Clipped

Chapter 33.

​The weaving room was thick with the scent of lavender and the hum of Sora’s focused energy. Rhiannon stood on a low wooden stool, her arms held out like a bird’s as Sora pinned the final folds of a garment that felt less like clothes and more like a second skin.

​"It’s too much," Rhiannon whispered, staring at her reflection in the polished bronze mirror.

​The gown was a masterpiece of defiance. Sora had woven enchanted spider-silk- dark as a moonless night, with threads of silver wolf-fur that shimmered whenever Rhiannon breathed. It clung to her curves, the sleeveless bodice leaving her arms and the tops of her shoulders bare, while the skirt flowed behind her like a trail of liquid smoke. It didn't hide her; it announced her.

​"It’s exactly enough," Sora countered as she adjusted the collar. "For ten years, you’ve been trying to be invisible, Rhia. Tonight, you’re the North’s answer to every shadow that ever tried to swallow you. You aren't a refugee in this dress. You’re a storm."

​Sora leaned in, her voice softening. "And besides, I want to see our Alpha’s face when he sees you. He’s been pacing the Hall like he’s scenting a rival, and the party hasn’t even started."

​Rhiannon felt a flush creep up her neck. The memory of their training that very morning- the heat of his hands on her waist, the jolt of electricity that hadn't faded; was still a vivid, pulsing thing in her mind.

​The celebration was held in the Lower Hearth, a space smaller and more intimate than the Great Hall. It was filled not only with the Nightshade wolves but with the mountain’s allies: dryads in bark-cloth, mountain-dwelling humans with weathered faces, and even a few reclusive stone-giants.

​When Rhiannon stepped through the arched doorway, the room didn't go silent, but the air shifted. The static she usually felt in a crowd- the fear of being touched, the urge to shrink, was still there, but it was dampened by the weight of the silk and the presence of Sora at her side.

​She scanned the room, her eyes instinctively searching for Fenris.

​Fenris was standing by the central fire, a horn of ale in his hand, listening to a human elder speak of the harvest. He looked every bit the Alpha in a tunic of deep crimson and charcoal, his broad shoulders dominating the space.

​As Rhiannon approached, he turned.

​The ale horn remained in his hand, but his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened. Before she had arrived, his eyes had been their usual piercing blue, with the occasional swirl of gold whenever his wolf pushed to the surface. But the moment his gaze landed on her- on the bare skin of her shoulders, the way the silver fur caught the firelight, and the defiant blue of her hair. The blue eyes vanished replaced with gold.

​His eyes didn't just swirl; they ignited. They were a constant, molten gold, the pupils dilated with a predatory intensity that made Rhiannon’s breath catch in her throat.

​He didn't move toward her, but the pull in her chest became a roar.

​"Rhiannon," he said. His voice wasn't its usual gravelly rumble; it was a low, vibrating growl that vibrated in her very marrow.

​"Fenris," she replied, her own voice steadier than she expected.

​He stepped away from the elder, his focus so singular that the rest of the room seemed to blur into the background. He walked toward her, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were trying to maintain a fraying tether on the wolf that wanted to claim the space between them.

​"Sora has outdone herself," Fenris murmured, stopping just outside her space. His eyes- those pure, golden suns, roved over her face. "You look... powerful."

​"I feel... visible," Rhiannon admitted, her skin erupting in those familiar goosebumps just from the proximity of his heat.

​"You've always been visible to me, Rhia," Fenris said, his voice dropping so low it was intended only for her. "But tonight... my wolf is having a very difficult time remembering his manners."

​He didn't touch her. He didn't have to. The way he looked at her was a physical weight, a golden gaze that promised protection and whispered of a hunger he was barely containing.

Rhiannon looked into that gold and, for the first time, didn't want to run. Yet, the instinct to retreat was a phantom limb she couldn't quite shed. Her fight-or-flight response was a tangled mess; every other man she had ever known triggered a scream in her blood, but Fenris triggered a hum. He didn't make her want to bolt, but he made her heart race in a way that felt dangerously close to the same edge.