Lyra’s POV
The Great Hall remained a deafening blur of roaring laughter, clashing goblets, and stomping boots, but as Fenrir led me back to the high table, the noise seemed to wash completely over me. I was entirely focused on the microscopic, agonizingly delicate architecture of my own mind.
Taking my seat on the carved wooden chair, I let the sheer white silk of my ceremonial gown pool around my feet while the Alpha King settled beside me, radiating a blistering, suffocating heat. The fresh claiming mark on my neck pulsed in perfect, terrifying synchronization with the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat.
“You’re exceptionally quiet, my Queen,” Fenrir murmured, leaning so close that his lips brushed the shell of my ear. The dark, intoxicating scent of pine and spiced wine rolled off
