The full moon hung perfectly in the sky, spilling its pale light across the courtyard of the Pack’s palace.
From the window of his upstairs room, Zion stood stiffly in front of a large mirror, staring at the empty reflection that looked back at him.
His gray eyes no longer carried the spark of a young Alpha’s spirit.
On the bed, the black tuxedo he would wear to vow himself to Isolde was neatly folded—almost as if it were mocking him.
“How funny,” he muttered bitterly. “Everyone cheers, thinking I’m a happy groom, when I can’t even remember what love feels like anymore.”
Zion took a deep breath, steadying the tremor in his chest. That tuxedo felt like a chain shackling his freedom.
He stared at it for a long moment before clenching his fists tightly.
“If it weren’t for the Council
