Chapter 10: The Proxy Wife

The engagement night was Niklas's idea.

"A show of force," he explained when he visited my cell that afternoon. "The packs need to see you are claimed. Protected. That any who dare touch you will face the wrath of the Black Forest."

"A show," I echoed. "Like theater."

"Like politics." He presented me with a bundle of black silk. "Wear this."

I unfolded the dress. It was exquisite—simple yet elegant, with a neckline daringly low for me. The fabric felt cool and undeniably expensive against my fingertips.

"You planned this," I stated.

"I’ve hoped for this," he corrected, his gaze locking with mine. "Ten years I've waited to see you in anything other than rags."

I looked away, the words a familiar ache. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that. It makes this… harder."

"Good," he replied, turning towards the door. "It should be hard. It should feel impossible. That's how we'll know it's real." He left before I could respond.

The ceremony unfolded in the grand hall.

Torches illuminated the walls, casting dancing shadows upon the assembled shifters. Representatives from every pack were present—Siberians in their pristine white furs, Mongolians in rugged leathers, Alaskans adorned with bone necklaces. Even the Africans had journeyed, their skin gleaming in the firelight.

I walked the aisle alone.

No father to give me away. No mother to offer a blessing. Just me, clad in black silk, advancing towards the man who had claimed me a decade ago and now claimed me anew.

Niklas stood at the altar.

He, too, wore black—a formal jacket accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the lean lines of his frame. His hair was swept back, revealing the sharp angles of his jaw and the intensity of his storm-gray eyes.

As I reached him, he extended his hand.

I took it.

"The Council recognizes this union," Vera announced from her throne. "Niklas Vollbrecht of the Black Forest pack, do you take Elif Demir as your proxy wife?"

"I do."

"And do you, Elif Demir, accept the protection of the Black Forest pack in exchange for your loyalty?"

I met Niklas's gaze, studying his face, his steady hands.

"I do."

"Then let it be known," Vera declared, rising. "The half-blood is under German protection. Any who harm her harm the Black Forest. Any who claim her claim war."

A murmur rippled through the crowd—a blend of approval and resentment. But no one voiced an objection.

The celebration continued for hours.

Wine flowed freely. Music filled the air. Shifters danced, laughed, and observed me with eyes that held a mixture of hunger, curiosity, and apprehension.

I remained close to Niklas.

His hand was a constant presence—on my waist, my back, my arm. A tangible reminder of my new, albeit paper, ownership.

"Enjoying yourself?" he murmured, his lips near my ear.

"I'm enjoying watching you pretend to enjoy yourself."

He chuckled, a low sound. "I'm not pretending. I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of taking you home tonight. Of being alone with you. Of everything I want to do and everything I shouldn't."

My heart skipped a beat. "Then don't come home with me."

"I have to. You're my wife now." His grip tightened on my waist. "Proxy or not, the bond is real. The Council will expect us to consummate."

"Consummate?"

"Not literally. But they will watch. They will listen." His jaw clenched. "They'll know if we don't."

I surveyed the hall, acutely aware of the eyes that followed us, the ears straining to catch our whispers.

"This is a prison," I stated.

"No." He turned me to face him. "This is a test. And we will pass it."

His room was as I remembered it.

Yet tonight, it felt different. Smaller. Charged. The air between us crackled with an unspoken tension that made breathing difficult.

"Lock the door," Niklas commanded.

I complied.

"Now what?"

He didn't answer, simply watching me, his chest rising and falling too rapidly.

"Niklas?"

"I can't," his voice was rough. "I thought I could. I thought I could pretend. But I can't."

"Pretend what?"

"That I don't want you." He crossed the room in three swift strides, pressing me against the wall. His body was hard against mine, hands framing my head, his breath hot against my face. "That I don't need you."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat I was certain he could hear.

"Niklas—"

"Let me touch you," his forehead met mine. "Just once. Just tonight. Then we go back to pretending."

"Bitiremezsin," I whispered in Turkish. You can't end it.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching mine. "What?"

"Bitiremezsin çünkü başlamadın bile." You can't end it because you haven't even started.

His eyes darkened with a sudden intensity.

And then he kissed me.

This was unlike any other time.

It was desperate, hungry—the kiss of a man starved for a decade, finally granted permission to feast.

His hands roamed freely—my hair, my face, my shoulders, my back. He pulled me flush against him, and I felt every hard plane of his chest, the raised ridges of his scars, the undeniable evidence of his desire pressing against my thigh.

I moaned into his mouth.

He growled in response.

"Say it again," he commanded against my lips. "Say whatever you said before."

"I said you can't end what you haven't started."

"Then let me start."

