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Lyra Ashfang POV

"Aunt Moira, I am begging you to save Elder Luna Kaela," I growl, my voice cracking as I throw myself onto the cold stone floor of the Ashfang Moon Keep. "I will pay back every single bit of the pack resources, I swear on my blood."

My forehead hits the floor tiles hard enough to split the skin. Warm crimson fluid trickles down between my eyes, but I do not wipe it away. At four-foot-five, my skinny frame shivers under the crushing weight of their contempt.

"Save her?" Luna Moira Ashfang sneers, her upper lip curling back to expose her yellowed canine fangs. "Do you honestly believe that useless, broken wolf is still alive inside that shell? She has been rotting in the Moon Healers' Sanctuary for five winters, Lyra. The fact that she hasn't kicked the bucket yet is a miracle only the dark goddess knows how to explain."

"Exactly," Freya Ashfang chimes in, not even bothering to look up from the emery board she is scraping against her claws. "You know damn well that keeping that vegetative bitch breathing is wasting our pack territory funds. Besides, look at you. You are a freak, a tiny, useless Psi werewolf who cannot even shift properly. If we lend you the resources, how the hell do you plan to pay us back in this lifetime? By selling your tight little cunt to the rogues outside Ebonhaven?"

My fingernails dig into the stone floor. Five years ago, the carriage crash took Fallen Alpha Rowan Ashfang on the spot and left my mother a brain-dead vegetable. Within days, my uncle and aunt seized our birthright, kicking me into the servant quarters of the very keep I was born in. If the sanctuary hadn't set a hard deadline for tomorrow morning to pull her life support, I would rather throw myself into a silver pit than beg these parasites.

"I will work the borders," I choke out, my dark skin burning with humiliation. "I will let the Alphas use my Psi gifts until my brain bleeds. Just give me the medicine. I will do fucking anything."

Moira and Freya exchange a knowing, predatory glance. The tension in the air shifts, thick with the scent of a trap closing in.

"Well, there is one thing," Moira says, her voice turning dangerously smooth. "The House Nightbane demanded a bride from our bloodline to seal the treaty at the Blood Moon Covenant Hall tomorrow. I will hand over the healing stones for your mother the moment you take Freya's place and bind yourself to Prince Cassius Nightbane."

My breath catches in my throat. I stare at my cousin, my mind reeling. "But the vampire prince is supposed to claim Freya tomorrow. The whole pack knows the Crimson Dominion arranged it."

"So fucking what if it was supposed to be me?" Freya snaps, slamming her nail file onto the table. She whips out her glass device, thrusting a glowing screen right into my face. "Take a good look at your precious mother, Lyra. Look at the silver tubes shoved down her throat. Look at her gray skin. She looks like she is suffocating, doesn't she?"

I lean closer, my vision blurring until I spot a detail in the background of the image—a specific, broken valve on the oxygen crystal. A cold shock wave blasts through my chest, my heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs.

"Why do you have a live feed from the restricted sanctuary ward?" I whisper, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. "You did this. You cut off her life crystals."

"Smart little bitch," Freya laughs, shoving the device back into her silk robes. "Whether that old hag takes her last breath tomorrow morning depends entirely on you walking down that aisle. Do we have a deal, or should I tell the healers to disconnect the tubes right now?"

"Fine," I spit out, the word tearing from my throat like a curse. "I will take the vampire. But if you break your word and let her die, I swear by the moon I will find a way to tear your throat out while you sleep."

Moira lets out a loud, satisfied cackle. "See? I knew we could come to an understanding. After all, House Nightbane is the most powerful bloodline in the Crimson Dominion. You should be thanking us for letting a pathetic little mutt like you live in luxury."

I keep my head bowed so they cannot see the hot tears scalding my cheeks. Everyone in Ebonhaven knows the rumors about the second prince of the vampires. They say an old battle left him crippled, confined to a chair, and that the dark madness has rotted his mind, making him a vicious, bloodthirsty monster who shreds his bed partners to pieces. My life is effectively over before it has even begun.

The next morning arrives far too quickly. The heavy iron carriage of the Ashfang Moon Pack rattles through the gates of the Blood Moon Covenant Hall, the scent of stale blood and burning incense choking the air. I sit stiffly in the corner, swallowed by a heavy crimson gown that hangs loosely off my frail, skinny frame. My chest is so tight I can barely draw a full breath.

When the heavy oak doors of the sanctuary swing open, a collective gasp ripples through the crowd.

Vampire King Magnus Nightbane and Queen Evelina stand at the altar, their pale, aristocratic faces instantly hardening into masks of pure rage the moment their red eyes lock onto me. The Ashfang pack has pulled a bait-and-switch at the altar. They brought a tiny, half-breed Psi werewolf instead of the pristine Alpha female they were promised. The insult to their royal bloodline is lethal.

At the very end of the long, velvet carpet sits Prince Cassius Nightbane.

He sits rigid in a dark, high-backed wheelchair, completely motionless, like a statue carved out of obsidian. His massive, muscular shoulders stretch the seams of his midnight-black tunic, a stark contrast to my tiny stature. His right hand is encased in a single, unyielding black leather glove, while his left fingers casually balance a burning, thin clove cigarette, the sweet, acrid smoke curling lazily around his sharp jawline. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look pleased. His face is completely void of human emotion, but his crimson eyes are two bottomless pits of dark, suffocating power that pull me in, drowning my senses the closer I get.

The Royal Blood Steward, Silas Duskmoor, gives me a harsh shove forward. My knees tremble as I walk the remaining distance, my fingers locking together so tightly my knuckles turn stark white. I am terrified of what this brutal, crippled monster will do to me once the doors close and the pack guards leave me behind in the Crimson Citadel.

I stop right at the foot of his chair. The thick scent of expensive tobacco, dark magic, and raw, predatory ash floods my nose, making my inner wolf whimper in absolute submission. As he slowly tilts his head up, the dim candlelight catches the sharp lines of his face, illuminating the faint scar running across his collarbone.

My heart stops dead in my thoracic cavity. My jaw drops, a silent gasp escaping my lips as my eyes widen in sheer horror.

It is him. The ruthless vampire who cornered me in the dark alleys of the Crimson Noble Quarter three nights ago, the one who left me bruised, gasping, and marked against the brick wall.