Contracts Bride

Chapter 7

Ethan's Perspective

The buzz within the wolf dens had been building for three days.

Emissaries from various tribes arrived in succession—the light-furred Grey Wolves, the herb-skilled Rabbit Tribe, the agile Eagle Clan. The tunnel passages, usually smelling only of hide and pine, gradually filled with the patterns of different tribal garments and the murmur of conversation. Maids scurried to clean guest quarters and prepare meat and wild fruits for the feast. Warriors hauled silver ornaments and sacrificial items for the ceremony. Even the air thrummed with a blend of anticipation and busyness.

I kept myself occupied, rising before dawn each day to gather fresh herbs from the back mountain, then drying and sorting them upon my return, ready for any injuries during the festivities. Occasionally, I'd encounter passing emissaries, pausing to bow. Most would nod politely, though a few would study me with probing looks—after all, in the heart of the wolf territory, a slender girl who looked nothing like a warrior, handling herbs alone, was somewhat peculiar.

I paid these glances no mind, though sometimes when I looked up, I'd instinctively search for Kyle. He was the Wolf King, required to personally receive the visiting dignitaries. I often saw him at the entrance to the council hall or in the square. Dressed in his most formal black beast-hide armor, a silver wolf's head ornament at his shoulder, his posture was straight as a pine. He spoke in low tones with the tribal leaders, his brow bearing the authority and steadiness of a king.

But his gaze never once fell upon me.

Even when we passed each other, his eyes would sweep over me as they would any ordinary maid, without a hint of pause. Once, carrying a bowl of freshly brewed herbal soup past the council hall, I encountered him seeing off the Grey Wolf chieftain. A few drops of the soup sloshed onto his boots. My heart leapt into my throat. I quickly set the tray down to wipe it, but he sidestepped my touch, speaking coldly to a maid behind him. "Clean this. And find someone competent to serve."

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried. The Grey Wolf chieftain gave me a puzzled look. My cheeks burned. Clutching my sleeves, I stood rooted to the spot, utterly lost. Only after he and the chieftain walked away did I kneel, slowly wiping the spilled drops from his boot. A cold numbness seeped into my heart.

Grandmother said sincerity would eventually be seen. But after all this time by his side, offering countless herbs, brewing countless bowls of warm soup, all I received in return was his utter disregard. Sometimes I couldn't help but wonder, was I still not good enough? Or was the door to his heart never meant to open for me?

On the afternoon two days before the festival, as emissaries gathered in the square to socialize, I passed by its edge, carrying a bundle of dried herbs to the storage room. A tall man clad in dark red beast-hide suddenly blocked my path. His eyes were sharp, a smirk playing on his lips. The tribal emblem at his neck was a blood wolf with bared fangs—an emissary from the Blood Wolf clan.

"So you're the Wolf King's destined mate?" He looked me up and down, his tone dripping with scorn. "Doesn't look like much. Lacks the strength of a wolf Alpha, none of the bearing of tribal nobility. I hear the Wolf King doesn't even glance your way?"

A few nearby emissaries turned at the sound, their gazes curious, amused. I tightened my grip on the herbs, lowering my head to step around him, but he blocked me again. "What? Hit a nerve?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping, turning even more venomous. "Seems to me you're just an unwanted Luna, clinging to the wolf tribe, trying to latch onto the Wolf King. Pity he wants nothing to do with you."

"That's not true," I said, lifting my head, my voice shaking with anger. I admitted I loved Kyle, wanted to be near him, but I had never sought to latch onto him. I only wanted to be good to him in my own way.

"No?" The Blood Wolf Alpha sneered, reaching out to shove my shoulder. "If not, then why are you here? Don't tell me you actually think the Wolf King would ever want someone like—"

"Enough!" A stern voice cut through the air. An elder, leaning on his cane, hurried over, fixing the Blood Wolf Alpha with a severe stare. "Guest of the Blood Wolf clan, you will not cause trouble on wolf territory!"

The Blood Wolf Alpha clearly feared the elder. He withdrew his hand with a disgruntled air, shooting me one last resentful glare and muttering under his breath before stalking off. The onlookers dispersed tactfully, the square's earlier bustle returning as if the unpleasant scene had never happened.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, but my hands, still clutching the herbs, trembled. In that moment, I had been terrified. But what hurt more was the clear sight of Kyle, standing by a stone pillar not far away. He leaned against it, a scroll of parchment in his hand. He had witnessed it all, from start to finish, yet he hadn't moved a muscle. He hadn't even spared me a glance.

He had watched, cold and detached, as if it were a play in which he had no part.

I hurried into the storage room, shutting myself inside. In the darkness, the tears of humiliation I'd held back finally fell, splashing onto the dry herbs, leaving small, dark stains. I knew he didn't like me, but I hadn't imagined he could be this indifferent. When someone else humiliated me like that, he could have intervened. Even a single word would have sufficed. But he didn't.

I don't know how long I cried before a maid's call from outside prompted me to dry my tears and compose myself. The setting sun cast golden light through crevices in the den, warming the passageways. I looked toward the direction of his chamber, but my heart felt frozen.

Perhaps I really should give up.

But the thought surfaced only to be suppressed. Grandmother said one shouldn't give up halfway, and that included loving someone. Even if he didn't love me now, even if he remained cold, I wanted to persevere a little longer. At least until the Moon God's Festival was over. At least until I could give him the gift I had prepared.

