Alignment
POV Sage Winters
The silence after the marking stretched between us, broken only by our breathing in my sedan's confined space.
Silver was practically purring, drunk on satisfaction.
Thorne leaned back, his expression relaxing. "Not as dramatic as I expected. Just a shallow mark."
Relief flooded through me. "Good. Then we're done here."
His hand caught my wrist as I reached for the door. "Wait. We need to exchange basic information. You don't want me walking into your uncle's house tomorrow knowing nothing about you."
He was right. A supposed mate who couldn't answer simple questions would raise immediate suspicion. "What do you suggest?"
"Find somewhere to talk. There's a café still open nearby."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. Lead the way."
Blue Moon Café's neon sign still glowed despite the late hour. Thorne's Maserati pulled in first, my sedan following. He chose a corner booth, gesturing for me to take the seat facing the wall—my back to the room, his view covering the entrance.
A waitress appeared. "What can I get you?"
"Two Americanos and whatever pastries you have left," Thorne said.
I waited until she turned. "I want a latte."
He simply raised his hand. "Excuse me—change one Americano to a latte."
Kieran had never bothered asking what I wanted. I pushed the comparison away.
Thorne pulled out his phone. "Background first. I'm twenty-six, from Winterhold up north. Had a few casual relationships, nothing serious. I spend most of my time working or at the gym."
"Twenty. Greywood local. Unemployed. I like snacks and binge-watching shows."
"How did we meet?"
"Medical supply shop. Two months ago in Greywood. You were picking up clinic materials, I was getting supplies for a friend. We exchanged numbers, met for coffee."
"Better." He made a note. "We kept it quiet because our families would interfere. When you told me about the forced marriage, I offered to mark you."
"How romantic."
"Romance isn't part of this arrangement."
He reached into his jacket and produced a small white box tied with gold ribbon.
"What's that?"
"Open it."
Inside was chocolate cake, frosting swirled perfectly. The scent hit me like a blow.
"Surprise, baby. I remembered you saying you wanted to try this."
Kieran during our third date, so warm and attentive. I'd felt seen for the first time in years. All calculated. All part of the con.
My fingers went rigid. My heart felt squeezed.
"Did I overstep?" Thorne's voice cut through the memory.
I shoved the box back. "I'm not hungry. Someone else used to do this exact thing. Turned out it was all calculation."
Thorne was silent before pulling the box back. "At least I'm being honest this is a transaction from the start."
I forced myself to reach for a croissant. Better a clean business deal than another pretty lie.
Thorne set the cake aside. "Tell me about your uncle. I need to know what I'm walking into."
"Ronan Winters. Forty-five. My mother's older brother. Alpha of Greywood, controls Silverpine Pack." I paused. "Surface charm and generosity. Beneath that, a snake who's been tightening his grip for fourteen years."
"On what?"
"My mother's legacy. Winters Global—forty percent shares in my name through her will. Legally mine. Practically, he's been 'managing' them as my guardian since I was six."
Thorne's focus sharpened. "Winters Global? The international investment firm?"
"My mother was a major shareholder. Her will held everything in trust until my twentieth birthday. Three weeks ago, I filed to claim my inheritance. He's been stalling."
"Which is why you need leverage. And why he's trying to lock you into marriage before you can solidify your claim."
"Tomorrow he's presenting an arranged match—some violent disabled Alpha. He'll use my inheritance as bait. Marry his candidate, get my shares. Refuse, and he drags the legal battle out for years."
Thorne's smile was sharp. "Then he'll be very surprised when he discovers you're already marked by another man."
"Tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock." I pulled out my phone, typing the address. "We arrive together."
His phone chimed. "I'll be there. But remember—you're marked now. Any hesitation, and he'll exploit it."
"What about after three months? The mark will fade?"
"Shallow marks fade within weeks if not reinforced. As long as we don't deepen the bond, it'll disappear."
Relief washed through me. Temporary. Controllable.
"Why do you need this?" I asked. "The fake marking."
Thorne's expression darkened. "My grandfather has specific ideas about appropriate mates. He's been arranging introductions with increasing frequency. I'm tired of it."
"So you found a contract partner to make him back off."
"And you're using me to outmaneuver your uncle. Mutual benefit."
He glanced at his watch and stood. "It's late. Get some rest. Tomorrow's going to be long."
We parted in the parking lot. The drive back to Winters Estate passed in tense silence, my hands gripping the wheel tight. The fresh mark pulsed with each heartbeat.
The estate loomed as I pulled up the driveway, every window dark except the porch light. I killed the engine and stared at the massive house that should have been mine.
My mother's house. My inheritance. Currently occupied by the man who'd stolen it.
I touched the mark, feeling the raised crescent. Tomorrow, I'd start taking it all back.
Inside, I locked my bedroom door and collapsed onto the bed. Exhaustion dragged me under.
The dream came in fragments.
My mother in a hospital bed, skin paper-thin and gray. Ronan beside her, face arranged in sorrow.
"Take care of Sage," she whispered. "Promise me, Ronan."
"I promise, sister. I'll protect her like my own daughter."
The scene shifted. Six-year-old me in a stranger's living room, small suitcase at my feet.
"Your uncle's busy with Alpha business. Can't be bothered with a useless brat."
Then hunger. Beatings. Locked in darkness. Screaming until my voice gave out.
Running through streets until my legs gave out. Collapsing on a sidewalk, the world going black.
Waking in a small, warm room. Sunlight streaming through lace curtains. The scent of herbs and medicine.
An old woman's weathered face hovering above me, her eyes kind and crinkled at the corners.
"You're safe now, child. I've got you."
Elara. Her name was Elara.
She ran a small apothecary shop on the edge of Greywood, shelves lined with glass jars of dried herbs and tinctures. She fed me warm soup, gave me a bed in the room above the shop.
She taught me to grind herbs, to brew remedies, to recognize poisons from cures. I helped her in the shop—sweeping floors, organizing stock, running deliveries to customers.
"You're a quick learner," she'd say, her voice gentle. "You'll be a fine healer someday."
She never asked about my past. Never pushed. Just gave me safety, and food, and purpose.
The dream shifted again, showing me years of working in that shop, learning survival skills alongside medicine, growing stronger under Elara's patient guidance.
In my sleep, tears tracked down my temples.
Sharp knocking jolted me awake. I shot upright, disoriented, hand going to the mark on my neck.
Sunlight streamed through curtains. My phone showed 8:00 AM.
"Sage?" Ronan's voice filtered through the door, warm and paternal. "Are you awake? Uncle needs to talk to you about something important."
