The Ice Journey and The Rules

​[Anya’s POV]

​The air outside was cold, but the interior of Ronan’s armored limousine was colder. I was ushered into the massive back seat, alone. I watched as the Crescent Pack guards, grim and silent, strapped Ronan’s wheelchair and his powerful, masked body into the other side of the car. My father and the rest of my 'family' were being driven in a separate vehicle, kept far away.

​Ronan sat still, his masked face pointed straight ahead. He was the only person in the world who could be completely silent and still fill every inch of space with menace.

​I had to try. For Devon.

​"Alpha Ronan," I started, keeping my voice low and steady. "I accepted the contract. My brother’s care is my priority. I will be your Luna, but I need to understand what you expect from me."

​He didn't turn his head. He didn't even blink.

​"Silence, Luna," he growled. The sound was a low vibration in the car's leather seats. "You speak when spoken to."

​I clenched my jaw, biting back a furious retort. Be quiet, Anya. Devon needs this.

​Alaric, Ronan’s massive Beta, slipped into the front passenger seat. He didn't look at me, but he reached back and shoved a thick, heavy folder onto the seat between us.

​"The Luna's Edict," Alaric said, his voice flat. "Rules of conduct, boundaries, and penalties. Read it now."

​I picked up the document. The cover felt cold and stiff. The paper inside wasn't printed, it was typed on heavy parchment, looking like an ancient law. I skimmed the headings, and my heart began to pound a panicked rhythm against my ribs.

​Rule 3: The Luna shall not address the Alpha in public unless directly questioned.

Rule 5: The Luna shall be completely subservient to all Crescent Pack staff.

Rule 8: Forbidden areas include the Alpha's private library, the third-floor study, and the main armory.

​It was worse than being a servant; it was being a prisoner. I flipped to the back page where the penalties were listed.

​PENALTY FOR BREACH OF CONDUCT: Vaguely stated as "Loss of life support to her dependent."

​There was no negotiation, no mercy. The terms of my brother’s life were written right there, simple and brutal. Ronan knew exactly how to control me.

​"Is this necessary?" I whispered, my voice tight. "I’m already agreeing to this marriage."

​This time, Ronan slowly turned his head. His visible black eye fixed on mine.

​"You agreed to be a pawn, Luna," he corrected. "A pawn must know how to move, or it is useless. I need a silent, obedient figurehead who will weep over my 'disfigurement' and make the King's envoy happy. You will play your part perfectly."

​He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy velvet box. He pressed a button, and the box sprung open. Inside lay an antique, silver-linked locket. It was beautiful, old, and strong.

​"Rule number one," Ronan said, his voice dropping, almost a purr. "You wear this."

​He leaned toward me, a slow, terrifying movement. I flinched, instinctively pulling away, but the car seat stopped me. He was close enough now for me to smell the dark, spicy scent of his clothes. His gloved hand reached out, strong and heavy.

​He took the locket and fastened the cold chain around my neck himself. His fingertips, large and rough, brushed the nape of my skin, sending a confusing, unwelcome shiver through me. It wasn't desire; it was the sheer force of his presence.

​The locket felt heavy, like a medal and a brand all at once.

​"Wear this, Luna," Ronan said, his breath warm near my ear. He didn't sound like a man giving a gift. "It is a leash. It marks you as mine."

​He pulled back, leaning against the seat. "But it is also a shield. While you wear my mark, no one outside these walls can touch you. Not your father, not the King's spies, not Caleb. Remember that."

​He fell silent again, and the rest of the journey was just the hum of the engine and the quiet weight of the rules pressing down on me. I kept my hand on the locket, trying to tell myself it was a symbol of my strength, not my servitude.

​The journey was long. Finally, the car slowed. We were arriving at Thorne Manor. The place was even larger and colder than my father's house, a dark fortress of stone and iron.

​The convoy stopped. Alaric jumped out to open Ronan’s door.

​My breathing grew shallow. This was it. The wedding. The point of no return.

​The back door opened, letting in the sharp, cold light. Alaric reached in to lift the heavy wheelchair and the Alpha out together.

​As Alaric strained, pulling Ronan's massive weight from the seat, the car door shielded them for a split second.

​In the brief reflection of the polished black window glass, I saw it.

​Ronan's body, which was supposed to be dead from the waist down, was not limp. His powerful right leg shifted, adjusting its position on the footrest of the wheelchair, taking the strain off his hip before Alaric finished the lift. It was a fast, small, effortless movement, a habit. A movement impossible for a paraplegic.

​My mind screamed the truth, fast and clear, shattering my fear and replacing it with a cold, terrifying calculation: The crippling injury is a lie.

​Alpha Ronan Thorne, the terrifying Night God, was not broken. He was pretending.