disappear. To erase the shame I brought to his house."

Something dangerous flashed in Draven's eyes. His entire demeanor shifted, going cold and lethal. 

"Yes," he said, his voice like ice. "The Beta has made his intentions regarding his eldest daughter quite clear. He is not known for his sentimentality, particularly where his first wife's memory is concerned."

"So if I return home..." I could not finish the sentence.

"You will not survive the winter." Draven finished for me "Your stepmother will see to that, if your father does not finish what he started. You are a liability now. A reminder of failure. Those are rarely tolerated for long in houses such as his."

I gripped the sheets, my bandaged fingers clumsy. "So I'm begging you..." I forced myself to meet his eyes. Whatever you want, whatever conditions you set, I will accept them. As long as you can protect me, I will do everything in my power to repay you."

"Everything?" He tilted his head, studying me. "Such sweeping declarations, little wolf. Do you truly understand what you are offering?"

The endearment—little wolf—sent warmth cascading through me despite the seriousness of the moment.

No. I was not certain at all. But what choice did I have?

"I understand," I lied.

He watched me for a long moment, and I could have sworn I saw conflict warring in his expression. His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach for me again but was restraining himself.

The air between us felt thick, charged with tension. My heart hammered in my chest, and I could not tell if it was fear or something else entirely.

He seemed to shake himself, stepping back and breaking whatever spell had fallen over us. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. "Are you prepared to accept any condition I name?"

Every instinct screamed that I was standing at a precipice, that whatever he said next would change everything.

But behind me lay only snow and death and a father who wanted me erased.

"Yes," I whispered.

He looked at me for a long moment, and I watched something like resignation settle over his features. As if he had been fighting some internal battle and had finally, reluctantly, surrendered.

"Then marry me."

The words hung in the air between us, impossible and stark.

I stared at him, certain I had misheard. "What?"

"Marry me." He said it again,"Become my wife. It is quite simple, really."

"I..." My thoughts scattered like startled birds. "I do not..."

"Ah." His expression shifted, something that looked almost like hurt flickering across his features. "How fascinating. A moment ago you were ready to accept any condition, to do anything I asked. What changed, I wonder?” 

"I just..." I struggled to find words. "I was rejected. Hours ago. In front of everyone. And now you..."

"I what?" His tone rose a few pitches. "I offer you protection? A name? A position that would keep you safe from those who wish you harm?" He moved closer again, unable to seem to help himself. "Or is it that you find the idea of marriage to the bastard so repellent that even death would be preferable?"

"No!" The word came out too quickly, too forcefully. "No, that is not—I just do not understand why you would want this. Want me."

Something in his expression cracked at that, some carefully maintained wall crumbling. For a moment, he looked almost helpless, as if I had touched on something he himself did not fully understand.

"Perhaps," he said quietly, "I have my reasons. Reasons that are... complicated." His hand lifted, hesitated, then gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was so tender it made my breath catch. "But those reasons are mine to bear, and you need not trouble yourself with them."

I stared up at him, confused by the gentleness in his touch, the warmth in his eyes that contradicted everything I had been told about Draven Stormclaw.

He was supposed to be cold. Calculating. Cruel.

But the man looking at me now was none of those things.

I thought of my father's cold eyes. My stepmother's venom. The long, frozen hours kneeling in the snow while everyone I had ever known looked away.

I thought of my mother's thin hand gripping mine, her desperate voice: *Without his protection, your father's house will destroy you.*

She had meant Kaden's protection. But Kaden had looked at me like I was nothing.

Draven, at least, was looking at me like I was something. Like I mattered.

Even if I could not understand why.

I lifted my chin, forcing steel into my spine despite the weakness that still gripped my body. "I agree."