Chapter 9 The Gift Given

Marcus glared at Leah, fury blazing in his eyes, his gaze ice-cold—as if she were a thief who'd stolen from the pack's own resources.

Leah could hardly believe his shamelessness. She almost laughed from sheer outrage.

"Isn't it obvious you stole them?" Marcus let out a cold sneer. "You're just an ordinary Omega who never formally studied herbalism. If you didn't steal these formulas, what—you expect me to believe you figured them out yourself? Leah, I thought you were just ignorant of the rules. I didn't realize your hands were this dirty."

He turned to Lancelot, his tone forceful and domineering. "I'm willing to let the past slide—call it a father's generosity. But from today forward, every cent of profit from your trading company goes to the Sinclair Pack. Otherwise, I'll invoke pack authority and investigate your company's under-the-table dealings."

"Enough."

Lancelot's voice turned ice-cold in an instant, the lazy grin vanishing from his face.

He stepped forward twice, his tall, lean frame casting a long shadow in the sunlight—one that fell protectively over Leah.

"Alpha Marcus." Lancelot locked eyes with him, his tone deadly serious. "You're absolutely certain these formulas belong to the Sinclair Pack's heritage?"

Marcus's jaw tightened. Then he straightened his spine, radiating confidence. "Of course. This is centuries of Sinclair Pack legacy. You're an outsider—you have no right to question—"

"Cut the crap." Lancelot interrupted without a shred of courtesy. "You think I'm clueless? If your precious Sinclair Pack archives really had such powerful healing formulas, why didn't you use them when Ethan was on death's door? Instead, you let some nobody girl mix her own remedies, test them on herself, and stay up night after night brewing medicine—dragging him back from the brink all on her own."

A wave of chaotic murmurs swept through the banquet hall.

Ethan's face went pale. He whipped his head toward Leah, shock flooding his eyes.

Lancelot walked over to Leah, his voice softening. "Kid, I'm here to take you out of this place. The guild's already arranged housing for you. You don't have to stay here and take this abuse anymore."

Leah looked up into Lancelot's amber eyes, about to speak—when Marcus's cold voice cut through from behind her.

"You're not going anywhere." He stared at Leah, his tone dripping with naked coercion. "Your mother's health has taken a turn for the worse recently. I've already had her moved to a guest room in the main house. The pack healer says that room has excellent light—perfect for rest and recovery."

Leah's pupils contracted sharply. A chill shot through her chest.

Marcus pressed on, his tone calm but every word a vice tightening around her. "Since you're back, stay a few days and keep her company. A mother and daughter together—nothing's more important than that."

Lancelot's brows drew together. He looked down at Leah and asked in a low voice, "He's holding your mother hostage?"

Leah didn't answer. She just stared quietly at Marcus, nausea churning in her stomach in relentless waves.

Marcus's patience finally ran out. The murderous aura around him grew heavier by the second.

"Lancelot, you're a lone wolf causing a scene in Sinclair territory—and you've been at it long enough. I've tolerated you out of respect for the Oakwood Guild, but if you keep pushing your luck—"

"And what if I do?" Lancelot tilted his head, meeting Marcus's glare without an inch of retreat. "You want to throw me out? Fine. I'll leave. But before I do, I'm making damn sure everyone here knows you're trying to steal your own daughter's work and her business!"

Marcus's face twisted instantly, rage flooding his features.

He raised his hand sharply. Territory guards stationed around the square immediately closed in, their presence menacing.

"Guards." Marcus's voice was frigid. "Remove this insolent lone wolf from—"

Before he could finish, the clear sound of hoofbeats echoed from the square's entrance.

The noisy crowd immediately parted, forming a path.

A jet-black stallion stepped slowly onto the edge of the red carpet, carrying a man with an upright, commanding posture.

The entire square fell silent.

Embroidered on the hem of the man's robe was an exquisite crest—a raven in flight, carrying a short sword in its talons.

It was the exclusive insignia of the Capital.

Everyone in Shadowpine knew: when a high-ranking envoy from the Capital traveled on official business, their robe bore the raven-and-sword emblem—a symbol of noble status and authority.

The man standing before her was none other than Tristan Gray, the envoy who had appeared in Shadowpine on several occasions.

Could some imperial edict be coming down from the capital?

Chloe's eyes lit up instantly. She straightened her posture unconsciously, arranging herself into an elegant, poised figure.

She immediately rose from Ethan's side and stepped forward several paces, deliberately distancing herself from both Ethan and Leah—and conveniently blocking Leah from view behind her.

Her mind raced. Today was supposed to be her homecoming banquet—why would an envoy from the Capital show up?

Chloe's heart pounded. Her imagination ran wild, conjuring images of prestigious nobles from the Capital. Anticipation swelled inside her.

For a fleeting moment, she felt a strange tingling sensation spreading through her body—she dismissed it as nerves.

The black horse came to a steady stop in front of the head table.

The man dismounted smoothly. His gaze swept across the gathered crowd before finally settling on Marcus. He inclined his head slightly, his tone polite with a trace of apology. "Mr. Sinclair, my apologies for the delay. I encountered some trouble on the road, and I made a detour to collect the gift I had prepared. That's what held me up."

He retrieved an elegant rectangular ebony box from the horse's saddlebag. The edges were inlaid with intricate silver filigree—the craftsmanship alone drew admiring glances from every woman present.

"A small gift, custom-made on short notice." He lifted the lid. Inside, resting on deep purple velvet, lay a complete jewelry set—necklace, earrings, bracelet, hairpin—all of the highest quality. "A modest token. I hope Ms. Sinclair will accept it."

A wave of soft gasps rippled through the hall.

The workmanship and materials of this jewelry set were on a level Shadowpine had never seen. The pale gold gemstones were sunlight amber, mined from exclusive veins north of the Capital. Production was extremely limited—you couldn't find three pieces in all of Shadowpine combined.

Tristan didn't immediately hand over the box. He simply held it and scanned the room.

Every eye instinctively turned toward Chloe.

Chloe stood with perfect elegance, hands folded in front of her, her face displaying just the right blend of restraint and pleasant surprise.

Yet her breath quickened—not out of excitement, but a strange, maddening itch spreading upward from her feet. Caught in the center of all eyes, bound by the composure she had upheld all her life, she dared not scratch.

"You're too gracious," Chloe spoke, her voice quivering as she struggled through the discomfort. "I love the gift, I appreciate your trouble. You've had a long trip. Won't you sit down for a drink of—"

Before she could finish, Tristan suddenly took half a step back.

The movement wasn't large, but it was unmistakable. He withdrew the hand that had been about to present the gift. His grey-green eyes settled on Chloe's face, and his brow furrowed ever so slightly—as if something wasn't matching his expectations.

Chloe's smile froze on her face.

"As far as I'm aware," Tristan said, his tone flat and carrying the cool detachment of someone in a position of power, "Leah doesn't look anything like you."