The wrong Bride for the Alpha king

Collette pov The veil was so thick I could only see my own feet. They kept tripping over the hem of a dress that was never made for me. The silk pooled around my ankles like cold water. The shoes were two sizes too big, and the strips of scarf I had stuffed into the toes were already slipping. One wrong step and I would eat the floor in front of every wolf in the Blackfang Pack. "Slower," Princess Seraphine guard hissed. "A princess doesn't rush." "Sorry," I whispered. "And don't talk. Princesses don't mumble like Dustmoor trash." That one stung. I lifted my chin anyway. Stone walls rose around us, gray and cold. Iron torches spat smoke that smelled like pine. Hundreds of wolves packed the Great Hall, and every voice died as I passed. I couldn't see a single face. Only tall dark shapes, lined up on both sides like trees. My hands shook inside the lace gloves. Nobody from Dustmoor sat in that crowd. At our gate, three days ago, she had pinched my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. "Ruin this, girl, and the whole pack pays." The guard stopped so fast I nearly crashed into his back. "Here," he muttered. "Give him your hand." A hand took mine before I could move. I flinched. It was big and warm, and it swallowed my whole hand like it was nothing. Heat shot up my arm and into my chest. My knees wobbled. What was that? "Easy," a low voice said, close to my ear. "You're shaking." His voice was like dark honey, rough at the edges and way too calm. Everyone knew that voice. Alpha King Dante Ravenscar. He took the Blackfang Pack at nineteen and had never lost a fight. People said he never smiled. People said he never forgave. "I'm fine," I said. It came out squeaky. "You're not." His thumb pressed over my knuckles, right through the glove. "But you're standing. That's enough for now." Oh no. He was being kind. Kind was so much worse than scary. "Your heart is pounding," he murmured. "I can hear it from here." "It's the dress. It's tight." "Is that so?" "Very tight." An old priestess with silver braids lifted her hands. She talked about the moon goddess and blood and bonds. I barely heard her. His thumb slid back and forth across my hand, slow, steady, the way you calm a scared animal. Maybe I was one. "Do you, Dante Ravenscar, take this woman as your mate and your Luna?" "I do." He didn't even let her finish. A ripple ran through the crowd. Nobody had ever heard an Alpha answer that fast. "And do you, Princess Seraphine of the Silvercrest Pack, take this man?" My throat slammed shut. In my head, another voice came back, loud and cruel. I reject you, Collette Ashby, as my mate. Alpha Garrett, with his arm around my stepsister. Delia, smiling so sweetly. My wolf didn't whimper. She never does. She has been silent since I was twelve. Dante's grip tightened. A tiny squeeze. Go on. I've got you. "I do," I said. "Then by the light of the moon, you are bound." The hall exploded. Howls shook the walls. Boots stomped and a drum pounded somewhere. Dante turned toward me and stepped in close. Too close. His chest almost touched mine, and the heat coming off him was ridiculous. Like standing next to a bonfire. "Tradition says I kiss my bride through the veil," he said, low, just for me. "That's fine. "Is it?" "Sure. Totally fine." A breath of a laugh brushed my ear." His hand slid up the side of my neck, under the lace, and his thumb traced my jaw. My breath stopped. His mouth pressed against the veil, right over my lips. The fabric was thin as a whisper. I felt all of it. Warm. Firm. Slow. My whole body lit up like a match. He pulled back an inch. His breath was still on my mouth. "The rest," he said, "I'll collect in private." My stomach flipped twice. Two servants led us up a curved staircase to a bedroom the size of my family's whole house. A bed bigger than our kitchen. Black sheets. A fire roaring like firewood grew on trees. Windows taller than two men. The servants bowed and backed out. The door clicked shut behind them. Every wolf in that hall knew exactly what happened next. I stood in the middle of the floor like a statue. Dante walked past me and poured water from a silver pitcher. He took his time. His coat was gone. Now I could see a black shirt with the sleeves pushed up, forearms hard with muscle, and a pale scar across one wrist. His dark hair was a mess, like he had run his hands through it a hundred times. I had to tip my head back just to see his chin. Dangerous. That was the word. And he was my husband. "You haven't said a word since the door closed," he said. "I'm thinking." "About what?" "How not to throw up." His mouth twitched. "They told me you were shy." "I am. Very shy." "You don't sound shy." "I'm shy on the inside." His gaze dropped to my feet. "Why are you standing like that?" "Like what?" "Like the floor might tip over." "My shoes are two sizes too big," I blurted. Silence. Then that low, rough sound again, almost a laugh. "Your cobbler should be fired." "Yes. Definitely. Very fired." My face went hot under the lace. He set the glass down. "Come here, wife." My feet moved before my brain agreed. I stopped an arm's length away. He closed the rest of the gap himself, slow, like he had all night and planned to use it. His eyes were gray, the color of a storm that hadn't decided yet. They dropped to where my mouth would be under the lace. His fingers found the edge of my veil. I grabbed his wrist. "Wait." He went still. He looked at my hand, then back up. "You're afraid of me." "I'm afraid of lots of things." "Name one." The truth sat right on my tongue. I'm not her. I'm nobody. I'm a Dustmoor girl, and you'll want to burn my pack once you know. "That you won't like what's under here," I said. His voice dropped, rough and quiet. "Three months I've waited to meet you, Princess. Trust me. I won't be disappointed." He peeled my hand off his wrist, gently, and kissed my knuckles one by one. Heat rolled down my spine and pooled somewhere I really didn't want to think about.. Then he lifted the veil. Slowly. Inch by inch. Cold air touched my cheeks. Firelight washed over my face. His eyes traveled over me, my forehead, my nose, my lips, and I held my breath so hard my ribs ached. He stopped moving. The fire popped. A log shifted and fell, and sparks danced up the chimney. Nobody breathed. "Princess Seraphine," he said, very softly, "has green eyes." My heart fell straight through the floor. His hand slid to the back of my neck, not rough, but not letting go either. His eyes had gone from gray to pure black. "Yours are brown. So I'll ask you one time, and I suggest you answer fast." He leaned in until his lips almost touched my ear. "Who are you?"