Howl For Me

Chapter Four — The Perfect Match (For The Wrong Reasons)

The post-graduation lull was a trap. Iris should have known. In her family, silence wasn't peace; it was the sound of gears turning in a well-oiled machine.

She was in the morning room, attempting to sketch the intricate pattern of the lace curtain—a permissible, decorative pursuit—when the summons came. Not a verbal one. It was the particular click of her mother's heels on the hardwood, too measured, too purposeful. It was the sound of a decision being delivered.

Iris put her pencil down, the half-formed sketch forgotten. Her wolf, dozing in a sunbeam of contentment, pricked one metaphorical ear.

In her father’s study, the atmosphere was one of brisk conclusion. Her father stood at the window, back to her. Her mother sat in her usual chair, back straight, hands folded. Kieran leaned against the mantelpiece, examining his nails with an expression of profound boredom.

"Iris," her father began, turning. His face held the pleased look of a man who has just closed a deal with favorable terms. "We've secured a promising opportunity for you. An engagement. To the Blackmoor heir."

The words hung in the air. Engagement. Blackmoor. The names were clean, solid. Traditional. Not the dazzling, terrifying pinnacle of the Morholts, but a respectable, established family. A good match. A normal match. The kind a perfect, obedient Omega daughter should hope for.

Relief, warm and startling, washed through her first. Not Cassian Morholt. Not the gilded, silent cage of the pinnacle. This was… manageable. Expected. Safe.

Her mother nodded, a sharp, satisfied gesture. "The Blackmoors value stability, tradition. They've observed your accomplishments, your comportment. You represent exactly the sort of steadying influence a rising Alpha needs."

Steadying influence. The phrase lit a small, hopeful candle inside her. They didn't just want a pretty accessory. They’d seen her accomplishments. Her academic work, her discipline. They wanted her skills. Her mind. Maybe, just maybe, they saw the person behind the poise.

Her wolf uncurled, intrigued. Blackmoor. The name didn’t ring any alarm bells in its simple understanding. It sounded like old stone and deep forests. Neutral ground.

"Is he..." Iris ventured, a flicker of personal curiosity daring to surface. "What is the heir like?"

A beat of silence. Her father waved a hand. "Rowan. He's of good lineage. The details are unimportant. The alliance is sound. The Blackmoors are eager to formalize a connection with a family of our standing."

Kieran let out a short, sharp laugh from the mantel. "Yeah. 'Eager.' That's one word for it." He pushed off and sauntered closer, his eyes on Iris, a familiar, cruel amusement in them. "Don't get a big head, Omega. They're not picking you for your sparkling personality. They're picking you because you're the most obedient, well-trained dog on the market. You're the muzzle they're hoping will fit their rabid son."

The hopeful candle inside her guttered. Obedient dog. A muzzle.

"Kieran!" their mother snapped, but it was perfunctory. A scold for vulgarity, not for inaccuracy.

"His reputation is... spirited," her father conceded, his jaw tight. "Which is precisely why your qualities are so valued, Iris. You will provide balance. Composure. You will be the calming counterpart he requires."

The narrative reshaped itself in her mind, fighting against Kieran's ugliness. They needed her because she was calm. Because she was composed. It wasn't just about her obedience, but the positive effect of it. She could be a force for good. A true partner, in a way. She could help someone.

She clung to this version. It was the only one that let her breathe.

"The introduction will be at the Amber Moon Gala," her mother said, her tone leaving no room for discussion. "A simple meeting. You will be your usual self. That is all that is required."

Your usual self. The perfect daughter. The one they had built.

As she was dismissed, Kieran fell into step beside her in the hallway. "A 'spirited' reputation," he mimicked in a low, mocking whisper. "He got exiled from his own pack's council for nearly ripping out another Alpha's throat during a debate. But hey, I'm sure your talent for floral arrangements will soothe the savage beast."

He was trying to scare her. To poison it. Because that’s what he did.

But for the first time, his malice didn't find its mark. It just made her own hopeful interpretation feel more defiant, more hers. He wanted her to see a monster. She chose to see a challenge. A purpose.

Back in her room, the door closed, she let the reality settle. Rowan Blackmoor. A name with a shadow she chose to ignore. An engagement. A future.

She opened her secret drawer and pulled out the rocket ship socks. She put them on, the soft cotton a secret against her skin.

The Blackmoors had asked for her. The perfect, poised, accomplished her. They hadn't mentioned secret socks or wolf-whispers or sketchbooks. But they’d asked for her steadiness, and that steadiness was part of who she was, wasn't it? It was the foundation. Maybe, in a new place, with a purpose, she could build other parts of herself on top of it.

Her wolf, sensing her fragile determination, nosed her hand in her mind. It wasn't jumping for joy. It was... watchful. Assessing this new path.

They didn't know the son was supposedly wild. They thought he was just "spirited," and that she was the calm he needed. It was a beautiful, hopeful fiction, and Iris wrapped it around herself like a shield against Kieran's smirk and her own latent fear.

She was getting a normal match. A purpose. A chance to be valued for what she could do, not just for how she looked sitting on a shelf.

Standing there in her sensible dress and ridiculous socks, Iris Vale, the perfect daughter, allowed herself to feel a thrill that was entirely her own. It was the thrill of the unknown, painted in the hopeful, naive colors of a girl who believed she was finally being chosen for all the right reasons.