The Wedding as a Weapon

​[Anya’s POV]

​The small, elegant drawing room at Thorne Manor was not the setting for a quiet wedding; it was a stage for a political show. There were only about twenty people present, but every face was important, high-ranking Alpha representatives, solemn pack officials, and the nervous-looking King's envoy, who was seated right in the front row.

​I gripped my bouquet so hard the petals cracked. He’s lying. He’s not crippled. This entire wedding is a trap. The chilling realization from the car ride was my only comfort now. I wasn't marrying a victim; I was marrying a mastermind.

​My father, now pale and sweating, played the role of the proud patriarch, walking me down the short aisle. He kept his eyes fixed on the King's envoy, clearly desperate to look deserving of the reward.

​Ronan waited at the front, sitting in his wheelchair. He looked powerful and tragic, the picture of a man broken by war. But I saw the tension in his shoulders, the stillness that was too perfect, too practiced. He was performing for the envoy, too.

​The priest began the ceremony. Everything felt hollow, the soft lighting, the scent of expensive white lilies, the gentle, mournful music. It was all designed to make the King’s envoy think: Poor Alpha Ronan, marrying such an inadequate bride because he is so weak and desperate.

​During the readings, I kept my face blank, playing the subservient, heartbroken Luna perfectly. I remembered Alaric’s rules: No public complaints, maintain a quiet dignity.

​I risked a glance at the King's envoy. He was a small, fussy man in heavy robes, but his eyes were sharp and never left my face. He wasn't watching Ronan; he was watching me, gauging my misery. The more heartbroken I looked, the more convincing Ronan’s fake weakness seemed.

​He’s waiting for me to weep, I realized. He’s waiting for me to look at Ronan’s mask and see a monster.

​I forced a single, genuine tear to fall, letting it track down my cheek. It wasn't hard to do; the betrayal of Caleb and the fear for Devon were real enough. I just needed to make sure it looked like I was weeping over my groom.

​Then came the vows.

​Ronan recited his lines first. His voice was low, carrying just enough sadness to be believable, but with an underlying threat.

​"I, Ronan Thorne, take you, Anya Vesper, as my Luna," he spoke, pausing dramatically. He didn’t look at me. He looked directly over my shoulder, straight at the King's envoy.

​"I promise to cherish and protect my Luna," he continued, leaning forward slightly, his one visible eye glittering, "for as long as her loyalty to me remains unwavering."

​It wasn't a vow; it was a veiled warning. He wasn’t promising me love; he was promising protection only if I stayed on his side and didn't act as the Trojan horse my father had sent. The envoy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

​The priest turned to me, his face kind. "Anya Vesper. Do you take this man to be your Alpha and husband, in sickness and in health, until the end of your days?"

​This was it. The final moment.

​My father’s face, pale and desperate, appeared in the corner of my vision. Say yes, Anya. Devon.

​I looked at Ronan. His face, half-hidden by the shattered mask, was unreadable, but his eye was fixed on me now, cold and expectant. He wasn't giving me a way out. He was waiting for my answer, daring me to run. I knew the consequences of running: the machines stopping, Devon’s death.

​I realized this was my last chance to say no, to escape this beautiful, terrible man and his powerful lies. But if I ran, I would never forgive myself.

​I took a shaky breath. I opened my mouth. "I..."

​Before I could force the word out, the room was filled with a sudden, blinding flash of light.

​SNAP!

​The sound was sharp and loud, echoing off the stone walls. It wasn't a simple flash from a phone; it was a high-powered, professional camera flash, followed by the definite mechanical sound of a long-range zoom lens snapping a picture.

​The King's envoy gasped and turned around, confusion mixing with alarm. Everyone else flinched, shielding their eyes.

​The flash was aimed directly at the altar, capturing the moment of my hesitation, the fear on my face, and the powerful, ominous presence of the masked Alpha in his wheelchair.

​Someone just took a perfect, high-resolution photograph of the Alpha's bride looking terrified and forced into marriage.

​The priest looked stunned. "I... I beg your pardon? Who—"

​Ronan, still silent and still, simply lifted his gloved hand. The movement was a command. Alaric and two other massive guards instantly converged on the back of the room, blocking the exit and sealing the windows. The assassin, the reporter, or the spy, whoever took that photo was gone.

​Ronan's eye settled back on me, cold and urgent. "The question, Luna. Answer it. Now."

​I saw the photo in my mind and my face, Ronan's mask, the whole miserable truth caught forever on film. That image was already on its way to the King's rivals, proof of Ronan's forced, political marriage.

​My last chance was gone. They had their evidence.

​My voice came out as a broken, barely audible whisper. "I do."