Chapter 2 Chapter 2: Sold for Survival

Present Day

Derek jerked awake. His chest heaved like he'd been drowning. Sweat soaked through his shirt, cold against his skin. The nightmare clung to him. Always the same. The Sacred Grove. The pain. His wolf's dying howl. And that shadow near the altar his waking mind could never quite grasp.

He pressed his palms against his eyes until spots danced in the darkness.

Three years. Three years of this hell.

Pale morning light leaked through the curtains. It illuminated the scattered evidence of his existence. Empty whiskey bottles lined the windowsill. Clothes lay where he'd dropped them. This wing of Nightfang Estate had become his prison. Self-imposed but no less suffocating.

Derek dragged himself out of bed. He caught his reflection in the tarnished mirror and barely recognized the man staring back. Dark hair hung too long, unkempt. Shadows haunted the space beneath his gray eyes. The proud set of his shoulders had collapsed inward.

He looked away.

A knock shattered the quiet.

Derek considered ignoring it, but the knocking continued. Patient and persistent.

"I know you're awake," Silas called through the door. "I can hear you brooding from out here."

Despite everything, Derek's lips twitched. Silas had always known how to needle him. He yanked the door open.

Silas stood in the hallway, immaculate in dark jeans and a fitted shirt. His black hair was perfectly styled. His dark eyes were bright with concern Derek didn't deserve.

"You look like death," Silas observed. He pushed past him into the room. His nose wrinkled. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't liquid?"

"Good morning to you too." Derek shut the door and crossed his arms. "What do you want?"

"To make sure you're still breathing." Silas opened the curtains wider. Sunlight flooded in, harsh and unforgiving. "You didn't come to training yesterday. Or the day before."

"What's the point?" Derek's voice came out rough. "I can't shift. I can't fight like I used to. All I do is give them something else to whisper about."

Silas turned to face him. Something fierce flickered in his expression. "So you're just going to hide up here forever?"

"They've already forgotten who I was." Derek moved toward the whiskey bottle on the table, but Silas's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

"Don't."

They stood locked in silent combat. Finally, Derek pulled back. He shoved his hand through his hair instead.

"You're one of the few who still visits," Derek said quietly. "Why?"

"Because you're my brother." Silas's answer was immediate. "Curse or no curse, that doesn't change."

Something tight in Derek's chest loosened slightly. He nodded.

"Now get dressed," Silas continued. His tone lightened. "And for the love of the moon, take a shower. You smell like a distillery."

Derek managed a weak smirk. "Get out of my room."

"Gladly. The air in here is depressing." But Silas squeezed his shoulder before leaving. It was a brief touch that said everything.

After the door closed, Derek stood alone. He looked at the whiskey bottle, then at his reflection. With a growl of frustration, he turned away from both.

He showered and dressed in clean clothes. When he finally stepped out of his wing, the main halls felt foreign. Like walking through someone else's memories.

Portraits of past Alphas lined the walls. Their painted eyes seemed to judge him. His grandfather, his great-grandfather, generations of powerful leaders. And the space reserved for his own portrait, still empty after three years.

Voices drifted from the main courtyard. Derek's feet slowed, but he forced himself forward. He couldn't hide forever.

The moment he stepped outside, conversations died.

Pack members froze. Their eyes slid toward him with that familiar mixture of pity and contempt. He kept his gaze straight ahead.

"That's the cursed heir," someone whispered, not quite soft enough.

"Three years and still broken."

Derek's hands clenched, but he kept walking.

"Hey, Derek!" A voice called out, younger, bolder. "Is it true you can't even shift to save your own life?"

Derek stopped. Every instinct screamed at him to defend himself. His wolf should have surged forward, should have demanded respect.

But there was only silence.

He turned slowly. A wolf barely old enough to have completed his own ritual hunt stood with arms crossed. Ambrose Crowne’s grandson, Ethan.

"What did you say?" Derek's voice was quiet, dangerous.

Ethan puffed up with false bravado. "I asked if you could shift. Everyone knows you can't. My grandfather says you're an embarrassment to the Livingston name."

"That's enough." Silas appeared, stepping between them. "Show some respect, Ethan."

"Respect?" Ethan laughed. "Why should I respect someone who can't even defend his own honor? A real wolf would challenge me right now. But he can't, can he?"

Derek moved before thought caught up. His fist connected with Ethan's jaw with a satisfying crack. The younger wolf stumbled backward. Shock replaced smugness.

"I don't need a wolf to knock sense into you," Derek said softly.

Real fear flickered in Ethan's eyes. He scrambled up. His friends pulled him away.

The watching pack dispersed quickly.

Silas grabbed Derek's arm. "That was stupid."

"Felt good though." Derek flexed his hand. At least he could still throw a punch.

"Your father's going to hear about this."

"My father always hears everything." Derek pulled free. He was suddenly exhausted. "I'm going back."

"Wait." Silas's tone shifted, became serious. "Victor sent for you. He's in his study. Said it's important."

Derek's stomach dropped. "What does he want?"

"I don't know. But..." Silas hesitated. "Just hear him out, okay?"

There was something odd in the way Silas said it. Almost like a warning. Derek studied his friend's face, but Silas's expression had smoothed into neutrality.

"Fine," Derek muttered.

The walk to Victor's study felt like a march to execution. When he reached the heavy oak door, he paused. He gathered what remained of his pride.

He knocked once.

"Enter."

Victor Livingston sat behind his massive desk, looking every inch the Alpha. Silver streaked his dark hair more than three years ago. New lines carved paths around his eyes.

"Sit." Victor gestured to the chair.

Derek remained standing. "What do you want?"

A muscle ticked in Victor's jaw. "I've been in discussions with Lucian Kingswell."

Of course. The Emberfang Alpha had been circling Nightfang's weakness for years. "And?"

"He's proposed an alliance." Victor's fingers drummed once against the desk. "A formal one. Binding our packs through blood."

Derek's blood went cold. "What kind of alliance?"

Victor met his eyes directly. Resignation was there. Maybe even apology. "A marriage. Between you and his younger daughter."

The words hung in the air like poison.

"You can't be serious." Derek's voice came out strangled. "You want me to marry into the Kingswell family?"

"I want our pack to survive." Victor stood. His Alpha presence filled the room. "We're weak, Derek. Without a true heir, without certainty about succession, we're vulnerable. Other packs are testing our borders. This alliance could save us."

"So you're selling me off to fix your problems."

"I'm doing what an Alpha must do." Victor's eyes hardened. "The ceremony is in two weeks. The Kingswells have already agreed. Lucian's younger daughter will become your wife."

"And what does this daughter get out of it?" Derek's laugh was bitter.

Victor looked away. That was answer enough.

She was a pawn, just like him. Someone Lucian wanted to get rid of.

"Two weeks," Derek repeated numbly.

"Two weeks," Victor confirmed. "I suggest you prepare yourself."

Derek turned and walked out. If he stayed, he might say something he couldn't take back. The hallways blurred as he moved through them.

Married. To a stranger. In two weeks.

He'd lost his wolf three years ago. Now he was losing what little remained of his freedom.

The cursed heir and the unwanted daughter.

What a perfect pair they'd make.