Something was off. I frowned, adjusting the crest slightly. “It’s slanted.”
The attendant paled. “Apologies, my Alpha. I’ll fix it immediately.”
As he hurried to correct it, the door swung open. I didn’t need to turn to know who had entered.
Randall Oatrun. My father.
His presence filled the room before he even spoke. Commanding. Overbearing. Relentless.
Beside him walked Oscar Elrod, my trusted advisor and closest ally. Unlike my father, Oscar was calm and methodical. He spoke only when necessary, but when he did, his words carried weight.
I already knew why my father was here.
“Draven.” My father’s voice was sharp. “Call off this wedding.”
I sighed, barely concealing my annoyance. “We’ve had this conversation already.”
“That’s because you have refused to listen.”
He took a step forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “The Council Elders are against this. They see Meredith as a threat.”
A slow blink. “Do they?”
“They do not support this union and will do anything to eliminate her,” my father pressed.
Ah. So, it had already begun.
I wasn’t surprised. The Council Elders were predictable, power-hungry fools. And I was prepared for them.
“Then she will have to survive,” I said simply. “And I don’t need their support.”
My father’s nostrils flared. “Draven, this is madness. What kind of King takes a cursed, wolfless woman as his bride?”
I slowly turned to face him fully. “The kind of King who does not answer to anyone.”
Power rolled off me, thick and suffocating. It was a warning.
My father’s jaw ticked. “This isn’t a joke, Draven!”
He was losing. And he knew it.
The silence stretched out for seconds. Then, Oscar finally spoke. “You misunderstand, Randall.”
His voice was controlled and unwavering as he turned to my father. “Draven didn’t choose Meredith Carter out of emotion. This is a calculated move.”
My father exhaled sharply. “Then enlighten me.”
Oscar’s gaze remained steady. “Had Draven chosen a royal Alpha’s daughter, the others would see it as a power play. A declaration of war.”
A pause.
“They will fight for dominance. It will divide the packs, creating internal war.”
Oscar’s eyes flickered toward me. “By choosing a powerless, wolfless woman, he prevents that battle. At least for now.”
The truth was laid bare.
This wasn’t about Meredith.
This was about keeping the werewolf leaders from tearing each other apart.
There were five major royal packs/clans in our Werewolf Community. And each pack took turns ruling the tribe on a five-year term.
As the next in line to the throne, some fights were inevitable.
My father was silent. His jaw ticked, but I could see the gears turning in his mind.
He knew Oscar was right.
After a long pause, my father exhaled sharply. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
I met his gaze without hesitation.
“I always do.”
Meredith.
The morning of my forced wedding arrived too quickly.
I had barely slept the night before-my mind had been a storm of rage, humiliation, and helplessness.
But none of that mattered now. Because it was happening, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
The sun had barely risen when a group of servants led by Madame Beatrice entered my chamber.
They moved swiftly, efficiently, wordlessly- as if I were nothing more than a doll they were dressing up for display.
A warm bath, drizzled with goat milk and scented with vanilla oil, was prepared for me. I was made to soak in it for ten minutes before the scrubbing began. Not an inch of my skin was spared. And by the time they were done, I was left with red patches.
The pain from climbing hundreds of stairs intensified, along with this fresh batch from having my body scrubbed by iron-fisted hands. The way these people washed my skin made it seem like I had some diseases that had to be scrubbed off.
I could understand yesterday’s intense scrubbing because I looked like filth. But today? I still can’t understand the need for it.
I felt violated once again when two pairs of hands roamed over every inch of my body, smearing coconut oil on it. No matter how many times I said that I could do it myself, it fell on deaf ears.
Fine silk was draped over my body, followed by makeup brushes delivering different colours of powder all over my face. Heavy jewellery-pure gold, encrusted with emeralds-was fastened around my neck.
A delicate silver circlet, woven with tiny moonstone gems, was placed in my hair before the white cloud bridal hat was placed over it to cover my face.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
The reflection staring back at me was a stranger-a doll, painted and adorned, shaped into something delicate-something that wasn’t me.
This was Draven Oatrun’s bride.
Madame Beatrice stood at the side and ordered one of the women to try the three different bridal shoes on my feet before she finally chose the one made with a white embroidery.
“You have beautiful feet,” she said with a straight face.
Before I could even take a steady breath, the doors burst open-an unwelcome presence sweeping in like a cold draft.
The servants immediately stiffened. The air grew heavy with tension.
Instantly, I turned my gaze to the right, only to see a woman I recognized from the Lunar Ball walk through the door and towards me. Her green eyes were sharp as they met mine.
Her familiar voice, smooth, but now dripping with venom, said, “I see the bride is ready.”
“Miss Fellowes,” Madame Beatrice gave the woman a curt nod while the rest of the servants bowed respectfully to her, a gesture that left me wondering who she was.
“Leave us.” Miss Fellowes commanded as her casual glance fell on Madame Beatrice.
The servants didn’t hesitate. They bowed quickly and scurried out like frightened mice. Within ten seconds, we were left alone. Just me and her.
I lifted my gaze to the mirror. And there she stood-Miss Fellowes, just right behind me. Her emerald-green gown with a deep V-neck hugged her curves perfectly. And her golden hair was pinned into an elegant, regal style.
She looked every bit like the woman who should be standing in my place.
Her red lips parted. “Do you know who I am?” she asked, gazing at me through the mirror. Her arms were crossed, her manicured nails tapping against her arm in slow, calculated beats.
“I don’t,” I answered without missing a beat.
“Do you even understand what’s happening?” Her voice was low, sharp as a blade,
I remained silent.
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