The Heat Ceremony: Bred Before The Pack

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The golden red fire burned bright in the hearth, casting long shadows of his body against the stone walls of his bedroom. As he sat there brooding, wondering what he hell he was doing. The letter from the elder's council was thrown open on the small wooden table. The letter that told him, 'the girl had been chosen.'

She was an orphan, a 19-year-old unmated virgin. And apparently, naive and stupid too. Because she had agreed to be chosen for breeding, he closed his eyes. When the elders' council had started searching for a girl for the heat ceremony, he had hoped and prayed that no one would agree to such a thing. To be humiliated in public! Who would be stupid enough to agree?

But he had underestimated the elders. Her name was Aria Montera, 19 years old, the same age as his own son would have been, if he had been alive today.

And he was a 45-year-old widower about to take her innocence while the whole pack watched. Alaric’s jaw tightened as shame crept up his spine like cold water. A ritual meant to trigger mating during the fertile moon. He had scoffed at it when he was younger, dismissing it as a tradition for weaker packs, ones clinging to their old ways. But now, with war looming, his Council had revived it as a necessity.

It was a gory thought, a thought that made him feel like a monster. The letter didn't say anything else, didn't tell him why she had agreed to this.....didn't tell him why the little girl was ready to sacrifice herself before him? Did she even understand what the heat ceremony meant? What would be expected of her on that night?

"She is honored to be the chosen one, my lord. And had agreed to do her duty by her pack." That's all the letter said, and somehow, Alaric couldn't believe it.

The parchment crumpled in his fist, the words rubbing raw against his wounds. "She is honored to be the chosen one."

Could any self-respecting wolf honor this? Not truly. Because he didn't.

He exhaled through his nose, the weight of his title pressing down on him like a stone. As Alpha, his duty was clear: to strengthen the pack, secure the bloodline. But the thought of a trembling girl beneath him, to mount her in public- like it was still the medieval era.....to look into a pair of wide, fearful eyes, while he.....while he - the thought made his gut twist.

No.

Tonight, when they will bring her to the packhouse, according to the custom, he would not let the elders hover like vultures. He would dismiss them, shut the door, and talk to her. Alone.

He needed to see her face when she answered. Needed to know that she was truly doing this of her own free will. Make sure there has been no threat involved, no 'or else...' spoken.

And if she hesitated, if she so much as flinched when he explained what would be expected of her- what would entail the breeding ceremony -

Then I will send her back. He decided.

Even if it meant facing the elders’ wrath. Even if it meant another moon cycle of their disappointed stares, their whispered doubts about his ability to lead.

He was Alpha. He would do what was necessary.

But he would not take an unwilling little she- wolf, against her will.

---

The heavy oak doors of the pack house groaned open, and Aria stepped inside, her bare feet silent against the stone floor. Her eyes were darting from one corner of the luxurious palace to another. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, silver framed paintings hung on the walls, all framed together in this humongous white marble palace that looked like it was straight out of one of the fairytales she had read as a child. She had never seen such luxury, such opulence anywhere before in her entire life.

Not that she had gone to many places. She accepted grudgingly. The orphanage had been her shelter all these years and also her prison.

The elders had sent a maid, who had scrubbed her raw before bringing her here—her skin still pink from the scalding water, her red hair brushed until it gleamed like fire in the torchlight. She had never felt so pampered in her life; no one had looked at her twice when she lived in the orphanage all these years. And suddenly, overnight, people were asking how she felt, what she wanted to eat. If she wanted a drink?

'What does she want to eat?' Aria had laughed listening to that. In an orphanage, where bigger, badder wolves snatched away every single morsel from your plate. Where you had to survive getting hit by bigger wolves, starved, and beaten. They were asking her, "What" she wanted to eat?

Anything, she had replied, and the elders, who had come to see her, had looked at her weirdly. 5 minutes later, there was so much food on the table that Aria felt like she had died and gone to heaven. There were steaks! Freaking steaks, something she had only heard stories about. fried chicken, and a cake. A whole freaking cake. Afraid that someone would come and snatch all the food away before she could even take a bite, she had started eating, or rather, thrusting food down her throat like never before.

Because she was quite sure she would never taste things like this again. One of the elders. The woman, Vira, she had come forward and told her to slow down. Aria had refused. She wanted to eat it all, engulf every single morsel on the table...so that tomorrow when she is once again starving with nothing but stale bread and water, she doesn't regret leaving anything.

Aria barely registered the words the elders were speaking around her, absentmindedly nodding along, while her whole focus remained on the food. The delicious- fingerlicking food...... as she licked the last crumbs of cake from her fingers, her stomach was finally full for the first time in years. The rich flavors still danced on her tongue, the savory juices of the steak, the sweetness of the frosting, the buttery warmth of fresh bread. She wanted to press the memory of this meal into her bones, to hoard the sensation like a secret for the hungry days ahead.

Across the table, Elder Vira’s lips thinned in disapproval, but Aria didn’t care. Let them judge. She’d eat like this every day if she could.

