Dahlia

Tonight should have been a night off. No gowns. No councilmen. No daggered smiles. Just me, maybe a movie, and snacks that don’t judge me. But no. In the Yellow Stone Pack, breathing is considered a political act, and I’m doing it wrong.

Adrian dragged me to another high-ranking meeting-slash-dinner, supposedly more casual.

I sit stiffly by his side in a wine-colored dress. A dress when, mind you, all I wanted was jeans and a hoodie. My ribs hurt from how tight this not-made-for-curvy-ladies thing is. I’m seriously one inch from snapping a heel on purpose just to go home.

Because I hate being here. This is giving funeral vibes. That is why even my arms are crossed like I’m trying to barricade myself in. But my mood doesn’t stop Adrian from placing a hand on my knee under the table.

His thumb strokes little circles on my thigh, like he owns me. Like he has the right to touch me after spending his nights tangled up with Isolde.

Pig.

My stomach turns, not just from disgust but from the insult of it. Like I’m a prop he dusts off when company is over. He expects me to play the role of dutiful wife while he gets off with his lover?

I want to slap his hand away. Or stab it with a salad fork. But I don’t, because what is worse than being touched by a man who disgusts you? Making a scene and letting everyone see just how little control you really have.

I stare straight into the wall between two elders, pretending not to feel anything while my insides curl in on themselves like my soul is dying.

Adrian is talking to someone from the other side of the table and I’ve tuned out completely.

I lift my wineglass and sip, then immediately regret it when I realize it’s not wine. Just water. Apparently, Lunas should not get drunk to cope. And trying too hard to cope is definitely what I’m doing.

There is a roaring in my ears. It’s been there ever since I threw wine on two of the most powerful women in the pack.

Everyone is still whispering about it. They look at me with equal parts horror and awe. Like I’m already a story. Not a person. Just some girl in a scandal they get to retell over dinner.

I would be proud if I didn’t feel so tired.

The worst part? Alaric has not spoken to me since. Not even looked at me.

I told myself I didn’t care. That I was done obsessing over a mate bond neither of us asked for. Yet I am scanning the room every few minutes, like a moth to a flame I know will burn me.

When the man in question finally enters, dressed in black like a fallen angel, my pulse stumbles.

He nods to a few elders, shakes hands, and then...looks at me.

It's like the whole table tilts. My breath skips, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. Like I’m thirteen again, crushed under a gaze I don’t understand but can’t look away from. My whole body forgets how to behave. The hair on my arms rise and my heart try to somersault out of my ribcage and land in his lap.

I hate that I notice him so much.

He takes a seat directly in front of me.

My wolf is now officially alert. She has been quiet since the banquet. Now she lifts her head. Down girl, I tell her. She growls back like I’m the one flirting with the enemy.

I am not.

I’m fighting the mate bond and the heat that comes with it with every breath that I take. I feel hotter and hotter. My solution? Press my thighs together and try to focus on my food. Rabbit stew. I eat a piece of carrot and pretend it doesn’t taste like crap.

Alaric doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t look away either.

And when Adrian excuses himself to take a call, I find myself alone at a table with the man I’m supposed to reject. Or fall in love with. Or pretend doesn’t exist.

My breath hitches. I feel this burning sensation, like someone struck a match behind my ribs.

I sit straighter, like that will protect me.

It doesn’t.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Alaric says eventually.

I raise a brow. “And you’re talkative. Should I be worried?”

His mouth quirks. “I suppose we’re both breaking character.”

I look at him. Absorb him.

Something’s off tonight. Less frost, more fray. His hair sticks up in that too-many-times-hand-combed kind of way, and his collar looks like it lost the will to button properly. He’s tired.

Good. I’m tired too.

“Is this your way of telling me I embarrassed you in front of the council?” I ask.

“You didn’t embarrass me.”

“Just your wife then.”

A beat.

“Liora can handle herself.”

That’s all he says. And for some reason, it makes my chest ache.

I excuse myself a few minutes later and lock myself in the powder room. Not to cry. Just to breathe. Just to have a single square foot of space where I don’t have to perform.

But my eyes sting anyway, traitors that they are.

I grip the edges of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror like my reflection can give me the answers I seek.

She can’t.

But the determination in her eyes makes me more set to keep my tears.

When I leave the powder room, Alaric is leaning against the wall outside.

I glance around. Nobody’s watching us for once. The room is full of wolves with bigger concerns than a broken Luna and her father-in-law.

“Do you love her?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

His eyes sharpen. He isn’t even surprised. “That’s none of your concern.”

“So that’s a no.”

He doesn’t answer.

I look away from his eyes. “I’m not trying to start anything. I just—forget it.”

“You’re not the only one struggling with this, Dahlia,”

Oh, great. The forbidden fated mate is trying to be emotionally available now. That’s not confusing at all. he says, his voice low. “But struggle doesn’t mean surrender.”

My breath hitches. He rarely says my name. And when he does, it lands like a promise I’m not supposed to believe.

I try to lighten the moment. “So, what you’re saying is, you’re a hot mess too.”

He chuckles softly.

And somehow, it makes something twist in my chest. A traitorous warmth curling where my pride was supposed to be.

Damn him. Even his laugh is disarming.

The silence stretches.

I could say something. Ask why he waited outside the powder room. Ask what it means that we are fated mates, if it means anything. But my throat closes around the words.

What would I even want him to say?

He is married. I am too.

I end up saying nothing.

He says, “Goodnight, Luna.”

I blink.

And he walks away and leaves me alone.

The spell breaks. The noise returns.

I stand there, wondering why my heart is still beating so fast.

And why, even now, I hate how much I want him to be the one who stays. My wolf doesn’t hate it, though. She’s curled up with that warmth like it’s a secret she plans to keep.