4: No Ceremony

Fern

I don’t own much.

What I do have fits into a single trunk beneath my bed.  It contains two plain dresses, a pair of worn boots, and a shawl I’ve mended more times than I can count. There are no keepsakes. No trinkets from childhood. Nothing sentimental enough to mourn.

That should hurt.  It should make me sad to think about all that I have missed out being the outcast, but it doesn’t.  Instead, it feels like confirmation.

I fold my clothes carefully anyway, smoothing the fabric as if it matters. As if someone will inspect my things and find value in how neatly they’re arranged. When the trunk is full, I sit back on my heels and stare at it for a long moment, trying to remember a time when this room felt like mine.

It never did.  For as long as I can remember, I have felt like an unwanted guest in the Vale Pack.  Like someone who showed up uninvited and never left.  Now, I am leaving.  That should mean something, but it doesn’t.

A knock sounds at the door.  It is too soft and hesitant to be my father or Grace.  I look up in surprise. No one ever knocks.

“Fern?” my mother calls.

My chest tightens. I rise and cross the room, opening the door slowly.  I peek around the frame not wanting to let her inside.

Iris stands in the hallway with her hands folded around a bundle of fabric. She looks smaller than I remember. More tired. Her eyes flick past me into the room, taking in the bare walls, the narrow bed, and the packed trunk.

If it makes her feel sad, she doesn’t comment on it.

“I brought you something,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for permission.

She unfolds the fabric to reveal a dress.  It is deep blue, made from fine material, and clearly meant for someone important. Someone seen. Someone worth dressing.  Not made for me.

“You should wear this,” she says. “You’ll be meeting Alpha Gaven today.”

Today.  The thought makes my throat want to close.

“I thought there wasn’t a ceremony,” I say quietly.

“There isn’t,” she agrees. “But first impressions still matter.”

I take the dress from her hands. It’s heavier than anything I own, the fabric is cool against my skin. It smells faintly of lavender and the Alpha wing; clean and untouched.

“Thank you,” I say, because that’s what I’m supposed to say.

We stand there in silence.

It stretches between us, uncomfortable and fragile. My mother studies the floor, the wall, anything but my face. I watch her instead, memorizing the lines at the corners of her mouth, and the tension in her shoulders. She looks like someone bracing for something she doesn’t want to hear.

“Mother,” I say.

She flinches at the word, just slightly.

“Do you have any regrets?”

The question hangs between us, delicate and dangerous.  For a long moment, she doesn’t answer. Then she exhales, slow and tired, and lifts one shoulder in a small shrug.

“I did what my mate asked of me,” she says. “Maybe one day you will understand what it takes to make someone else happy.”

That’s it.  She doesn’t apologize or deny how I was treated.  She doesn’t offer many any comfort.  Only her duty shines through, spoken like a shield.

“I see,” I whisper.

She nods once, relief flickering across her face, as if the conversation has ended without demanding more of her than she can give.

“You should change,” she says gently. “They’ll be waiting.”

She turns to leave, pauses at the door, then stops herself from looking back. The door closes softly behind her, the final click echoing in the quiet room.

I sit on the bed and stare at the dress in my lap.  I should put it on.  I should obey and dress how I have been told.  But this dress isn’t me.  It isn’t mine.  It doesn’t feel right to put it on. 

I sit for a moment longer, and then voices rise from downstairs.  They are angry and sharp.  One belongs to my father, and the other to a male I do not recognize. 

I stiffen, heart kicking painfully against my ribs.  I rise and tip toe the door, cracking it open just enough for me to hear.

“I was promised Grace Vale.”  The voice is unfamiliar, but it carries authority like a blade.

My scar flares hot, sudden and violent, high on my thigh. I gasp and grip the edge of the door as the pain spikes, then settles into a deep, burning throb.

“That was the understanding,” another voice says.  It is Alpha Leo’s.  He sounds calm but strained. “But circumstances…”

“I don’t care about your circumstances,” the man snarls. “I made my offer with your heir in mind.”

My blood runs cold.  The deal was never for me.

“He commands himself,” someone murmurs. “Please…”

“No,” the voice cuts in, sharp enough to silence the room. “You do not switch daughters like currency and expect me to accept it.”

I press my hand to my leg, breath shallow.

Grace.  He wanted Grace.

Footsteps thunder across the floor below. The air itself seems to tighten, thick with fury and power. Wolves growl somewhere in the distance, agitated by the surge of dominance.

“I will not be mocked,” the man says. “I will not be deceived.”

I rise on unsteady legs, the dress still clutched in my hands.

Whoever Alpha Gaven is, whatever the stories say, he is not pleased, and I am about to be given to him anyway.

I step into the hallway with the dress still clutched in my hands.  I seem to have forgotten that it is even there.  My bare feet pad down the hallway in the direction of the voices.  I burst into the dining room, and my eyes graze over the fight taking place. 

The man, whom I assume is Alpha Gaven, has my father by the throat, and for some stupid reason, that is enough to make me speak.

“Please,” my voice carries over the arguing.  “Don’t kill him.”