Chapter 2.

“Everyone in the Rosta coast knows the rules: stay in your lane, bow to the Dacians, and never cross the Morozov.”—Sh.

“Excuse me?” I asked, just to make sure I’d heard him right.

He didn’t blink still. Just let his eyes rake over me again. I suddenly felt underdressed. I didn’t dress to impress, just a simple dinner dress with a low slit. His grey eyes finally stopped assessing me.

“If you’re going to sneak around after my brother like some starved little omega,” he flatly, “at least have the decency to do it outside my home.”

My throat dried instantly.

I wasn’t sure what burned more, his words or the way he said them, low and unimpressed, as though I was some stain he couldn’t wait to just have scrubbed off his balcony.

“I wasn’t—” I started, but he flicked his wrist, silencing me. Dropped the cigarette. Crushed it beneath his heel. Then walked right past me.

He didn’t bump into me. Though our bodies didn't touch, his scent hit me anyways.

I swallowed the moment whole, breath hitching in my throat as the air cooled behind him.

Thank the Moon I wasn’t the one marrying that man.

I’d unalive myself before breakfast.

I turned, finally letting myself blink. The balcony door creaked a little as I slipped back into the hallway, nerves buzzing under my skin. When I arrived back into the hall, Zayen was already sitting. My father along with my cousin where exchanged pleasantries but even with the face mask held on their face one could already tell they hated their guts.

I moved back to my seat flashing my most normal smiles to the Morozov twin cousin who seemed to have been looking at me.

The chatter died the moment Papa’s wine glass clinked gently against the marble table. The air in the room shifted, subtle, but still heavy on me, like the feeling of a storm just beginning to curl over the sea.

Papa stood slowly. “We’ve waited long enough,” he said, his voice as smooth as the silk pocket square tucked into his coat. “Allow me the honor of presenting my first daughter—Rhea Dacian.”

Rhea stood with a grace that didn’t belong to her. At least not the version of her I remembered. Her smile was calm and regal but her eyes were the opposite. Not a single flicker of excitement at her own engagement announcement.

Zayen looked at her briefly then back to my father. He didn’t acknowledge her for even the slightest second. Just a swirl of his glass and a lazy glance toward his fingernails like he was more interested in the polish than the woman he was about to marry.

“So, the wedding can happen in a week or less—“ Papa started again but was interrupted before he could finish.

“This is the alliance we’re expected to bow to?” a low, grating voice sneered from the right side of the table. “A dying bloodline and a slut in a pretty dress?”

Every inch of my body stilled.

The words hit harder than expected, not just because of how loud he said it but because I expected papa to react immediately but he didn’t.

The man who spoke was an older Morozov—thick scar down one cheek, that made him disturbing to look at.

Papa straightened, but it wasn’t him who responded. It was Rico.

He stood so fast his chair slammed backward against the wall, eyes narrowed into lethal slits. “Say that again.”

The older man, Viktor, Nicklai s uncle, raised a brow, not afraid. “I said what I said. You Direwolves think dressing up your daughters and offering them like wine bottles makes you royalty. But all I see is a desperate man trying to gain—”

Rico pulled his gun. Fast.

He pointed it directly at the man’s forehead, gaze unshaking.

“One more word and you’ll be barking through a hole in your throat.”His voice cracked, nothing less of cold and controlled, but seconds from snapping.

“Rico,” Papa warned.

The man sneered. “Tell your mutt to sit, Dominik.”

Rico flashed, his canines and then the color of his eyes went wolf brown.

The tension flamed, everyone knew that showing sides of our wolves meant initiating a fight, war even.

“Rico, drop the gun.” Nonna spoke this time but still no use, his glare from the man didn’t shake.

“Fucking say that again and try me.” Rico snapped, a smirk pulling at his lips as his index played round the trigger.

Another Morozov rose. A gun now pointed directly at Rico now.

Then my cousins. Sean, Uncle Alberto, everyone else.

And another.

The room erupted—men standing, chairs knocked over, cousins from both sides flashing weapons. Half the Frostfang uncles had steel out before my father even blinked. Two of our guards reached for theirs, and I could swear I saw one Morozov cousin licking his lips in excitement.

“Enough!” Papa’s voice cracked through the madness. “Everyone. Drop. Your. Weapons.”

No one moved.

Not a damn soul.

Rico’s gun was still aimed at the man’s skull giving him the most sinister Direwolf grin.

“The only reasona Direwolf even bother forming an alliance is because you need us as much as we need you.” Rico spat. “So you treat one of our own with equal respect because we have to deal with your ass but you will not fucking cross the lines!”

This entire table was sprawled with men now pointing guns at each other and others shaking from fear.

“No one could die here! No one should. It was a marriage meet and greet, Rico, not a freaking funeral preparation!” My wolf screamed, clawing under my skin.

But a part of me had expected it. Two ancient enemy blood suddenly wanting alliance and you expect it to be all wines and laughs. Please.

The intensity and fear in Rhea’s eyes mirrors mine as the triggers flickered.

Zayen, meanwhile?

Still seated. A crooked smile on his lips watching the entire scene unfold with wine glass in his hands like this was theatre and he had the best seat in the house.

Suddenly his gaze shifted to mine, his eyes darkening in an instant, his wolf, grey pupil flexing , and his smile had vanished.

I swallowed then looked away, only to realize it wasn’t just Zayen watching me now.

Rico had turned.

So had my father. And so had half the room.

All their eyes turned to me.

My pulse skipped.

Confused, I turned slightly but then a cold steel metal touched the side of my temple. Cold, stiff and pressed hard against my skin.

Someone stood behind me. My breathing seized. My heart didnt just race, it stopped

The cold muzzle dug deeper against my skull. My skin burned with the shock of it. I knew that feel. I’d seen my family kill and train with it. I knew the difference between a warning and an intention.

This one had intention. He cocked the hammer.

My heart beat slowed as I heard the sound of a pulled trigger, only one blistered thought echoing in my head:

This is it. I’m going to die.