He trailed kisses along my jaw, my throat, the hollow at the base of my neck. When his teeth grazed my collarbone, I gasped and clutched his hair, pulling him closer.

"Niklas."

He lifted me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried me to the bed and laid me down upon the silk sheets.

The dress was an impediment.

He tore it.

Not gently, not carefully. He seized the neckline and ripped, the fabric yielding like paper. The sound was a violation in the quiet room.

"Now we're even," he stated, looking down at me. "You tore my shirt. I tore your dress."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I was angry."

"And now?"

I reached up and pulled him down to me. "Now, I'm not."

His mouth was on my neck.

His teeth—sharp, wolf-sharp—scraped against my skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave marks. Marks that would linger. Marks that would claim.

I arched against him, my nails digging into his back through his shirt.

"Off," I gasped. "Take it off."

He sat up and peeled his shirt over his head in a single, fluid motion. The torchlight illuminated the sculpted lines of his body—the powerful muscles of his arms, the defined ridges of his abdomen, the dark hair that trailed from his chest down to his belt.

I yearned to touch him, to memorize every inch.

So I did.

My hands explored him as if charting a map. His shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The scars that crisscrossed his ribs, each a testament to past pain.

He allowed it. He watched me, his eyes never leaving my face.

"Your turn," he said.

He reached for the remnants of my dress and pulled. The fabric fell away, leaving me clad only in a delicate scrap of lace.

His breath hitched.

"Tanrım," he whispered in Turkish. My God.

"Where did you learn that?"

"From you. Ten years ago. You taught me words I've never forgotten."

He lowered his head, his mouth finding my stomach. My hip. The sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

I moaned, gripping his hair.

"Niklas, please—"

"Please what?"

"I need—"

"What do you need?"

I couldn't answer. I couldn't think. All I could do was feel. His mouth. His hands. His body pressing me into the mattress.

He kissed his way back up my body. His teeth grazed my breast, and I cried out. His tongue soothed the sting.

"Mine," he murmured against my skin. "You're mine."

"Yours," I agreed, my voice a breath. "Always yours."

He settled between my legs.

I could feel him—hard, ready, desperate. His pants were the only barrier between us.

"Last chance," he said, his voice ragged. "Tell me to stop."

I looked into his eyes.

And I saw everything. Ten years of longing. Ten years of grief. Ten years of searching for a girl he believed he had lost forever.

"Niklas," I whispered. "I—"

The word caught in my throat.

Love. I was about to say love.

But something held me back.

Fear. Doubt. The echoes of every person who had ever left me. Every hand that had reached for me, only to pull away.

"Stop," I said.

He froze.

"What?"

"Stop." I pushed against his chest. He rolled off me immediately, his eyes wide, his chest heaving.

"Elif—"

"I can't," tears streamed down my face. "I can't do this. I can't be another thing you take. Another thing you use."

"I'm not using you."

"How do I know that? How do I know this isn't just about my blood? My power? The First Wolf's legacy?"

He stared at me, his face pale, his lips swollen from our kisses.

"Because," he said slowly, "I've been in love with you since I was fifteen years old. And I've spent ten years trying to forget you. And I can't."

"Then prove it."

"How?"

"Not like this." I pulled the torn dress around me, covering myself. "Not when I'm half-naked and desperate. Prove it when I'm dressed. When we're both thinking clearly."

He sat up, running his hands through his hair.

"You're right," he conceded. "You're right."

"I am?"

"You're not a toy. You're not a tool. You're not a weapon." He looked at me, his gaze intense. "You're the only person in the world who has ever made me feel like I'm not a monster."

He stood and walked towards the door.

"Niklas—"

"I'm not going to be the man who takes something from you that you're not ready to give." He opened the door. "When you're ready—truly ready—you come to me. Until then…"

He glanced back at me, his eyes soft, etched with sadness.

"Until then, I'll wait."

He left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sat alone in his bed, the torn dress clutched to my chest, my body still humming from his touch.

You're the only person in the world who has ever made me feel like I'm not a monster.

I pressed my hand to my stomach.

And I felt it.

A warmth. A light. Something glowing beneath my skin, just below my navel.

I looked down.

My hand was illuminated—a soft, golden radiance emanating from my palm, my fingers, from the spot where I touched my own body.

"What the hell…" I whispered.

The light pulsed. Once. Twice. Three times.

And then it faded.

I stared at my hand. At my stomach. At the place where something—something—had just awakened within me.

This wasn't a baby.

I knew that with a chilling certainty.

This was something else. Something ancient. Something that had slumbered in my blood since the day I was born.

The First Wolf, a voice whispered in my mind. He's waking up.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in my life, I was afraid of what I might become.