If.

The elder cleared her throat. “Aria, pay attention.” She blinked, tearing her gaze away from the empty plate. “Hmm?” Vira’s voice was crisp, as she forced Aria to focus. “You understand why you’re here, don’t you?”

Aria nodded absently, her fingers tracing the rim of her goblet, still half-full of honeyed wine. She’d never tasted anything so rich.

“Good.” The elder leaned forward. “Then you know what’s expected of you.”

Another nod. Though she didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about. Didn’t care. Not when the scent of roasted meat still lingered in the air.

Vira’s voice lowered, as if that would make the words matter more. “You will carry the Alpha’s child. In return, you will never go hungry again. You will have a warm bed, fine clothes, whatever you desire.” Aria’s fingers stilled on the goblet. Never go hungry again. That was all she heard. That was all she needed to hear.

“Yes,” she said, too quickly, not knowing what it would cost her. Not yet.

And now here she was, in this grand palace, where she was going to live, eat on silver plates, and wear new clothes every day. She even had a maid to take care of her, a middle-aged she-wolf who was carrying her luggage. It was honestly far-far beyond the reaches of Aria's wildest dreams.

---

"My lord, she is here." One of the omegas came to alert him, as if he wasn't already aware. As if he couldn't smell the slightly rosy, soft smell that had entered his territory. She was here, and it was time he met her.

She kept her eyes down as he approached her. No doubt, instructed by the elders again, he sat back on his chair, the warmth from the hearth fire barely registered on his ice-cold skin.

Alaric leaned back in his chair. The girl was small, delicate, with a face that belonged in some human fairy tale rather than a breeding den. Freckles dusted her nose, her lips were bitten raw from nerves, and those eyes glittered like emeralds in the dim light.

Sir Marcus sniffed beside him. "Pretty enough, I suppose. If you like them fragile." And they knew he did like them fragile, he liked them small and obedient.

But there was something very-very disturbing about her appearance.

She had red hair. Green eyes. A stubborn tilt to the chin.

It was like staring at a specter. His dead wife’s ghost might as well have been standing in the room. Because she looked exactly like his Lyria.

Alaric’s stomach turned. He gripped the arms of his chair hard enough to splinter the wood.

They knew. The elders had done this on purpose, he realized with a shudder....plucked some poor, trembling girl from the outskirts of the pack and polished her up like a sacrificial offering. They’d chosen her for the curve of her lips, the way her collarbones jutted just slightly too sharply, the way her fire-bright hair would spill over his furs exactly like hers had.

Of course they knew. They’d always known. Knew that he’d loved Lyria’s fragility, her quiet obedience, the way she’d looked at him like he hung the damn moon. Knew that when the rogues had torn her apart, they’d taken more than his mate; they’d taken his mercy.

And now they’d wrapped up this girl like some grotesque gift, all wide eyes and bitten lips, and expected him to.....

What? Pretend?

"Get out!"

Aria flinched when his growl ripped through the silence. He was big, like really big, towering over her like a six-foot animal, taller than any man of the pack, and a few of his hairs had turned white. The air around him seemed to be thick, heavy with the scent of pine and iron and blood. It clung to him like a second skin, that aura of danger, of barely leashed power.

She tried not to shrink back as his gaze swept over her, those storm-gray eyes missing nothing. Although his bulging muscles and strength that he carried scared her like nothing before. If her bullies in the orphanage had been big, he was huge. and that honestly scared her a little.

“Out,” he snarled at the elders. He watched them hesitate for a second before filing out of the room one after another.

The door slammed behind them, leaving only the two of them, him and his dead wife's ghost.

Aria stood frozen, her breath coming too fast.

Alaric forced himself to look at her, to really look, past the hair, past the eyes, past the memories clawing at his ribs.

She was trembling, and he looked at his own hands, which were shaking too. He tried looking at her again, wanted to tell her to take a seat, to speak to her....or at least that had been the plan. But suddenly, he couldn't bear to look at her, couldn't bear to see the red hair, couldn't bear to see that tilt of her chin. It was too painful.

His lungs were burning; he needed to get out. Out of this room, out of this house, and this pack. The sharp pain that had dulled over time after Lariya had died was suddenly returning with a vengeance, and he couldn't take it. "The elders had told you about- about the ceremony?" He asked, his teeth gritted, his face turned away from her. He couldn't bear to look at her.

She nodded. "Yes."

"And you have no problem with the terms?" He asked. Aria nodded again, "No, my lord." Though she didn't quite understand what the whole fuss was about. They had said something like carrying the Alpha's child. So, she will have to be a surrogate, big deal!

Suddenly, his chair screeched back. Aria looked up, startled as Alpha rose abruptly, his storm-gray eyes darkening. Without a word, he turned and stalked out, the door slamming behind him with finality.

"He had left for the lake house." They told her later. "He would live there for the next three days and return on the blood moon night for the ceremony."