Chapter 1 – Thirty Days and No Kings
If the dress itched any harder, I’d start a diplomatic incident by stripping in the middle of the royal foyer.
“Stop clawing at it,” Elin hissed, slapping my hand away as I tried to scratch under the sequined neckline. “You look like you’re about to molt.”
“I am about to molt,” I muttered. “Right out of this lace torture device and straight back to the train station.”
The line of guests crept forward under crystal chandeliers, all perfume and polished marble and the faint, electric hum of too many wolves forced into suits. Above us, the vaulted ceiling sparkled with spelled light that mimicked a full moon.
The real one waited outside. I could feel it tugging like a low tide behind my ribs. The wolf in me paced tight, restless circles.
Thirty days, I reminded her. Thirty days and we’re gone.
No packs.
No kings.
No second chances.
“Relax,” Elin said under her breath, nudging me with her elbow. “You’re just here as the tragic provincial niece signing some dusty inheritance papers. He won’t even notice you.”
He.
I didn’t let my gaze drift toward the double doors ahead, where the royal herald was announcing each arrival. I focused on the gilded molding instead, on the intricate vines curling around the archway. Anything but that word.
“You didn’t have to come,” I said. “Mara could have handled the lawyers without me.”
“Sure,” El snorted. “And leave you to sneak into the city, sign everything, and sneak out again without even looking at him once? Over my dead body. I worked hard on your face.”
She had. My reflection in the entry mirror had almost been a stranger: dark hair tamed into a low twist, a simple black dress hugging new curves I hadn’t owned three years ago, red lipstick making my mouth look braver than I felt.
“Lia Rowan,” the herald called from the doors, voice echoing through the marble hall.
My stomach flipped.
The guards flanking the entrance gave me the professional once-over: one sniff, a brief flare of gold in their eyes as they cataloged my scent. Packless female, mid-twenties, no visible weapons. Harmless.
If they smelled the ghost of something else—old ash and broken-bond pain—I couldn’t tell.
Inside, the ballroom opened like a story I’d slammed shut and buried. Strings swelled, chandeliers burned brighter, and a hundred conversations blurred into a single, glittering roar. Wolves in evening wear moved in smooth patterns, orbiting around an invisible center.
My palms went damp. My wolf went very, very quiet.
El’s fingers brushed mine. “Breathe.”
I inhaled.
The scent of polished wood, wax, wine. Dozens of individual signatures braided together—familiar spices of the old city, tang of ozone from the royal wards, the metallic thread of too much power compressed into one space.
And under it, distant but unmistakable, the storm-snap of royal blood.
My knees nearly buckled.
I forced my voice steady. “We see the lawyers tomorrow. We sign the papers. We make sure Mara keeps the house. Then we leave.”
“Thirty days,” El echoed. “But tonight, we get free wine and we stare at the king who broke you. Purely for closure.”
I laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Closure. Right.”
We slipped toward a quiet corner near one of the marble columns, half-sheltered by a cascade of greenery. From here, I had a view of the dais where the thrones waited, still empty.
“Do you think he’s changed?” El muttered.
“No.” I stared down into my glass. “He was already a king before they gave him a crown.”
Once, that had been the thing I admired most about him.
The herald’s staff struck the floor three times. The music softened, conversations dimmed.
“All rise for His Majesty, Kaiden Taren, King of Alphas, and his luna—”
My heart misfired. The word slammed into me like a physical blow.
Luna.
El’s hand tightened on my wrist. “You don’t have to look,” she whispered.
But my traitor head turned anyway.
The doors at the far end of the ballroom opened, and he walked in on a tide of power.
Kaiden.
Taller than in my memory, broader through the shoulders, the lines of his face carved sharper by three years of rule. Midnight-blue formal jacket, collar heavy with silver embroidery that caught the light like frost. Crown simple and cruelly elegant against his dark hair.
His aura hit first: a rolling pressure across the room, every wolf straightening unconsciously. My own spine obeyed before I caught myself.
Beside him walked a woman in pale silver, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Beautiful in the way of old bloodlines—fine bones, ice-pale hair, eyes like winter glass. The artificial bond between them shimmered faintly, a pattern of magic etched over something hollow.
So that was the Council’s luna.
Something in my chest tugged. Not pain, not yet. Just a wrong-note echo.
“See?” El breathed. “He doesn’t even—”
His head turned.
Across the crowded hall, through silk and crystal and ritual distance, Kaiden’s gaze slid over the faces raised toward him—and stopped.
On me.
For a heartbeat the room vanished. It was just his eyes, storm-gray and shocked wide, locking onto mine like a hand fisting in the front of my dress.
The old tether inside me snapped taut.
Not possible, I thought wildly. The bond is dead. They burned it. They burned us.
Then, low and vicious, my wolf surged up from the place I’d shoved her, slamming against my ribs with a single, furious snarl.
Mine.
