Freya's POV

I decide not to head straight to Jareth as planned. Instead, I veer toward the training grounds, wondering if Sable has returned. As I draw near, my attention is caught by a lone figure in the center of the field.

There’s a man practicing with a longsword, and his movements are magnetic. Each strike and thrust reveals exceptional skill, but it’s beyond that—he moves with a fluidity that feels innate, like wielding the weapon is as instinctual as breathing. Without realizing it, I halt, captivated by the raw power he emanates.

It isn’t long before he senses my presence. Mid-swing, he pauses, turns, and his stormy gray eyes meet mine. Recognition hits immediately; it’s the same man I glimpsed earlier from a distance. Up close, his sheer presence feels even heavier—broad shoulders, a commanding frame, and damp hair clinging slightly against his face as though he’s fresh from a shower.

I straighten, forcing myself to regain composure. "Didn’t think anyone else trained this late,” I say, though my voice slips out softer than intended.

He lowers his blade just a fraction, surveying me with calm intensity. "And yet here you are, watching," he replies, his voice deep, steady, and with the barest hint of amusement.

“I wasn't watching," I counter, crossing my arms defensively. "I was just passing through."

One dark brow arches in challenge. "Passing through? That’s an interesting way to describe stopping to stare."

He takes a measured step forward, the sword hanging loosely in his hand. My chest tightens, but I plant my feet, refusing to back down. “The field belongs to no one,” I say coolly, lifting my chin. “Unless you’re claiming it does?”

He regards me silently for a moment before speaking, his tone low but laced with curiosity. "Do you often talk this way to strangers?"

“Only when they act like the ground beneath them belongs to them,” I shoot back.

Something flickers in his expression—not quite a smile, but something close to interest. “And if I did?” he muses.

My lips curve slightly. "Then I’d challenge you to prove it."

This time, his response is different. Whatever trace of humor he showed fades, replaced by something heavier—intrigue, intrigue edged with surprise. We remain locked in a standoff, neither moving nor breaking the tension. The silence stretches tight between us.

Then, he closes the gap further. Close enough that I catch the faint, clean scent clinging to him. "Tell me," he murmurs, his voice dropping, "do you usually speak first? Or do you prefer to fight first?"

My heart pounds faster, though I keep my voice unwavering. "Depends," I respond evenly. "Are you worth it?"

His gaze narrows slightly as if appraising my response, but then the corner of his mouth lifts in faint approval. "Bold," he remarks. "Most hesitate."

"I'm not most people," I say sharply, the slight edge in my voice unintended but honest.

Something shifts in the pull between us—something unspoken but palpable. Deep inside, Nyxa stirs silently, her attention fixed as sharply on him as mine. The weight of the moment presses down until I hear myself say, almost absently, "I’m not trying to follow anyone’s rules."

His reply comes low, measured. "That much is obvious."

Another beat of silence lingers before he adjusts his grip on the sword slightly, drawing my focus to the way the blade glints in the dim light. "Next time," he says softly, his words deliberate, "if you’re going to stand there and watch, come closer. You might see something worth it."

Heat flushes through my face—a mixture of frustration and... something else—though I bury it quickly behind irritation. "I wasn’t watching," I snap, instantly regretting how defensive it sounds.

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he dips his head once, the motion subtle but mocking. "Well, perhaps next time, don’t linger at the edge."

Before I can retort, he shifts back, his focus seamlessly returning to his sword as if I’ve already faded into irrelevance. There’s something maddening in how effortlessly he dismisses me, and yet, I find myself rooted there, pulse erratic and anger twisted with something unfamiliar.

Finally, I force myself to move, my steps deliberate as I leave the field. I shake my head, muttering to myself. I still need to find Jareth. Tonight doesn’t have room for distractions.

What just happened? Why am I this unsettled? Tonight of all nights...

Annoyance bubbles as I quicken my pace back toward my path. A quiet unease gnaws at me, clawing its way deeper as I push forward. It’s almost like some part of me feels guilty just for having spoken to him. As ridiculous as it is, I can’t help but feel as though I’ve already hurt Jareth somehow.

I sigh heavily, resolve firming. I’ll tell Jareth everything. No secrets, not before the ceremony.

"Are you alright?"

Nyxa’s calm presence nudges through my spiraling thoughts.

"I’m anxious," I admit. "About Sable. About tonight."

Nyxa’s reply is steady, a constant comfort. "You’re strong. Whatever happens, you’ll face it."

As I approach the cabin, faint laughter drifts toward me, freezing me mid-step. My heart hammers as I pick out voices. Jareth’s voice sends chills through me.

"Did anyone see you?" he asks quietly. My ears catch the response, Sable’s voice unmistakable.

"No. I was careful."

Each word is a blade to my chest. I move without thinking, stepping closer until the words become unmistakable.

"You know how wrong this is," Jareth murmurs again.

Sable giggles softly. "Then stop. But you won’t, will you?"

Jareth’s laugh is low, disarming. "No. Not when you’re finally mine."

Anguish cracks through me. The door creaks open under my hand, revealing the betraying scene: Sable and Jareth tangled together against the offset backdrop of preparations made for my mating ceremony. Time freezes as their wide, horrified eyes meet mine.

A moment later, footsteps echo, followed by sharp voices as Alpha Whitlock, the elders, and my father enter the room, their faces falling into shock and outrage at what they see.

"Explain yourselves!" Alpha Whitlock roars, anger thunderous.

The rest unravels into chaos—accusations, excuses, resentment laid bare. Both Jareth and Sable dig into their positions: Jareth, insisting his feelings shifted but claiming no regret for choosing Sable; Sable, fueled by jealousy, airing old grievances about always being cast in my shadow.

Pain squeezes tightly around my chest, but I meet every word without flinching. I refuse to let them see how deeply their betrayal cuts.

When the room falls quiet again, I force myself to look at them both. "If this is what you want," I say steadily, "then you’ll have to live with the consequences of it. I won’t stand in your way."