Signed and Sealed

POV Sage Winters

The air in the Winters' drawing room grew heavy, suffocated by the scent of desperate calculation. Ronan’s eyes darted between Elder Marcus and Thorne, his composure fracturing as he realized the magnitude of his miscalculation.

"Elder Marcus," Ronan began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that grated against my nerves. "Actually, regarding the candidate for this union... my daughter, Celeste..."

Before he could finish, movement flashed in my peripheral vision. It wasn't me—it was Celeste.

Her face had gone chalk-white. She lunged forward, gripping her father’s arm just above the elbow. I watched with cold fascination as her manicured fingers dug through the fabric of his suit, nails biting into the flesh hard enough to bruise.

When Ronan turned to look at her in confusion, she widened her eyes, shaking her head in a frantic, jerky motion. Her expression projected sheer, terrifying warning: Shut up. Do not say my name.

She had seen something in Thorne’s eyes that Ronan had missed—a cold ruthlessness that promised violence if insulted.

Ronan flinched, the pain in his arm registering alongside his daughter's palpable terror. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his original sentence, the name "Celeste" dying on his tongue.

"I mean to say..." Ronan’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, sweat beading along his hairline. "I mean to say, it is a joyous occasion that the Ashford and Silverpine Packs will be family. Truly... commendable."

I leaned back, watching a bead of sweat track down his temple. A cold, dark amusement curled in my gut. He was trying to salvage a shipwreck while standing in the water.

Elder Marcus, ignoring the awkward display, tapped a manicured finger against the calendar on the coffee table. "The ceremony will require preparation. The mid-October moon—three months from now—is auspicious for a bonding ritual."

Ronan’s shoulders sagged in relief, a flicker of hope returning to his eyes. Three months was a lifetime in politics; he clearly thought he had time to maneuver.

"We follow your lead, Elder," Ronan said, reaching for his tea to hide his trembling hands.

"I'll follow Grandfather's arrangement," Thorne’s deep voice cut through the room, smooth and unyielding. "But let's get the certificate today."

The sound of china clattering against a saucer shattered the silence. Ronan’s hand had jerked violently, sending hot tea sloshing over his knuckles. Across the room, Celeste’s head snapped up. The relief she had just felt vanished, replaced by a hollow, devastating despair.

Thorne didn't even blink at the commotion. He stood up, his towering frame dominating the space, and extended a hand toward me. "Go get your identification documents, Sage. We’ll wait in the car."

It wasn't a request; it was an instruction that vibrated in my bones. I nodded and turned toward the stairs. Ten minutes later, I descended, my vital records clutching tightly in my hand.

As I reached the foyer, I had to pass Celeste. She stood frozen near the entrance, her hands gripping the silk of her dress so tightly the knuckles were white. Her gaze was fixed on the documents in my hand, burning with a mix of envy and hatred so potent it soured the air around her. Her lips were bitten raw, bloodless and trembling. I could see the muscles in her arms tense, her instincts screaming at her to snatch the papers.

But she didn't move. She couldn't. Thorne was waiting just outside the open door, his Alpha aura rolling into the hallway like a dense fog, pinning her in place.

I stepped out into the bright afternoon sun, leaving the suffocating atmosphere of the Winters estate behind. The interior of the Ashford limousine was a different world entirely—cool, quiet, and smelling of rich leather and cedar.

Thorne sat in the driver’s seat this time, driving with a casual competence. The air between us crackled with static. I could smell him—the deep, woodsy scent of forest rain and the sharper tang of raw power.

"Nervous?" Thorne asked, his eyes briefly flickering to the rearview mirror.

"No," I lied, looking out the window as the landscape blurred past. "Just... processing."

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The moment I signed those papers, I would no longer be Ronan’s pawn. I would be property of the Ashford Pack—protected by their laws. The contract might be fake, but the legal shield would be ironclad.

The Bureau of Vital Statistics was sterile and imposing. Thorne’s presence parted the crowds, ushering us into a private office immediately. The clerk, a middle-aged Beta woman, looked up with professional disinterest that vanished the moment she saw Thorne.

"Alpha Ashford," she stammered. "And this is...?"

"My intended," Thorne said smoothly, placing a hand on the small of my back. The heat of his palm seeped through my shirt, branding me.

We moved through the formalities with efficient speed. Signatures were scrawled, photos were taken. Then came the final stamp. The heavy thud of the official seal hitting the marriage license echoed in the quiet room.

At that exact second, a strange sensation washed over me—a settling of dust, a quiet click in the universe. Silver let out a low, pleased whimper in the back of my mind.

Thorne picked up the red, leather-bound folder containing our certificate. He flipped it open, his thumb brushing over the fresh photo of us side by side, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before he snapped it shut.

"Done," he said. "Keep this safe."

We walked out of the building and into the blinding midday sun of the plaza. Thorne suddenly stopped, his body going rigid.

"Interesting timing," he murmured.

I followed his gaze. Near the edge of the fountain, a familiar figure in a pale blue dress was laughing too loudly. Celeste. She had wasted no time. Hanging on her arm was Damien Ashford, Thorne’s cousin and rival. She was clearly trying to secure a backup plan, pivoting to the next available source of power to salvage her pride.

Then she saw us. Her laughter died. Her eyes locked onto the red leather folder in my hand. The blood drained from her face, leaving it splotchy and gray. Her grip on Damien’s arm tightened visibly.

Thorne let out a dark chuckle. He shifted, stepping between me and them. "Cooperate with me, sweetie."

Before I could process the command, his hand swept up to cup the back of my neck. He didn't wait for permission. He lowered his head and claimed my mouth in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative touches of a courtship. It was possessive. Territorial. It was a kiss meant to be seen.

My first instinct was to pull away, but then I remembered the look on Celeste’s face. A surge of vindictive pleasure roared through me. I rose on my tiptoes, sliding my hands up the lapels of his suit jacket to lock around his neck, and kissed him back with a fervor that surprised even me.

When Thorne finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his eyes molten gold. I blinked, grounding myself, and glanced over his shoulder.

Celeste looked like she was choking. Her face was a mottled shade of purple, her features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Her nails were buried so deep in Damien’s suit sleeve that I expected to see blood.

But it was the man by her side who caught my attention.

He hadn't pulled away from Celeste’s painful grip. He stood perfectly still, looking past the hysterical woman on his arm. His gaze met mine across the plaza, calm and chillingly detached. Slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted. It wasn't a smile of greeting, nor was it anger.

It was the smile of a predator watching a game get interesting. His eyes held a cold, calculating amusement that sent a shiver racing down my spine, even in the heat of the sun.