Fated to the Wrong Alpha

Chapter 7 – The Performance

Flashbulbs feel like gunshots.

We step out of the Lyall tower into a wall of light and noise. Cameras snap, reporters shout questions, humans crane over the barriers for a better look at the wolves who almost went to war and decided to get engaged instead.

Corren’s hand is firm on my waist. My fingers rest on his forearm like we practiced, light but sure. We look like a couple. We feel like an exposed nerve.

“Aeryn, over here!”

“Alpha Lyall, is this a love match or a political arrangement?”

“Did the Council pressure you—?”

Security keeps the humans at bay, but sound travels. Wolves at the edges of the crowd watch more quietly, eyes bright in the city twilight. They can smell us. They can feel…this.

The almost-bond between us thrums like a live wire. Every step in sync. Every breath half-shared. Every camera flash sends a small jolt down that wrong, scarred connection.

We reach the podium. Orrik Dae already stands nearby, smiling that practiced, gentle smile. The Council banner hangs behind him, flanked by the symbols of both our packs.

“Breathe,” Corren murmurs against my temple, low enough that only I can hear.

“Stop stealing my lines,” I mutter back.

His mouth curves. For a second, it reaches his eyes.

Orrik steps up to the microphones. “Tonight,” he begins, voice smooth as ever, “we stand before you not as enemies divided by old grievances, but as allies choosing a different path…”

I tune out the first few lines. I’ve heard this speech in Council chambers, over conference tables, in more variations than I can count. What I haven’t heard is the way my own heartbeat syncs with the man standing beside me.

When Orrik says our names, the crowd surges.

“…Aeryn Voss and Corren Lyall have agreed to a formal engagement, symbolizing the unity of their packs and their commitment to lasting peace.”

His words cut along the edges of the bond like a knife. Formally engaged. Symbol. Unity.

My wolf doesn’t care about the qualifiers. She only hears mate and flinches at the lie.

Corren steps forward first. His voice carries easily, smooth and steady.

“My pack has bled enough,” he says. “So has hers. We’ve all lost wolves to fear and pride. If standing beside Aeryn Voss means my people get to live, I’ll stand here. I’ll stand in front. I’ll stand wherever I have to.”

It’s a good speech. Simple. Honest, in the ways that matter.

The bond hums in answer to his words. My wolf presses toward him, proud and aching.

Then it’s my turn.

I step up to the microphones. Dozens of eyes. Hundreds. Somewhere in the distance, the city watches on screens.

“I was raised,” I say, “to put my pack before myself. To use my voice so others wouldn’t have to raise claws and teeth.”

My throat tightens, but I don’t look away from the crowd.

“I’m not naïve enough to think one alliance fixes decades of bad blood. But I know this: war won’t fix it either. So I’m choosing to stand here. With him. With all the risk and all the eyes. Because if we’re going to bet our lives, I’d rather bet on peace.”

There’s a murmur, low and rippling. Some impressed. Some skeptical. Some openly hostile.

Beside me, Corren’s energy shifts. A quiet pride, almost startling in its warmth, brushes my own through the bond—then recoils like it hit barbed wire.

Pain spikes between us, sharp as glass.

I stagger half a step. Corren’s hand is there, fingers closing around mine. The contact eases the pain and makes it worse, both at once.

We turn to face the crowd together. Cameras capture the image: his palm over my hand, my shoulder tucked slightly toward him, two wolves pretending this is all theater.

My wolf knows better. So does his.

From the corner of my eye, I see movement—a familiar profile in the sea of faces. Dark hair, pale skin, eyes too wide.

For a heartbeat, I swear I see her.

Elira.

The world narrows. The smell of ozone and lilies hits me like a wave—sharp, sweet, and laced with a thread of the same twisted bond humming under my skin.

I blink, focusing. The woman is already gone, swallowed back into the crowd. In her place: nothing but a faint echo of ritual herbs and old blood, clinging to the air where she stood.

My pulse spikes. The bond between Corren and me jolts, like someone just plucked it with invisible fingers.

“Aeryn?” Corren’s voice is low, almost lost under the roar of the crowd. “What did you see?”

“Later,” I whisper, forcing my smile not to crack. “Smile for the cameras, Alpha.”

He does. So do I.

Under the flash of lights and Orrik’s closing words, something unseen tugs at the frayed edges of our fate.

We hold the pose.

Pretend is all we’re allowed to do.

For now.