The Alpha's Assassin Bride

"Hold still," the attendant said, yanking the laces tight. "You're going to break a rib." "Better a rib than a scandal. The whole kingdom's watching today." Wren caught her own reflection in the mirror — pale hair pinned into something regal, a stranger's face staring back. Under the silver silk, against her ribs, was the blade that would end the Alpha King's life before midnight. She didn't let herself think about that too long. Just this once, she let herself imagine what it might feel like to be a bride for real. It scared her more than the blade did. The temple was carved from pale stone, open to the sky, three hundred wolves packed into the pews to watch the traitor's replacement marry their king. No father to walk her down. No mother in the front row. Just Wren, alone, walking toward a man she was supposed to hate. Alpha King Torin Ashveil waited at the altar. He was not what she'd braced herself for. Dark hair. A jaw that looked carved rather than grown. And when his eyes found hers across the temple, something in his expression softened — not the polite mask of a political marriage, but something startled and real, like he hadn't expected her to be beautiful and was annoyed at himself for noticing. Wren's pulse did something it had no business doing. Doesn't matter. He's dead by morning. She reached the altar. Up close, he was warmer than she expected — the actual heat of him, close enough that she could feel it against her skin like standing too near a fire. Old habit made her count the room without meaning to: two exits, one armed priest, a clear line to his throat if it came to that. It unsettled her, how little she wanted it to come to that. "You're staring," he murmured, only for her. "You're the one who won't stop looking at me." "Can you blame me?" Her breath caught before she could stop it. The priest began the old words. Torin's hand closed around hers, careful, like he was afraid she might bolt, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles. Something cracked open in her chest. Not pain. Warmth, spreading fast, her whole body suddenly aware of every point where his skin touched hers. Her wolf — the one the healers swore didn't exist — stirred behind her ribs like it was waking just to reach for him. She gasped. Torin's grip tightened, steadying her instead of letting go. "Easy," he said, low, for her only. "I've got you." The temple buzzed — the bond, did you see, look at her face — and Wren barely heard any of it, because Torin was still holding her hand like he had no intention of releasing it. The feast blurred into noise she barely registered, because Torin found her by the wine within minutes and didn't leave her side again. "You're not drinking," he said. "Are you always this observant, or just with me?" "Just you, so far." He stepped closer than court etiquette allowed. "Dance with me." "I don't dance." "Neither do I. We'll be terrible together." He held out his hand anyway. Wren told herself she was only accepting to keep up appearances. She was lying to herself, and she knew it the moment his hand settled at her waist. They moved slowly, badly, and for the length of one song Wren forgot entirely that she'd walked into this palace with a blade and a deadline. His hand was warm through the silk of her dress. Her fingers had found their way to his shoulder without her permission. "The council chose twelve brides for me," he said, quietly. "I picked you." "Lucky me." "That's not the answer I wanted." "What answer did you want?" His gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth. "I'll tell you later. Right now I'm enjoying watching you pretend you don't care." Her breath caught again. He noticed — of course he noticed — and something like satisfaction flickered across his face, gone before she could call him on it. Midnight came fast, and with it, the blade cold in her palm and fifteen years of training screaming one command: finish it. She pushed open his chamber door. Torin wasn't asleep. He sat by the window in his open collar, watching the moon like it owed him something. When he turned and saw her standing there, blade half-hidden at her side, he didn't reach for a weapon. He crossed the room instead, slow, until there was almost no space left between them. "You came," he said, voice rough. "I have a job to do." "Do it, then." He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair back from her face, his fingers grazing her cheek, lingering there. "Or don't. But either way, come here first." Her whole body betrayed her, leaning into his touch before her mind caught up. Some cold, trained part of her noted the angle of his throat, how easy it would be, how little he was protecting himself. She didn't want to. That was the part that terrified her. "Torin—" "Say my name again." His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "I like the way it sounds when you're not trying to be cold." "This is a bad idea." "Probably." His mouth hovered a breath from hers. "Whatever you came here to do, Wren — I don't think I can pretend I don't want you to stay." There was no demand for it. Just a man handing her the truth and letting her decide what to do with it. She didn't tell him to stop. The kiss was slow, certain, his hand curling into her hair, hers fisting in the front of his shirt, the blade forgotten, clattering softly to the floor between them. The bond flared white-hot behind her ribs. For one long, breathless moment, Wren stopped being an assassin and simply felt — and then, underneath the feeling, cold and clear as ice water, came the other thought: I could still end this. I don't want to. That's worse. When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Torin rested his forehead against hers. Wren looked down at the blade on the floor between their feet, then backed up at him. "I don't know what I'm doing here," she whispered — the first true thing she'd told him all night. "Then stay until you figure it out." She stepped further into the room instead of answering, and the door swung shut behind her on its own. Outside the window, a wolf that wasn't hers began to howl.