Prince Jorlan appears much less intimidating when he’s asleep. His face loses its usual sharp intensity, and for a fleeting moment, I almost forget who he is. Almost. He lies face down, one arm disappeared beneath the pillow, and his unruly dark hair hangs across his face like a curtain. Like this, he seems almost ordinary, approachable even. But I know better.

Moving as quietly as I can, I slide out of bed. My pulse quickens at the thought of waking him. The last thing I want is for him to see me now, vulnerable and exposed. Though he might be my mate—his mark burned into my skin—it doesn’t make stripping in front of him feel natural. Not yet.

I inch toward the old wooden closet, praying it doesn’t betray me. Yet the hinges groan like wounded animals with every slight movement. Holding my breath, I snatch a simple dress from its hangers, pull undergarments from a drawer, and dart toward the door.

“Leaving already, mate?” His voice is a low gravel, sleep still clinging to every word. My body jolts at the sudden sound, a startled gasp escaping me.

“I—I’m getting dressed,” I stammer.

He shifts onto his back, the blanket sliding to dangerously reveal the hard lines of his body. One hand casually rests beneath his head, further accentuating his ridiculously chiseled chest. My throat feels dry.

“We’re mates,” Jorlan reminds me, his smirk infuriating and deliberate. “We’re wolves, Celestine. So, tell me, how many in your pack have already seen you without clothes?”

I blink, taken aback. “I don’t keep count, but only after shifting.”

His eyebrow arches in mock amusement. “Yet here you stand, concerned about me seeing what’s already been on display for others? Interesting.”

Heat floods my face as I fumble for a retort. I can’t deny the truth of his words, but it still feels different. He’s different. I barely know him, and yet here he is, lord of my space and body.

Jorlan slides out of bed and approaches me deliberately. Each step tightens the air between us. Lowering his head, he leans in, his voice a soft breath against my ear. “I can tell you don’t like me.”

That’s not entirely true, but definitely not false. “It’s... You tore my dress!” I blurt, my voice sharper than intended.

Straightening up, his expression flickers with something akin to surprise. Without a word, he steps toward the closet, his hand brushing aside the fabric hanging within. “Which one? I could tear all of these.”

“No!” The word leaps out instinctively, panic lacing every syllable. “Please don’t.”

Turning back, he studies me. “Is this all you have?” he asks, his tone dripping with judgment as he gestures toward the pitiful collection. “This won’t do.”

I cross my arms, suddenly very conscious of the dress clutched tightly in my hands. “What’s wrong with them? This is what I have.”

“You’re a princess now,” Jorlan states flatly, as though that explains everything, as though years of simplicity and frugality can vanish overnight.

Anger boils up in my chest, spilling out in sharp words before I can think to stop them. “My family barely scraped together enough for that dress. The one you ruined!”

His gaze hardens instantly. The room shifts, now brimming with tension as I wait for his icy response. But no scathing words come. Instead, his silence cuts deeper, leaving me squirming beneath the weight of his unreadable glare.

Finally, unable to bear his scrutiny, I drop my gaze to the dusty floorboards. “I wasn’t a princess yesterday,” I mutter, my voice quieter now.

When I glance up again, his expression has softened ever so slightly. He pulls on a shirt, his movements unhurried. I quickly turn away when his fingers go to the waistband of his pants, but not before catching the mocking curve of his lips.

I clear my throat. “I’ll make breakfast... once I’m dressed.”

“There’s no need.” His response stings despite its nonchalance. “Your family hardly has enough food to feed yourselves, let alone me.”

With that, he sweeps past me, leaving me seething. He’s cruel, but like so many harsh truths, I know he’s right. Our pack has nothing. We once thrived on the logging trade, but now, with better-equipped rivals, we scrape by on meager scraps, and no solution seems forthcoming.

After dressing—I stubbornly choose the very dress he dismissed—I find my mother waiting in the kitchen. Her face is etched with disapproval as her gaze locks onto the unmarred side of my neck.

“You didn’t mark him,” she hisses. “Celestine, you had one job.”

I sigh heavily, already bracing for the lecture. “Actually, two. You also wanted me to beg him to save the pack.”

Her anger flares, but I’m too tired to care. Ignoring her, I move to the stove, stirring the bland porridge. Jorlan’s words echo in my head as I do. It’s true; this isn’t palace fare. I doubt he’s accustomed to meals like this.

As the day drags on, my mother grows increasingly desperate. She rifles through my dresses, complaining endlessly. Finally, she decides we need to make “adjustments”—which apparently means cutting every single hemline too short and every neckline too low. I endure it silently, knowing she’s wasting time. Jorlan wouldn’t care if the dresses were made from clouds if the fabric's threadbare origins were obvious.

By the time evening comes and dinner is prepared, I’m already exhausted. The roast is a rare treat, bought at a discount for the sole purpose of impressing royalty. My mother forces me into one of the altered dresses before anyone else arrives. I feel conscious of every inch of exposed skin.

Jorlan notices, of course. When he struts in behind my father, his smirk is unmistakable. That smirk remains as his fingers wander beneath the table, brushing along my thigh. I swat his hand away, my face burning with humiliation. He doesn’t react beyond the faint chuckle tucked into his throat.

After dinner, he doesn’t wait to make his exit. Taking my hand, he leads me back to my room without a single word to my family. Once inside, he closes the door, his gaze immediately zeroing in on my dress.

“Why’d you shorten it?” he demands.

“I didn’t,” I say quickly. “My mother thought—”

“Shewolves,” he mutters, cutting me off with a dismissive wave. “You’re not to wear anything this ridiculous again. It’s beneath you. Beneath me.”

Tears threaten as shame welds itself to my ribs. “She cut all of them,” I murmur.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”

Turning to his trunk, recently delivered, Jorlan digs out fresh clothes. He changes swiftly and without ceremony, though I avert my gaze, wishing desperately to disappear.

“You’re mine,” his voice pulls me back, commanding my attention.

Swallowing nervously, I nod. When I turn to face him again, he’s reclined on the bed, shirtless, his expression unapologetically smug. “Undress,” he orders simply.

Panic skitters through me. “What?”

“You heard me, Celestine. I won’t repeat myself.”

Trembling, I fumble with the buttons on my dress. My limbs feel like lead with every movement. As I slide the fabric away, it takes all my willpower not to crumble under his relentless gaze.

“More,” his voice commands when I hesitate.

I undo my bra, though my fingers shake as the ribbon falls. Sliding the underwear down feels like a final act of surrender. I stand before him, trying desperately to quell the vulnerability clawing at my chest.

His eyes rake over me, unreadable. For a moment, I think I see something almost tender. Then his words destroy me.

“You’re too thin, mate.”

Fighting the knot rising in my throat, I reply softly, “My name is Celestine.”