Rejected by the Lycan King

Isolde stood outside the doors of the Great Hall, wearing a black wedding gown that was not hers. The gown was borrowed. So was the veil. The only thing she owned in this whole castle was a small silver locket, hidden under her collar. It had belonged to her mother, who died when Isolde was a baby. It had never opened, and it had always been cold, like a stone from the bottom of a river. But today it was warm. It had started to warm the moment her carriage crossed the castle gates. Now it felt like a small hand resting on her heart. Strange, she thought. Why today? There was no time to wonder. The doors swung open. Behind them waited a thousand werewolves, and the man she was about to marry. His name was Alaric Blackthorne. He was the Lycan King, the most feared man in the land. People said he had burned a whole enemy pack off a mountain. People said he had never lost a fight. Isolde had never met him. She was marrying him because of money. The Hales, the family who raised her, owed a huge debt. Three weeks ago, a letter with the royal seal had come to their door. The king's court would pay every coin, if Isolde married the king for one year. The Hales said yes before they finished reading. Nobody asked Isolde. So she asked herself, and she said yes too, but on her own terms. She read the contract line by line and added one rule of her own: no one in the king's household may humiliate the queen. The king's lawyer was too tired to argue. She also made sure Wren would be safe. Wren was the Hales' young maid, and the closest thing Isolde had to a sister. For almost ten years, Wren had shared her bread, her blanket, and her secrets. If Isolde was leaving, Wren was coming too. But one thing bothered her more than all the rest. The letter had named her. Isolde Vale. She was a nobody. She did not even have the Hales' surname. So how did a king's court know she existed? Someone put my name in that letter, she thought. And I want to know who. She lifted her chin and stepped through the doors. The Great Hall was huge. A thousand candles burned above her. Nobles in silk stood on one side and warriors in black leather stood on the other. Every face turned to look at her, and every nose breathed in her scent. Don't shake, she told herself. Don't look afraid. She kept a secret score in her head. It was a habit from the Hales' dinner table. Every small win was one point, and she would not leave any room at zero. She began to walk. Halfway down the aisle, she passed a beautiful woman in wine-red silk. Her lips were painted the color of blood. She smiled at Isolde the way a cat smiles at a bird. Isolde had heard her name in the carriage house that morning: Lady Veyra, the king's favorite, who expects to be queen. Isolde smiled back, calm and warm. The woman's smile slipped. One point. A little further on, an old priestess in pale blue robes stood holding a string of silver prayer beads. When Isolde walked past, the old woman looked at her face, and her hands began to shake. The beads slipped from her fingers and scattered across the floor. She did not pick them up. She just stared at Isolde as if she had seen a ghost. Isolde did not understand. She kept walking. Next to the priestess stood an elder in gray robes. He had silver hair at his temples and pale eyes, and he was smiling at her. It was a polite smile, but it did not feel friendly. It felt like he was counting something. Then Isolde reached the end of the aisle, and she forgot all of them. Alaric Blackthorne stood on a stone platform, waiting. He was taller than the stories said. He had broad shoulders, dark hair, and a face that looked like it had been carved from stone. His eyes were gold and cold, and they looked her up and down, slowly. They did not like what they saw. That's fine, thought Isolde. Neither do I. The priest cleared his throat. "Who brings this woman to wed?" Nobody answered. Isolde knew no one would. The Hales had signed the papers, taken the money, and stayed home. "I bring myself," she said. Her voice was clear and loud. It carried to the back of the hall. A murmur ran through the crowd. The king's golden eyes narrowed, just a little. Two points. The priest began the vows. "Alaric Blackthorne, do you take this woman?" "I do," said Alaric. His voice was low and flat, like a door closing. "Isolde Vale, do you take this man?" "I do." "Then join hands—" Alaric took her hand. His palm was hot. The moment their skin touched, two things happened at once. A bolt of lightning shot down her spine. And the locket on her chest began to burn. Isolde gasped. Alaric froze. His whole body went stiff, and he breathed in sharply, as if he had smelled something he had been searching for his entire life. For one long moment, nobody in the hall moved. Then a howl rolled through the castle walls. It came from the floor, from the ceiling, from the stones themselves, and every wolf in the room heard it inside their own head. MATE. A goblet crashed to the floor. Someone gasped. Someone else whispered the word out loud. Isolde knew what it meant. Every wolf knew. A mate was the one person the moon had made just for you. When two mates touched, their wolves knew each other at once. People waited their whole lives for it. People wrote songs about it. And Isolde's husband, the Lycan King, had just found his. She looked up at him. His eyes had turned yellow, the eyes of a wolf. His fingers tightened around hers, almost hard enough to hurt. For a moment, she saw it all on his face: shock, hunger, and something raw underneath, something that looked like fear. Then it was gone. His face closed like a fist. He let go of her hand as if it had burned him. "No." The word cracked across the hall. "I do not accept this bond," said Alaric, turning to face his people. His voice rang like a blade on stone. "I will not be ruled by fate. I will not be chained to a stranger the moon dropped in front of me. This woman is my wife in contract only." He looked down at her. "And as the Lycan King, in front of my pack and the moon, I reject you." It felt like being cut open from the inside. In the wolf world, a rejection tears the bond between mates in half, and it hurts more than any wound. The pain hit her all at once, hot and sharp, as if someone had pulled a rope out of her chest. Her knees almost gave out. White spots filled her eyes. She did not fall. She dug her nails into her palms. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. She held on to the one thing she still owned: her face. At the front, Lady Veyra laughed softly. Three points, Isolde thought, and she hated Veyra a little for making her count it. Everyone was staring at her now. They were waiting for her to cry, or beg, or make a scene. Isolde looked straight at Alaric. "Understood, Your Majesty," she said, so calmly that his jaw twitched. "Then let us both be clear. I did not ask for your bond, and I will not beg for it. The contract stands." She lifted her chin. "And so do I." For half a second, something flickered in his eyes. Then she turned and walked down the aisle on shaking legs. She did not run. She did not look back. Behind her, she heard a strange sound, a low, broken whine, like an animal in pain. She did not stop to wonder who made it. The heavy doors closed behind her. The corridor outside was empty and cold. She made it six steps. Then her legs gave out, and she dropped to the stone floor, clutching her chest. The pain came back twice as hard now that nobody was watching, and she bit down on her fist to keep from screaming. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. A few drops of blood fell from her split lip onto the floor. She stared at them. They were not red. They were silver. They shone, pale and bright, like liquid moonlight. Where they touched the stone, they glowed. Isolde stopped breathing. That is not possible. That is not possible. "Interesting," said a voice behind her. She spun around. The elder in gray robes stood in the corridor. The one who had smiled at her. He was staring at the silver drops on the floor, and he did not look surprised at all. "Very interesting indeed," he said. "I wondered if it was true." "If what was true?" Isolde whispered. "My name is Corvus." He stepped closer, looking down at her. "And I know exactly what that color means, child. Your mother bled the same silver." Isolde's heart stopped. "You knew my mother?" "I was there the night she died." The air left her lungs. "They killed her for that blood," said Corvus softly. "And now that you are here, in this castle, with the whole pack watching, they will come for you too." "Who?" she breathed. "Who killed her?" He smiled. "Stay quiet. Tell no one what you saw tonight, not even the king, and I will tell you the rest. When the time is right." Then the locket on her chest, which had burned all day, turned ice cold. Isolde looked up at the man smiling down at her, and a terrible thought crept in. He was the only person alive who knew how her mother died. And she had no idea if he was her only hope, or the one who had done it.