CHAPTER 4

Ciara's POV

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." I held his gaze, refusing to let him see how my hands trembled beneath the sheets. "You need me to be your weapon. I need protection. It seems a fair exchange."

"Fair." He tasted the word like wine. "How... pragmatic of you."

His voice was even. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"I am not a child," I said, though part of me felt exactly like one—lost and frightened and desperately out of my depth. "I know this is not about love. You have your reasons for wanting this marriage, and I have mine for accepting. That is enough."

"Is it?" He leaned closer, bracing one hand on the headboard above me. This close, I could see the flecks of silver in his black eyes, like stars in a night sky. "You do realize what you are agreeing to, do you not? Marriage to the bastard son. The one your precious pack considers beneath them. Your reputation, already in tatters, will be completely destroyed."

"My reputation is already gone," I said quietly. "Kaden made sure of that."

Something shifted in his expression.

"So you would rather be the bastard's wife than the rejected bride," he murmured.

"It is the only choice I have."

He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he straightened and crossed to the window, hands clasped behind his back as he looked out over the grey winter grounds.

"There are conditions," he said finally.

"I expected as much."

"You will conduct yourself with discretion. Whatever you think of this arrangement privately, publicly you will be my chosen bride—not a refugee I took in out of pity." He glanced back at me. "People will assume what they like. Let them. What matters is the story we present."

"Understood."

"And you will not go looking for sentiment where there is none." His tone was not unkind, only precise. "I am not Kaden. I will not pretend affection I do not feel, and I expect the same honesty from you."

Something about that steadied me. Pretending was exhausting. The thought of not having to was almost a relief.

"First," he continued, "you must return home."

My stomach dropped. "Now?"

"Yes, Ciara." He glanced back at me. "No matter what agreement we have reached, the pack has rules. A highborn she-wolf cannot simply disappear into my household without proper procedure. I must speak with the Alpha first, make my intentions known officially. And you..." His lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "You must face your family."

"They will not let me leave again."

"They will have no choice." He opened the door and called into the hallway. "Marcus!"

A stern-faced man appeared within seconds, bowing slightly. "My lord?"

"Prepare the carriage. Miss Ciara will be returning to her father's house." Draven's eyes found mine again. "I will be visiting the Alpha soon. By afternoon, your father will understand that you are no longer his to dispose of as he sees fit."

Marcus bowed again and disappeared.

I pushed myself up straighter in the bed, ignoring the protest of my still-recovering body. "And if something happens before then? If he—"

"Nothing will happen." Draven's voice was iron. He studied me for a long moment. "You chose this path, Ciara. Now walk it. You are stronger than you realize."

---

The carriage that brought me home was fine—too fine for someone like me. Black lacquer with silver trim, the Stormclaw crest deliberately absent from its sides. Marcus had helped me inside with careful formality, as if I were already someone who mattered.

Now the carriage stopped in front of my father's house. Through the window, I could see the steps where I had knelt three nights ago. Someone had swept away the snow, erasing all evidence of what had happened there.

How convenient.

Marcus opened the door and offered his hand. "Miss Ciara. Lord Draven will send word when arrangements are finalized. Do not fear—he will not be long."

I nodded and stepped down, my legs still weak but steadier than they had been. The healer's work had been thorough, and two days of rest had helped. I was not the half-frozen girl who had collapsed in the snow.

But I was not sure who I was now, either.

The carriage pulled away, leaving me alone at the bottom of the steps. I stared up at the familiar door, at the frosted iron handles and the chipped paint along the lower frame that my father had never bothered to fix. I had stood on these steps a thousand times. Returned from lessons, from pack gatherings, from the market with my stepmother's endless lists.

I had always walked through that door as someone who belonged to this house.

Today would be different.

I took a slow breath and started to climb.

The moment I stepped through the door, a porcelain vase hurtled through the air and shattered at my feet, shards exploding across the stone.

"How dare you!" My father roared as he stormed out onto the landing, his face mottled red with rage. "How dare you show your face here after what you have done!"

I froze, my hand gripping the railing. For a moment—just a moment—I was that obedient girl again, the one who would bow her head and accept whatever punishment he deemed appropriate.

But that girl had died in the snow.

"Father," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I live here."

"You lived here!" He descended the steps toward me, his fist raised. "Before you humiliated this family! Before you disgraced the name I gave you!"

His hand came down.

I moved.

Years of training in combat forms, dismissed as unnecessary for a Luna candidate, suddenly proved their worth. I twisted aside, and his fist met empty air. The momentum carried him forward and he stumbled, catching himself on the railing.

The shock on his face was almost worth everything that had happened.

"You..." He straightened, eyes wide with disbelief. "You dare to dodge? To resist?"

"Yes." The word came out cold, final. "I dare."

So this was what it felt like to fight back.

It wasn't as hard as I'd feared.