CHAPTER THREE– I Won’t Be Your Prisoner

*Lilah*

The second knock is louder than the first.

“Lilah.”

His voice. Of course.

I burrow deeper into the pillow like that’ll make him disappear.

“Go away,” I croak.

The knob rattles. “Open the door.”

“You locked it,” I snap. “Remember?”

There’s a soft click. The latch turns from the outside.

Right. Wolves don’t believe in privacy.

I push myself up, blinking against the pale light leaking around the curtains.

Ronan fills the doorway, shadow cutting across the room. He looks exactly as annoyingly solid as last night—black shirt, dark jeans, and damp hair tamed back. His eyes skim over me: oversized bar T‑shirt, bare legs, yesterday’s mascara smeared under my eyes.

Something flickers in his expression. Then it’s gone.

“You should be dressed,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”

“For what? A firing squad?” My voice is rough, but at least it works. “You going to parade me in front of your people and let them vote on whether to eat me?”

“A Gathering,” he says. “The pack expects answers.”

“About the insane Alpha who carries random women off on his shoulder?” I stand, ignoring how shaky my legs feel. “You can start by telling them I want to go home.”

He watches me for a heartbeat. “That isn’t one of the options.”

Anger snaps through my chest, sharp and hot.

“Then maybe I should start making my own,” I say.

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The small space shrinks around his presence.

In his hands is a fold of dark fabric. He holds it out to me.

“What is that?” I eye it like it might bite.

“Clothes,” he says, too calmly.

I take it, unfold it.

It’s a dress. Deep forest green, simple cut, soft fabric that will cling to every curve. Classy and dangerous at the same time.

I look from it to him. “You brought me a costume.”

“It’s a dress,” he says.

“It’s a costume,” I repeat. “For your show.”

He doesn’t deny it.

“You’ll stand at my side,” he says. “They need to see you.”

“See what?” I ask. “Your newest mistake? Your human pet?”

His jaw ticks. “See my mate.”

The bond sparks under my skin at the word. I hate the way it responds to him when the rest of me wants to throw the dress in his face.

“Get changed,” he says. “We leave in ten minutes.”

“And if I say no?” I ask.

His eyes lock on mine. “Then I throw you over my shoulder again and carry you out there in what you’re wearing.”

I clench my teeth. “You’re an ass.”

His mouth twitches like he almost agrees. “You have ten minutes.”

He turns toward the door.

“Out,” I say.

He pauses. “I’ve seen you covered in beer and blood, Lilah.”

“Cool,” I say. “You want to add naked to that list?”

A beat of silence. He exhales once through his nose and steps back into the hall. The door clicks shut behind him.

I throw the dress on the bed and go to the bathroom. The mirror shows a stranger with tangled hair, faint bruises under her eyes, and a look like she’s one bad word away from breaking.

I grip the sink until my knuckles go white.

“He does not get to break you,” I tell my reflection. “Nobody does.”

I strip out of Hank’s bar T‑shirt and underwear and step into the shower. The spray is hot and unforgiving. I scrub until the smell of stale beer is gone and the ghost of his scent—pine and smoke and winter—fades to a whisper I can almost ignore.

Almost.

When I pull the dress on, it slides over my damp skin like cool water. It settles against my body, hugging my waist and skimming my thighs. The neckline covers me, but somehow, that makes it worse. I look put together. Expensive. Like I belong in a place like this.

I don’t.

I square my shoulders and open the door.

Ronan is waiting.

His eyes drag over me from bare feet to bare shoulders. The bond flares, hot and sharp, like it’s responding to his gaze.

For a fraction of a second, he looks…almost stunned.

Then the mask is back.

“Turn,” he says, voice rougher than before.

My brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Zipper,” he says. “It’s not all the way up.”

I reach back. My fingers fumble along the seam and find the zipper stopped halfway. It won’t budge.

Of course.

“Fine,” I mutter, turning slowly. “Touch me and lose a hand.”

He steps closer. Warmth hits my back before his fingers do.

Then his knuckles skim my spine as he catches the zipper and drags it up in one smooth motion.

It’s barely a touch, but my whole body jerks.

Heat races under my skin, the bond surging like it just woke up from a nap and liked what it saw. My knees threaten to buckle. I grab the dresser to stay upright.

His hand lands on my hip, steadying me.

“Easy,” he murmurs near my ear.

His breath skims the side of my throat. The spot behind my ear—where his thumb touched last night—tingles like a live wire.

“I’m fine,” I grind out. “Get off.”

He withdraws his hand with visible effort.

I turn to face him.

We’re too close. Again.

His pupils are wide, turning those amber eyes nearly black. His breathing is controlled, but his jaw is tight. He looks like holding himself back from me is painful.

Good.

“What am I out there?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest. “Be specific. Am I your charity case? Your cautionary tale? You're a cute little human to show off so they don’t rebel?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “You are my mate,” he says. “That doesn’t change with an audience.”

