Fated to the Wrong Alpha

Chapter 6 – Dress Rehearsal

Lyssa throws a sequined dress at my head.

I catch it on reflex, blinking at the shimmer of midnight blue. “Absolutely not.”

She sprawls across my borrowed bed like a cat, propped on her elbows, eyes wicked. “Why not? You’d look devastating. Half the room would surrender on sight.”

“I’m supposed to look like a diplomat, not a pop star.”

Nyra, perched on a chair by the window with a notebook in her lap, gives a tiny, apologetic smile. “The Council prefers ‘classically respectable,’” she says. “Dark colors, minimal jewelry. Nothing that makes you look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“So we split the difference,” Lyssa declares, hopping up. “Respectable… but devastating.”

The guest room has been half-transformed into a dressing room. Dresses, suits, shoes, and jewelry are spread out like offerings. I stand in the middle in leggings and a camisole, feeling like a mannequin everyone’s forgotten to tell the plan.

Nyra holds up a simple, dark green dress—clean lines, capped sleeves, nothing flashy. “This, I think. It says serious and competent, but not frigid.”

Lyssa makes a face. “It says boring.”

“It says not starting a fight with elders before they even open their mouths,” Nyra counters. “We can add…something. Earrings. A bracelet.”

Lyssa huffs, then digs through a small box. “Fine. We compromise.” She pulls out a delicate gold bracelet, small wolves worked into the chain. “Here. Family piece.”

I hesitate. “I can’t wear that.”

“Yes, you can,” she says, stepping closer. For once, her grin softens. “You’re about to tell the world you belong next to my i***t brother. Might as well look like part of the pack while you lie.”

The words hit something tender. Belonging. Pack. Lies.

“Easy,” Nyra murmurs, catching my eye. “Breathe.”

I swallow and nod, slipping the bracelet over my wrist. It’s lighter than it looks. Warm, from her hand.

“Turn,” Lyssa orders, circling me like a critical stylist. “Hair up. You have a good neck.”

“My neck is not a strategic resource.”

She smirks. “Says the woman whose entire life just got turned into a treaty clause.”

Point.

Nyra rises, stepping behind me. Her fingers are deft and gentle as she twist my hair up, leaving a few strands to soften the line of my jaw. I watch our reflections in the mirror: Lyssa leaning on the dresser, Nyra focused, me in the middle holding very, very still.

“Does it bother you?” I ask quietly. “All of this.”

Nyra pauses. “Define ‘this.’”

“Being…temporary luna. Watching another woman get slotted into the role. Again.”

Silence stretches, then she resumes pinning.

“It bothers me,” she says. “That anyone thinks I’m only valuable when I’m standing next to an alpha. It bothers me more that they did the same to you without asking.”

Lyssa snorts. “We’re starting a club. Expendable women of the Council. Membership is booming.”

Nyra’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. “For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you. I hate the game.”

“Good,” I say. My throat feels tight. “I have enough people hating me on principle.”

Lyssa bumps my shoulder with hers. “Anyone gives you trouble tonight, I’ll ‘accidentally’ spill wine on them. Or stab their foot with a stiletto. Dealer’s choice.”

Despite myself, I laugh. Some of the tension in my shoulders bleeds away.

“Thank you,” I say. “Both of you.”

Lyssa waves it off. “Don’t thank me yet. We still have to survive the big show.”

Nyra smooths the dress over my hips, then steps back. “There. You look like you could negotiate world peace and then go home and burn down a kingdom for someone you love.”

“Accidentally on-brand,” I murmur.

A knock sounds at the door.

Lyssa’s eyes gleam. “Showtime.”

Nyra opens it. Corren stands in the hall in a dark suit, tie straight this time, hair tamed. He looks like a headline: Alpha Lyall, calm and lethal.

His gaze snags on me and stops.

For a moment, his expression is naked—something like awe, something like pain. The bond between us pulls tight, then throbs, a low, aching hum.

“Wow,” Lyssa says into the silence. “You two are going to break several hearts and at least one ancient political order.”

“Lyssa,” Corren warns, without looking away from me.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The scent of his cologne—smoke and pine and something uniquely him—wraps around my wolf and makes her want to lean in.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the bracelet on my wrist. His touch is careful, almost reverent.

“This is ours,” he says to Lyssa.

“Shared custody,” she replies. “Don’t break it.”

His thumb lingers against my skin a heartbeat too long. The bond flares, sharp and sweet, then stutters back to its usual wrongness.

“Ready?” he asks me, voice low.

“No,” I say honestly. “But let’s go anyway.”

His mouth curves, the ghost of a real smile. “Good. Me neither.”

He offers his arm. I take it.

As we step into the hallway together, my wolf presses against my ribs, eyes turned toward the future.

Fake, the world thinks.

We both know better.