The mirror reflected a stranger.

Seraphine stood still as Gregor's assistants finished tying the last silver thread around her waist. The ceremonial dress clung to her like moonlight: soft gray silk lined with starlight embroidery, long sleeves that brushed the floor, and a neckline that mirrored the crescent curve of the moon. It should've made her feel powerful. Respected. Honored.

Instead, she felt caged.

This wasn’t a wedding.

This wasn’t love.

This was survival, dressed up in silk and ancient rites.

She'd slept barely an hour the night before, haunted by memories of her father howling orders through bloodied teeth, of her mother pressing the hourglass into her hand with a kiss goodbye, and of the cold floor of Alaric’s estate when she first arrived.

And now, she would stand beside that man again.

Her supposed mate.

Her jailor.

Her only hope.

The door creaked open behind her.

"It's time," Gregor said. As always, his voice was a smooth whisper of inevitability.

Seraphine nodded, lifting her chin. She wouldn’t flinch. Not here. Not ever again.

The ceremony took place in the heart of the Montenegro ancestral lands, beneath the silverbound branches of the Moonwood Tree. It was an ancient relic, sacred to both Eastern and Western alliances. According to legend, the first Alpha had been blessed here.

Now it would serve as the stage for their farce.

Hundreds of wolves, in both human and beast form, surrounded the glade. All of them watched her as she walked down the ceremonial path. Not a single whisper. Just silence and cold eyes.

Seraphine could hear their thoughts. The ruined princess. The crippled wolf. The womb carrying the Montenegro bastard.

She met every gaze with a silent dare. Let them try to shame her.

Let them bleed first.

Alaric stood beneath the tree, a shadow in black. His ceremonial cloak was fastened with crimson fangs, symbolic of his blood-soaked lineage. The gold detailing on his shoulders shimmered like fire. His expression? Masked. Controlled.

But his green eyes tracked her every step.

And they burned.

As she reached him, he offered his hand. She hesitated. Just a second.

Then took it.

Their palms pressed together, fingers intertwined.

Heat.

Fury.

Something deeper.

The high priestess began the rite, her voice rising above the crowd. She spoke of old bloodlines, sacred unions, destiny, honor, and duty. Seraphine barely heard her. Her attention was fixed on Alaric’s thumb brushing against her pulse.

A warning?

A promise?

The priestess gestured to them. "Exchange your vows."

Alaric spoke first.

"I, Alaric of the Montenegro bloodline, take Seraphine Argent as my mate under the laws of our ancestors. I vow to protect the life growing within her. I vow to honor this union until the appointed time of its dissolution."

Not a word more than necessary.

Not a whisper of affection.

Seraphine met his gaze.

"I, Seraphine Argent, last of the Mooncliff line, accept Alaric as my mate under the laws of our ancestors. I vow to protect the heir I carry. I vow to see this union through—until it ends."

A flicker passed through his eyes.

Was that amusement?

Or pain?

The priestess lifted a blade carved from lunar stone. "Do you accept the mark of union?"

They nodded together.

The blade sliced each of their palms. Seraphine didn’t flinch. The blood dripped onto a shared silver thread, binding their hands.

Magic surged.

Old, crackling, bitter.

A pulse of heat radiated from the thread as it fused with the cuts. A temporary bond. Not the sacred mating mark of the wolves—that had already happened by accident, in pain and rage. This was formality. Law.

When it ended, the crowd erupted in a single unified howl.

Seraphine held still.

Alaric let go first.

Later, in the Montenegro estate, a banquet was held.

Seraphine sat at Alaric’s right hand, sipping nothing, eating nothing. Her dress had been changed for a simpler one, but her hair still smelled like ashwood and old magic.

Every time someone approached them with congratulations, Seraphine could feel the tension radiating off Alaric. He smiled like a wolf about to snap necks.

When the room finally cleared enough for them to speak, she turned to him.

"You still think this is a trap?"

He didn't look at her. "I think you’re dangerous."

"Because I don’t want your throne?"

"Because you might make me want something more."

Seraphine's breath caught.

He stood before she could answer.

"Follow me."

He led her through the twisting halls of the Montenegro estate, past private wings and sealed doors, until they came to a quiet chamber.

Inside: a single fireplace, a table, two chairs. No guards. No threats.

Just them.

He gestured to the table. "Sit."

She did.

He sat across from her, fingers steepled under his chin.

"You intrigue me, Seraphine. You terrify me. And that’s a problem."

"Because you don’t like being afraid?"

"Because I can’t tell if you want revenge or redemption."

Seraphine stared into the fire.

"I want answers."

"About what?"

"Who killed my parents. Who burned my pack. Who stole Alice."

He looked at her sharply. "You think that was us?"

"I think whoever did it had ties to both alliances."

Silence stretched between them.

Then he asked quietly, "What if it was someone in my family?"

"Then I’ll make sure your child never inherits their sins."

Alaric laughed, but there was no joy in it. "You’re brave. Or stupid."

"Both," she said. "But I’m alive."

He leaned closer. "What if I wanted to keep you here? Beyond the birth?"

Seraphine’s pulse jumped.

"Then you’d have to convince me I’m not just your prisoner."

"Not a prisoner. A partner."

"Words," she whispered.

He stood and walked to the mantle, pulling something from a drawer.

He handed her the hourglass.

She blinked. "You gave it back already."

"No. That was a copy. This is the original. The one your mother gave you."

Her fingers trembled.

"Why would you keep it?"

"Because I needed to understand you."

She swallowed. Hard.

"You know," she said, "when you marked me that night, I thought I lost everything. But now\... now I wonder if that scar is the only thing keeping me from losing myself."

Alaric turned, his expression unreadable.

"Then maybe it wasn’t a scar. Maybe it was a tether."

Seraphine stood, the hourglass in her hands, her heart beating too fast.

"We are not bound," she said. "Not truly."

"No," he agreed. "But I wonder... if we were, would you run?"

She met his gaze, her voice steady.

"Only if you chased me."

For the first time, Alaric Montenegro smiled.

Not cruelly.

Not darkly.

But like a man who saw the future in the eyes of the woman who had every reason to hate him—and chose not to.

For now.