The Masked Wolf Two
1345 Words
Ashen Continues
No one royal had ever offered me their hand.
I had carried their coats. Poured their wine. Cleared their plates. Bowed when they passed. I had learned the scent of noble impatience and the weight of noble boots.
But no royal had ever looked at me as if touching me was a choice she wanted to make.
My glove brushed hers.
The courtyard changed.
The fountain quieted.
Moonlight slid over the stones between us like water.
Beneath my shirt, my mother’s ring went cold.
The princess’s fingers curled lightly around mine.
Not claiming.
Guiding.
That somehow made it harder to breathe.
She led me through the archway and into the palace.
The closer we came to the ballroom, the louder everything became. Music. Laughter. Glass. Perfume. Wolves.
So many wolves.
Their scents pressed against the mask like hands testing a locked door.
Smoke.
Pine.
Rain.
Stone.
Rose oil.
Dance?
With her?
In front of everyone?
“Princess, I would not want to embarrass you.”
“Then do not.”
“I am not certain I know the steps.”
“Then follow mine.”
“That sounds like a great deal of trust.”
“It is only dancing.”
Her fingers closed around mine.
My ring went cold again.
She pulled me onto the floor before I could form another excuse.
The musicians shifted into a slower piece, elegant and old. Moon placed one hand on my shoulder and guided my other hand to her waist as if we had done this a hundred times.
I looked at where my hand rested.
Then at her.
“This seems dangerous.”
“It is a waltz.”
“I have seen weapons less complicated.”
She smiled. “Do you always argue when a princess tries to help you?”
“Only when she seems determined to do it publicly.”
“Then stop looking like you are about to be executed.”
“I am considering it as an alternative.”
She laughed.
The sound loosened something in my chest.
I stepped where she guided me.
Once.
Twice.
Then my body remembered.
Not from balls. Not from court.
From my mother.
A dark room. A humming song. Her bare feet on old wood. My little hands in hers.
A wolf of our bloodline does not stumble before the moon, Ashen.
I had not understood then.
I still did not.
But my feet found the rhythm.
Dominance.
Ambition.
Hunger.
I nearly stopped.
The princess felt it. Somehow, she felt the hesitation in my fingers.
“You do not like crowds,” she said.
“I like them better from far away.”
“Most things are better from far away.”
“Even princesses?”
She glanced back at me.
There was challenge in her smile.
“Especially princesses.”
I should not have smiled.
I did anyway.
Then we entered the ballroom.
Every head turned.
Of course they did.
The Luna Princess had vanished for a breath and returned holding the hand of a masked stranger.
Whispers bloomed like frost.
“Who is he?”
“What house?”
“Is that a mask?”
“Did she bring him in herself?”
“Look at his coat.”
“Why is the air cold?”
My spine tightened.
For one dizzy second, I was back in the SilvaFrost packhouse with dirty knees and bruised cheeks, waiting for someone to point and say my name.
Ashen.
Bastard.
Omega.
Servant.
Then the mask pulsed softly against my skin.
No one knew.
No one could know.
For one night, I was not the boy scrubbing floors beneath my brothers’ boots.
I was only a stranger standing beside a princess.
Across the ballroom, Callan Drakewood saw me.
His smile faded.
Cael stood beside him, one hand wrapped around a crystal cup. His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to remember a dream before it disappeared.
My pulse kicked.
They were looking at me.
Really looking.
The old fear rose fast and familiar.
Then I remembered Veyra’s voice.
No face. No scent. No magic. Unless you do something spectacularly stupid, which, given your history, remains a concern.
I breathed in.
Slowly.
The princess released my hand when a royal advisor approached and bowed.
“Your Highness, the king and queen request a word.”
Her gaze flicked to me. “Stay here.”
It was not an order.
Not exactly.
I nodded. “Of course.”
She hesitated as if she wanted to say more, then turned and moved toward the dais where the king and queen stood watching the room with the calm intensity of wolves guarding a den.
I should have used that moment to leave.
I should have slipped into a corridor, found the servants’ passage, and thanked the Moon Goddess that I had made it this far without disaster.
Instead, I stayed.
Because she had told me to.
And because some foolish, starving part of me wanted her to come back.
“You are new.”
Callan’s voice slid over my shoulder.
My stomach dropped.
I turned slowly.
Callan and Cael stood behind me.
Up close, in their formal silver-and-blue coats, they looked exactly like the sons SilvaFrost wanted to show the world. Tall, handsome, alpha-born, polished until every flaw had been hidden beneath privilege.
Callan’s eyes moved over my mask.
Cael watched my hands.
I folded them behind my back before he could notice they were trembling.
“Good evening,” I said.
Callan smiled.
It was the same smile he wore before ordering lashes.
“A mask,” he said. “How dramatic.”
I said nothing.
“Nobody wears masks to balls anymore.” He stepped slightly closer. “Not unless they have something to hide.”
Cael’s gaze lingered on my shoulders.
I resisted the urge to lower them.
“What are you hiding from?” Callan asked.
My mouth went dry.
“Or should I ask who?”
He reached toward my face.
“Take it off.”
My body reacted before thought could catch up.
Ice stirred beneath my skin.
The chandelier crystals above us chimed softly though no wind touched them.
I took half a step back.
Callan’s hand followed.
“Who are you?”
I opened my mouth.
No answer came.
Every lie I had prepared vanished. Every polite excuse scattered. I could smell his suspicion through the mask, sharp and eager.
Then the room cooled.
Not because of me.
Because the princess had returned.
“Lord Drakewood,” Moon said.
Callan froze.
Her voice was soft.
That made it worse.
“I was under the impression noble sons were taught manners before attending royal balls.”
His hand dropped.
“Princess, I was only—”
“Interrogating a guest beneath my roof?” She smiled. “How generous of SilvaFrost to provide its sons with such varied hobbies.”
Cael lowered his gaze.
Callan’s jaw tightened.
Moon looked between them with calm, cutting grace.
“If you are both in need of practice, I suggest beginning with not touching people who have not invited your hands.”
For a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
No one had ever spoken to Callan that way.
Not for me.
Not because of me.
Callan bowed stiffly. “Forgive me, Princess.”
There it was.
The word in his mouth sounded like surrender.
Moon turned to me. “Are you all right?”
No.
“Yes,” I said.
Her eyes told me she did not believe that.
Before she could say more, warmth rolled toward us.
Dorian Calder appeared with a smile crafted for admiration and eyes made for possession.
“Princess Moona,” he said, bowing. “May I have another dance?”
“No.”
One word.
No apology.
No decoration.
Dorian blinked once.
Callan looked almost pleased by his discomfort.
Moon did not wait for Dorian to recover. She turned to me and offered her hand again.
“Do you want to dance?”
The room vanished for a second.
- Writer