The night before the festival, the dens grew quiet. The emissaries had retired, and warriors patrolled only the tunnel entrances. By the faint light in my room, I retrieved a piece of peach wood from the bottom of my chest. I'd found it last time I was herb-gathering on the back mountain. It was hard, its grain fine. I'd thought then of making something for Kyle.

I took out the small carving knife my grandmother had left me and carefully sketched an outline on the wood. I wanted to carve a wolf, a majestic one, like Kyle. My fingers gripped the knife, shaving away slivers of wood. The blade occasionally nicked my fingertips, leaving shallow marks, but I felt no pain.

I remembered the first time I saw Kyle, returning from battle, stained with blood, his gaze sharp as a wolf's, yet his steps slowing at the sight of an injured pup. I remembered him after the bear attack, sweat beading on his forehead from the pain, yet not uttering a sound, all stubborn endurance. I remembered him letting me tend his wound, his voice cold, yet he hadn't truly pushed me away.

These fragmented moments glittered in my heart like stars, sustaining me as I carved. The wolf's form gradually emerged. I carved a small Moon God totem on its chest—the Moon God was the wolf tribe's protector. The totem was a prayer for his safety, a hope he would always remain as mighty and unyielding as this wolf.

By the time I made the final cut, dawn was approaching. I held the finished carving, wiping it clean with a soft cloth. It was small, fitting neatly in my palm. The peach wood's grain gleamed softly in the firelight, the wolf's eyes vivid and alive. I hid it carefully inside my robes, against my chest. I could feel the wood's slight coolness and the frantic beating of my own heart.

Tomorrow was the Moon God's Festival, preceded by the ritual. I would give this carving to Kyle. Even if he tossed it aside, even if he scolded me again, I wanted him to know my feelings were real.

The next day passed in a blur of nervous anticipation. I helped the maids arrange the altar and place the offerings. Whenever I caught sight of Kyle's busy figure, a flutter of panic would rise, and my hand would instinctively go to the carving hidden in my robes, afraid he might discover it.

Finally, night fell, and the ritual began. A massive bonfire blazed in the center of the square, its flames leaping skyward, illuminating everything. Tribespeople sat around the fire, holding roasted meat and wild fruits, faces alight with smiles. Kyle stood on the altar platform, wearing his most ceremonial robes, performing the rites with the elders. His movements were solemn and dignified. Bathed in fire and moonlight, the lines of his profile were strikingly clear.

After the ritual came the feasting and dancing. Warriors danced around the fire, young women sang lively songs, and the square was filled with laughter and joy. I sat in a corner, a bowl of broth in my hands, my appetite gone. My eyes kept drifting toward the altar, waiting for the right moment to approach Kyle.

But Kyle remained busy—toasting with tribal leaders one moment, surrounded by warriors offering drinks the next. He had no spare time. I waited a long while, until the feast was winding down and emissaries began taking their leave. Finally finding a moment of solitude, he walked alone toward his chambers.

My heart leapt. I stood immediately and followed. The carving in my robes seemed to grow warm, burning against my frantic heart. I wanted to intercept him before he reached his room, to give him my gift.

But as I neared his door, I heard his voice from within. He seemed to be on a call, his tone carrying an urgency I'd never heard before. "Still no news? After all this searching, could she truly no longer be in these forests?"

The words "Moonlight Girl" slipped clearly through the c***k in the door, piercing my heart like sharp needles.

My steps faltered. I froze on the spot, holding my breath, not daring to advance another step.

"Keep looking. Whatever the cost, find her." Kyle's voice was edged with frustration. "If she hadn't saved me back then, I would have died in those mountains. I must find her."

I couldn't hear the response, but after a long silence, Kyle spoke again, his voice weary and irritated. "Keep looking. Turn over every stone if you have to. Just find her." He ended the call. A heavy sigh followed, laden with a disappointment and desperation that seeped through the door, twisting sharply in my chest.

I leaned against the cold wall, tears finally falling, splashing on my icy hands. So all my hopes had been my own foolish fantasy. His gaze had never truly rested on me. My hand went to my chest—I had, on impulse, brought the carving with me. Now I clutched it tightly. The wood's grain pressed painfully into my palm, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

I didn't dare stay, didn't dare listen for more. Silently, I turned and slowly walked back to my small room. Moonlight silvered the path, a gleaming carpet that couldn't reach the coldness inside me. Back in my bed, I placed the carving by my pillow, watching its soft glow in the moonlight. Tears blurred my vision once more.

Perhaps I shouldn't give it to him after all. It would only lead to greater humiliation. Yet a faint, stubborn spark of defiance refused to be extinguished, a tiny ember in the darkness. I thought of the care I'd poured into the carving, of all the secretly harbored hopes. In the end, I couldn't bear to give up. Biting my lip, I wrapped the carving again in red cloth, tucked it back inside my robes against my chest, and held it tight. Tomorrow, I would still try.

I slept fitfully that night. My dreams were filled with Kyle—smiling at me, accepting my gift one moment; coldly throwing it to the ground, calling me delusional the next. I woke with a start as dawn was breaking, my forehead damp with cold sweat. The carving was still there, hard and solid against my skin, offering a sliver of fragile courage.

Outside my window, the maids' chattering voices rose. The day of the festival had finally arrived.