The Masked Tyrant

​[Anya’s POV]

​Alaric’s glare was like a physical push, driving me toward the drawing room. My father and Elara were already there, trying to look important but failing miserably. They stood beside a massive, high-tech wheelchair, waiting for the man who sat in it to move.

​And there he was. Alpha Ronan Thorne.

​The rumors were right about his size. He was huge, even sitting down. His shoulders strained the dark fabric of his expensive suit. He sat perfectly still, but every line of his body screamed power.

​He wore a polished silver mask that covered the left half of his face, where the worst injuries were rumored to be. The mask was cracked in one place, giving it a brutal, shattered look. His visible features were sharp: a strong jawline, and one eye deep, icy black that was currently fixed on the patterns in the carpet. He looked like a fallen king, ruined but still terrifying.

​"Anya," my father mumbled, shoving me forward. "Meet Alpha Ronan."

​"No need for introductions," Ronan's voice was low, smooth, and dangerously calm. It was the voice of a man who rarely had to raise it. "I know exactly who she is."

​He finally looked at me, and that one black eye felt like it saw every lie and every fear I held. My breath hitched. He was magnetic and utterly terrifying.

​Before I could speak, Seraphina, who had raced to change into her most pitifully elegant dress, darted toward the wheelchair. Caleb, newly engaged and suddenly brave, stood smugly behind her.

​"My Lord Alpha," Seraphina began, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I am Seraphina. I just want to offer my deepest pity on your... unfortunate circumstances. To be so brave, so strong, and now confined to that chair..." She reached out as if to touch his arm.

​It was the perfect move of a social climber: offering pity to win favor. She expected him to be grateful.

​Ronan didn't move. He didn’t even look at her.

​"Silence," he commanded.

​The single, icy word hit Seraphina like a physical blow. She froze, her hand hovering in the air. The pity vanished from her eyes, replaced by shock. Caleb’s smug look dissolved into fear.

​Ronan looked past her, addressing my father. "Alpha Vesper. You bring me a Luna who will clearly weep over my supposed wounds, and a step-daughter who offers me pity. You insult me, sir."

​My father started shaking. "My Alpha, I apologize! Seraphina meant no disrespect, she only meant—"

​Ronan cut him off, his voice suddenly louder. "She meant to remind everyone of the King's reward. Let's be honest, Vesper."

​He leaned forward slightly, and the chair's metal squeaked under his weight. "Everyone in this room knows I am a 'damaged goods' Alpha. The King's offer for this marriage is substantial, meant to ensure my permanent decline and weaken the Crescent Pack."

​He paused, letting the shame wash over my family. "You are not selling me a wife. You are selling a political downfall, and for that, you are richly rewarded."

​My father looked ill. Elara gripped the back of a chair, her red lips pressed into a thin line. They had to stand there, silent, while Ronan publicly called them greedy traitors.

​Ronan then shifted, his eye finally focusing on me. "And you, Luna. Anya Vesper."

​I stood straight, refusing to flinch. "Yes, Alpha."

​"You have a reputation for being 'wild'," he said, using their word against me. "But you also have a reputation for knowing the Shadow Pack’s supply chain better than your own father. Is that true?"

​The question was a lightning bolt. No one in the pack except maybe Devon, knew I spent years studying the trade routes. It was my secret weapon.

​"I am familiar with them," I answered, keeping my voice level.

​"The Red River Pack," Ronan continued, testing me. "They just blocked the Northern pass. How does the Shadow Pack survive the winter without their lumber and silver?"

​The question was complex and urgent. Seraphina and Caleb would have stammered.

​"The Shadow Pack won’t survive the winter if they rely on the Northern pass," I stated simply, putting away my fear and focusing on the numbers. "The faster solution is to bypass the Red River altogether. We need to open negotiations with the Ironwood Clan in the West, their pass is safer, and they demand wheat, which we have an overstock of. It is a more profitable exchange."

​Ronan tilted his head, and a flicker of something, not warmth, but cold interest lit up his visible eye.

​"A satisfactory answer," he murmured. "It seems my 'sacrificial bride' may not be entirely useless."

​He waved his hand, dismissing my father. "The negotiations for the money are complete. Alaric will escort you to your vehicle. The wedding is in two hours, at my estate."

​My family rushed to thank him, desperate to escape his terrifying presence. As they gathered their coats, Ronan’s wheelchair began to roll toward the door.

​He stopped directly beside Seraphina, who was still recovering from his brutal silence. She held her breath, clearly expecting him to offer a soft word before he left.

​Instead, Ronan spoke, his voice now aimed only at my father.

​"Alpha Vesper," he said, coolly. "Your youngest daughter has a loose tongue and an insolent gaze. She just humiliated me in my own parlor. I cannot have that lack of respect associated with my pack."

​My father gulped. "My Alpha, please—"

​"I demand one month of total isolation for her insolence," Ronan declared, his voice ringing with absolute authority. "No phones, no visitors, no sunlight. You will confine her to the eastern annex, starting now. Consider it a small correction. A wedding gift from the Night God."

​He didn't wait for a response. The wheelchair rolled forward, and Alaric followed, leaving my father pale, Seraphina sobbing, and me realizing that my cruel, crippled fiancé was nothing less than a ruthless, calculated tyrant who had just shown me exactly what he was capable of.