Awakened by the Alpha's Divorce

CHAPTER EIGHT

Amara’s POV

The decision does not come all at once.

It comes with a dull ache in my limbs that no amount of rest eases, with the way the collar hums softly whenever I push too hard against it, not in warning, but in correction, like a hand guiding my head back into place.

The decision comes with time.

Three days pass, then four. I mark them by the pattern of light across the stone floor, by the rhythm of footsteps outside my door, by the sound of the compound waking and sleeping without me. No one rushes me. That, too, is part of the design.

Elior knows desperation ripens best when left alone.

My chambers are comfortable in a way that unsettles me more than chains ever could. Soft linens, warm water. Food is served regularly, always enough, never excessive. A gilded cage is still a cage, but it teaches you to forget the bars.

I pace, I sit. I stand at the window and study the valley below.

His territory is orderly, wolves move with purpose, not fear. Patrols rotate smoothly. Even the scent of the place is controlled, no panic, no chaos, no wild surges of dominance clashing in the air.

This is not a rogue stronghold. This is a kingdom.

He is strong, my wolf admits grudgingly.

“Yes,” I whisper. “That’s the problem.”

On the fifth night, I stop waiting for rescue.

Because the Witchlands are behind me and the borders are sealed. Elior’s territory stretches for miles in every direction, layered with wards that hum like low thunder beneath the earth. Even if I escaped the compound, I would not make it far without drawing attention, not with my power suppressed, not with the scent of ownership beginning to cling to my skin.

When Elior comes, it is just before dusk, and I am already standing. So he finds me by the window, hands folded behind my back, posture composed. I do not face him immediately. I let the silence stretch, let him feel that this is not victory, only a concession.

“You’ve decided,” he says.

“Yes.”

The word feels heavier than the collar.

I turn slowly, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“I will accept your protection,” I say carefully. “Your territory and your name.”

His eyes sharpened, bright with interest.

“But,” I continue, “not your bond.”

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.

“You misunderstand me, Amara,” Elior says at last, voice calm but edged now. “Those things are not separate.”

“They are to me,” I reply. “You offered survival. I’m choosing it, nothing more.”

He studies me for a long moment, not as a man studies a woman, but as a ruler who evaluates risk.

“You are in no position to negotiate,” he says.

“No,” I agree. “But you are.”

That gives him pause.

“If I die,” I continue softly, “or break, or burn this place down from the inside, you gain nothing. If I live, intact, compliant enough to satisfy appearances, then you gain power.”

With every word, I feel braver, so I step closer.

“Let me survive,” I say. “And I will not embarrass you.”

A slow smile curves his mouth.

“You hide your teeth well,” he says. “Very well, Luna.”

The title still burns.

“You will be presented as my intended,” he continues. “That comes with you being protected, honoured and watched.”

“And my past?” I ask.

“Buried,” he replies. “As long as you keep it buried yourself.”

I nod once.

Inside, something coils tight and patient.

…

They dress me in silver that night, reshaping me immediately.

Not violently. Not overtly, but with quiet efficiency.

Servants arrive with clothing selected not for beauty, but for the message. It wasn’t the ceremonial silver of a Luna’s ascension, no moonstone crowns or glowing sigils, but something subtler: dark silvers and muted blues. Silk threaded with faint runes that soften my presence, dull the instinctive urge others have to challenge or covet. The jewellery is designed to distract the eye from the collar rather than hide it.

The message is clear: She is claimed. Do not ask how.

Elior stands beside me when he presents me to his inner circle. His hand does not touch my back, but his presence presses close enough that everyone feels it. The wolves bow, some out of respect, others out of fear.

I bow my head in return. Not in submission but acknowledgement.

“My protection extends to her,” Elior announces. “Any harm done to Amara will be answered as harm done to me.”

A murmur ripples through the hall.

I feel it then, the subtle shift in the collar. It’s neither tightening nor punishing, just registering.

Power learns when to stay quiet.

Later, alone again, I sit at the edge of the bed and let the mask slip just enough to breathe.

I accept meals I do not taste. I answer questions with half-truths. I allow Elior’s court to believe I am smaller than I am, wounded, cautious, and grateful.

I let them underestimate me.

At night, when the compound sleeps, I close my eyes and turn inward.

The Silver Flame does not answer loudly anymore. It waits.

I shield it carefully, wrapping it in layers of stillness, presenting only what the collar allows. A flicker of wolf and a trace of power, just enough to seem ordinary.

You are hiding, my wolf murmurs.

“I am surviving,” I reply.

Beyond the wards, far to the north, something tugs faintly at my chest, a presence pressing against distance and resistance alike.

Kael.

The bond trembles, strained but alive.

I do not reach back.

Not yet.

If I am to endure this place, this Alpha, this cage built of silk and law, I must be invisible, harmless and contained.

Let them think I have chosen comfort over truth.

Let Elior believe I will one day kneel willingly at his side.

Survival is not surrender. It is patience sharpened into a weapon.

And when the time comes, when the collar loosens, when the mask cracks, when the world shifts just enough to create a tiny hole, they will learn what I have known all along:

I did not choose this cage because it was safe.

I chose it because it will never see me coming.