The gritty ground presses into my legs as I sit in my torn, blood-speckled dress. The ache in my neck throbs too intensely for me to care about the damage. Through tears, I manage a broken plea. "Mom."

Her face softens with a strained smile. "It’s all right, Sweetheart," she reassures quietly. "Hadrian, help your sister get home."

My brother steps closer, offering a steadying hand. I slap it away, shaking my head. "I can walk."

If he’s offended, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he wraps an arm around me, guiding me forward. I push against him, determined to prove my point, but his grip tightens. "Don’t fight me, Celestine," he mutters under his breath. "The prince is watching."

"The prince?" I repeat, startled. The look he gives me suggests I’ve lost my mind. I hadn’t noticed anyone but the guard earlier—the one who forced the mark on me in full view of the street. "He ruined my dress," I mutter bitterly.

"You’ll have other dresses," Hadrian says evenly, as though that’s supposed to make it better.

With each step, I regain some strength, enough to withdraw from his hold. I hesitate, my voice low and uncertain. "I think he broke my mind link," I admit. "Everything was… so loud."

Hadrian glances at me sharply, his expression unreadable. "You seriously don’t know?" he asks, disbelief coloring his tone.

Frowning, I press him. "Know what? No one told me this would happen. Nobody said the link changes with a mark! That seems like… something they should’ve mentioned."

He says nothing and walks me home in uncomfortable silence. Once inside, I rush to my room, rifling through my meager wardrobe for something presentable. The ripped and bloody fabric of my dress mocks me as I search for a replacement. A few moments later, I hear my mother enter, her subdued voice joining Hadrian’s briefly before she steps into my room and closes the door behind her.

Her steady gaze settles on mine. "Your brother says you’re unaware," she begins quietly.

"Unaware of what?" I press, tears stinging my eyes. My frustration boils over. "He ruined my dress, Mom."

She steps forward, taking my hands into hers with a patience I can’t begin to comprehend. "Celestine, the dress is irrelevant now," she murmurs. "Your mate will see that you have others."

I sniff, uncertain what to make of her calmness. "He wasn’t gentle," I say, my voice trembling. "He didn’t even speak to me. I don’t know his name."

Her arms encircle me in a comforting embrace. "Oh, darling," she says softly. "Your mate is Prince Jorlan. He’s with your father at the Alpha’s house."

The words don’t sink in right away. When they do, it feels like the dirt floor beneath me might crumble away. "The prince?" I whisper as dizziness rushes through me. Stumbling, I perch on the edge of my bed. The implications swirl too fast to track. "There’s no way," I say firmly, shaking my head. "We’re nobodies. Just beta wolves. How could the Goddess think I belong with him?"

Mom kneels, tilting my face to meet her gaze. "The Goddess doesn’t make mistakes," she insists. Her conviction seems unshakable. "There is a purpose for this."

Questions overwhelm me, but only one tumbles from my lips. "My link—"

"Your mate is royalty," she explains. "Now, so are you. The mark has connected you to all wolves. You’ll have to learn to control the links—close all of them for now. But try to focus on the one to Jorlan and reopen it."

Uncertainty roots me in place. "I don’t know how," I admit. "I’ve never closed links before."

Her response is soft but unyielding. "You must figure it out, Celestine. The power lies within you."

She leaves for a while, returning with a damp cloth to clean the blood streaking my neck and chest. As her hands work gently, I murmur, "I didn’t know marking could be so messy."

Her lips press into a thin line. "It shouldn’t be," she says carefully. "But he is the prince. He can do as he pleases."

Bitterness rises in my chest. "He didn’t ask. He didn’t even tell me his name."

Her tone remains level, but the warning is clear. "You must keep him happy, Celestine. A prince answers to no one."

I say nothing, but inside, I’m screaming. Keep him happy? He tore my life apart in an instant and expects my gratitude?

Her placating voice continues. "His wolf is likely much stronger than everyone else’s. He was likely overwhelmed by the bond. It will get easier."

Mechanically, I peel off my ruined dress, replacing it with a simple navy one that ends just above my knees. It’s the best I own. "Come," Mom says, leading me toward the kitchen. "Let’s prepare dinner."

Cooking proves a welcome distraction. As we knead dough for fresh bread—my earlier efforts ruined—I listen as Mom speaks in a tone both hopeful and determined. "You may be able to save the Aurithra Pack, Celestine. Use your influence with the prince. Perhaps he’ll reconsider consolidating us if you speak to him."

A snort escapes before I can stop it. "He doesn’t seem like the reasonable type," I mutter.

Mom shakes her head, offering me a soft smile. "He may surprise you. Don’t give up before you try."

Late that evening, my father arrives—with the prince trailing after him. My heart pounds as Dad pulls me into a brief hug, pressing his lips close to my ear. "It’ll be all right," he whispers. "You’ll be well taken care of."

Seated for dinner, I can barely swallow around the tension in my throat. Jorlan doesn’t join me. Instead, he claims my father’s seat at the head, his voice cool and commanding. "We leave in three days."

It’s the first thing he’s said directly to me. Panic flares. "Where are we going?"

My brother Darrow’s exasperated sigh fills the silence before he mutters, "He’s the prince, Celestine."

Jorlan’s eyes narrow. "Princess Celestine," he snaps, correcting Darrow sharply. "She is marked royalty. Address her properly."

Darrow bows stiffly, but the title feels foreign to my ears. I don’t want to be ‘Princess Celestine.’ I barely know this man, and his presence feels suffocating.

"I will remain here until we leave," Jorlan states flatly.

My mother smiles, bowing respectfully. "You honor our home, Your Highness."

He doesn’t glance up, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. A sneer colors his words. "This pack is pitiful."

The disdain in his tone makes my stomach churn. Mom meets my eyes, her face composed but expectant. Yet hope feels misplaced here—unreachable.

After dinner, Mom leans close as we clean the kitchen together. "You’re stronger than you realize," she whispers. "He’s your mate. He’ll listen to you."

Will he? Or will I break myself trying to make him see reason?

When I retreat to my bedroom, the uncertainty only deepens. I tug on a worn nightgown, just as Jorlan strides in without knocking. My hands freeze mid-tug as he surveys my small space. "Why two beds?" he demands.

"My sister’s," I explain uneasily. "She’s with my parents tonight."

He nods absently and claims my usual side of the bed. Layers of clothing fall away one by one, and I fight to keep my gaze trained elsewhere. His massive build is impossible to ignore, but I avert my eyes as he smirks at my flushed face.

Awkwardness chokes me, so I thrust my hand forward, forcing myself to speak. "Uh—hi, I’m Celestine."

His chuckle is dry and mocking. "I know." He steps closer, looming. "You know who I am."

Testing the words on my tongue, I whisper, "Jorlan—"

His hand snaps forward, gripping my chin and forcing me to meet his gaze. "PRINCE Jorlan," he growls, his voice cold. "Don’t forget it."

"Prince Jorlan," I stammer hurriedly, my voice shaking.

Satisfied, he releases me abruptly. He perches on the bed, scanning the modest room with thinly veiled disdain. "This house is repulsive," he says matter-of-factly. "You wolves live as though you’re grateful to wallow in poverty."

I sink onto the other side of the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. "That’s not—"

"You lack a packhouse," he interrupts sharply, gesturing dismissively toward the walls. "I am the Prince of All Werewolves, staying in an Alpha’s spare room. That’s unacceptable."

My voice comes out a weak whisper. "We make do."

Finally, his gaze locks onto mine. "This place is a disgrace," he says bluntly. "At least the view’s tolerable."

The weight of his judgment presses into me, heavier than anything I’ve carried before.