“And what does that mean?” I snap. “Because from where I’m standing, ‘mate’ looks a lot like ‘pawn.’”

Silence stretches between us, thick and electric.

“I won’t be your prisoner,” I say, low. “And I won’t be your prop.”

Something in his expression cracks, just a hair.

“You’re neither,” he says. “You’re…complicated.”

“Helpful,” I say flatly.

“The pack is already stirred up,” he says. “They feel the bond. They smell my scent on you. They saw me bring you back. If I present you as a random human, I dragged off the road. They’ll tear you apart. If I present you as my mate, I might be able to keep them from doing something stupid while I figure out how to keep you alive.”

“So I *am* a prop,” I say. “Mate‑shaped, pack‑soothing camouflage.”

He doesn’t argue.

“Tonight,” he says quietly, “they expect me to do one of two things. Reject you. Or claim you.”

My pulse stumbles.

“Reject,” I repeat. “Like…what? Break this?”

I press my hand over my chest where that invisible string throbs under my sternum.

He follows the motion with his eyes.

“A formal rejection,” he says. “Packs like boxes. Human. Wolf. Inside. Outside. Right now, you’re a glitch. Elders don’t like glitches. They want a clean answer.”

“And your elders think the clean answer is what?” I ask, even though cold dread is already pooling in my gut.

“Cut you loose,” he says. “Call it a mistake. Blame the Moon. Move on.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under me.

“And you?” I manage.

His jaw works. “Haven’t decided how much I like living.”

The rawness in his voice scares me more than anything else.

I swallow, force my thoughts into a straight line.

“So either you stand up there and tell them you don’t want me, or you stand up there and tell them I’m their Luna,” I say. “Those are your options.”

“Yes,” he says.

“And mine?”

“You stay alive either way,” he says. “That’s my only non‑negotiable.”

“That’s not an answer,” I say.

“It’s the only one I have,” he replies.

Rage and something like grief twist together in my chest.

I step forward until I’m close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the tension at the corners of his mouth.

“You dragged me into this,” I say, quiet and sharp. “You kissed me. You carried me away from my life. If you stand out there tonight and throw me to your wolves—literally or metaphorically—I won’t just hate you. I’ll find a way to walk away from you and your bond and every damn thing you think you own.”

His throat bobs as he swallows.

“Understood,” he says.

He offers his arm.

I glance at it. Then turn and walk past him, head high.

He lets his arm fall and follows.

The hallway is full of wolves.

They don’t bother pretending they aren’t listening as we pass. Some stare openly. Some look away quickly when Ronan’s gaze brushes them.

“Is that her?”

“Human.”

“Alpha’s Luna is a human.”

“Moon save us.”

“Humans die.”

Every whispered judgment scores lines into my skin.

I keep my face blank and my steps steady. They can have my fear. They don’t get my tears.

We emerge into the main hall.

It’s packed.

Wolves fill the space—standing, sitting, leaning on railings. Some look fully human. Others have golden eyes and feral tension in their shoulders.

The air is thick—smoke from the huge fireplace, damp earth tracked in on boots, the sharp metallic tang of too many predators in one room.

The noise dies as we appear at the top of the stairs.

Ronan steps closer, his shoulder brushing mine as we descend. The contact is light, but the bond flares at it.

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs without moving his lips.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” I mutter back.

We step out onto a wide stone terrace and then down into a clearing ringed with torches. The pack parts before us, forming a rough aisle to a low stone platform at the far side.

Elder Malric stands there with a cluster of elders, hands clasped behind his back, expression carved from stone.

Ronan’s fingers brush mine. I don’t take his hand at first. I don’t pull away either.

We climb the few steps onto the platform.

The weight of every stare in that clearing settles on my skin.

Ronan moves to the front edge, pulling me to stand at his side. He takes my hand in front of them all, fingers closing around mine in a grip that’s warm and unyielding.

The bond snaps like a live wire.

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

“She’s really—”

“Human.”

“He’s lost his mind.”

“Cursed.”

“Luna?”

Malric lifts his chin and raises one hand for silence.

“Crimson Hollow,” he calls, his voice carrying cleanly, “your Alpha stands before you with…news.”

A few harsh laughs. Some low growls.

He steps back, leaving Ronan in the center.

Ronan squeezes my hand once.

Then he looks out over his pack—his people, his problem, his power—and speaks.

“Tonight,” he says, voice deep and steady even as the bond shudders under my skin, “I stand before you with my fated mate…”

The word *fated* hangs heavy.

Gasps. Growls. Disbelief.

Fated. Human. Luna.

I feel it all like physical blows.

My fingers dig into his without meaning to. If he feels it, he doesn’t show it.

If he rejects me in front of them, I won’t just lose him.

I’ll lose the only shield I have in a pack that already wants me broken.

The bond throbs, hot and frantic, coiled tight, waiting to see which way he’s going to cut it.

Ronan draws his next breath.

And the world—and my life—hold theirs with him.