Chapter 3

Two weeks later, the Bleakfang Pack's binding ceremony arrived on schedule.

Dorian had chosen Silverspire Estate—a sprawling manor perched halfway up the mountainside, the most extravagant private property in the city.

Rumor had it the place only opened its doors to the highest echelons of wolf aristocracy.

That he'd managed to rent a single side hall on the outer grounds meant he'd probably drained half of Bleakfang's coffers to pull it off.

I wore the Midnight Constellation, makeup sharp and cold, designed to cut. I stepped out of the car alone in four-inch heels.

Kazimir had planned to come with me, but a last-minute pack emergency pulled him away.

I told him to show up later, when the real show started.

Luxury cars lined the entrance. A decent crowd of low- and mid-ranking pack leaders had turned out to show face.

I'd barely reached the gate when two burly Beta guards blocked my path.

Their nostrils flared, and their eyes sharpened with suspicion. "Apologies, ma'am. May we see your invitation?"

I drew the gold-foiled card from my clutch and handed it over.

The guard was just about to verify the totem seal when a grating voice sliced through the air behind me.

"Well, well. I thought you'd be too scared to show your face. Guess I overestimated your shame."

I turned. Dorian strode toward me in a pristine white ceremonial suit, Elysia on his arm in a matching bridal gown.

Morwen trailed close behind, her expression dripping with contempt.

The guests at the entrance slowed, then stopped. Every gaze locked onto us.

Dorian halted in front of me, his eyes dragging over my gown. Raw shock crossed his face before it curdled into something vicious.

"Dress yourself up all you want," he sneered. "Nothing hides that pathetic stench of a wolf with no pack to claim her."

He turned to the guards. "This woman's invitation is forged. Our binding ceremony is for pureblood Omegas and high-ranking Alphas only. She's a packless stray—no territorial mark, no right to be here. Throw her out."

The guard hesitated, glancing at the card in his hand then back at Dorian.

"Alpha Dorian, the seal on this invitation is genuine—"

"I said it's fake!" Dorian snapped.

His pheromones hit the air—raw, unrefined, the kind of dominance that impressed no one who'd felt the real thing.

"I booked this hall. I am the authority here. Letting a stray mutt into my territory insults every noble bloodline present. Remove her. Now."

Whispers rippled through the crowd. A few lower-ranking wolves shuffled backward under the pressure.

"A packless stray? How did she get in here?"

"Dorian's ex. Probably showed up to cause a scene."

"No clan at all? She's done for."

Elysia peeked out from behind Dorian, one hand pressed to her lips. Her voice was honeyed, her eyes anything but.

"Dorian, let it go. She's already lost her pack—isn't that enough? If she's thrown out in front of everyone, no one will ever take her in."

"That's your problem, Elysia. Too soft." Morwen stepped forward, lip curling.

"A mongrel with tainted blood deserves her fangs ripped out and a one-way trip to Mistmoor Woods. Guards—what are you waiting for? Do it."

I stood perfectly still.

Dorian's so-called Alpha pressure washed over me—thin, muddled, laughable. I felt nothing. If anything, I had to fight back a smile.

He had no idea my skin already carried the scent of an Alpha a thousand times more powerful than he could ever dream of being.

Next to that, his little display was a lapdog growling at thunder.

"Throw me out?" I arched one brow. "You maxed out your pack's budget to rent a side hall, and suddenly you think you own the estate?"

"You don't know a damn thing!" Dorian's face went dark. "Tonight, Silverspire Estate is Bleakfang territory!"

He surged forward, flaring his pheromones higher—trying to force a packless stray to her knees.

Then the courtyard went silent.

A wave of dominance—pure, absolute, suffocating—slammed down without warning, seizing every throat.

The smugness on Dorian's face froze, then died. Color drained from his skin. His knees buckled beyond his control.

Several lower-ranked wolves nearby couldn't even whimper—their legs gave out and they crumpled to the ground.

Heavy boot steps echoed across the stone.

The main gates swung wide. Two columns of armed guards, silver wolf insignias gleaming at their shoulders, poured out in tight formation, sealing every exit in seconds.

The guards parted. A middle-aged man emerged—gold-rimmed glasses, eyes utterly devoid of warmth.

Recognition hit Dorian like a physical blow. He locked his knees to keep from collapsing.

Halston—the Beta of Kazimir, the Lycan King.

Dorian scrambled forward, forcing a servile grin onto his ashen face.

"Mr. Halston? I'm sorry this little disturbance bothered you. This stray was trying to force her way in, and I was just about to—"

"Shut your mouth." Halston didn't even look at him.

The words carried a high-ranking Beta's full authority. Dorian staggered backward, crashing gracelessly into Elysia.

Then, as every stunned pair of eyes watched, the man known for his ruthless composure walked straight past all of them—and stopped directly in front of me.

He placed his right fist over his heart—the salute reserved solely for the highest-ranking leader of a pack.

Without a moment's hesitation, he dropped to one knee before my four-inch heels and bowed his head low.

"Luna." His voice was quiet, but in the dead silence, every syllable rang clear.

"That these insects disturbed you is unforgivable. I take full responsibility." A pause. "The Alpha's orders were clear: tonight, the whole of Silverspire Estate opens for you alone."