Chapter 3
A thousand white roses were displayed in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel.
Selena, dressed in a custom-made wedding gown, stood at the entrance of the banquet hall, peering through the crack in the door at the bustling crowd inside. Five hundred guests, all from the upper echelons of the werewolf society. Pure-blood nobles made up a third, elite werewolves the rest, and there wasn't a single ordinary werewolf.
She was trembling.
“Don’t be nervous.” Vincent’s voice came from behind. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, his blond hair neatly combed back, and his emerald green eyes reflected the light from the crystal chandelier. He took her hand, his fingers heavy, with a certain undeniable strength. “From today onwards, you are Mrs. Hargrave.”
The band began to play.
As she walked down the red carpet arm in arm with Vincent, a brief blank crossed her mind. She remembered Ethan's retreating figure as the guards dragged him out of the courtroom. His shirt had burn marks on the back, a silver chain dug into his wrist, and blood dripped from his fingers. He glanced back at her through the crack in the door; she couldn't decipher his look.
Then his lips moved and he uttered two words.
"Take care of yourself."
She wasn't sure if she'd understood the lip movements. She didn't have time to think about it. Vincent pulled her close, and her hand landed in his. The pastor began reciting the vows.
“I do,” she said.
Her voice was steady and clear as she spoke. Vincent lowered his head and kissed her, his lips meeting hers for a long and forceful kiss, his fingers gripping the back of her neck like he was holding a cat. He whispered something between their parting lips.
"You are mine now. Always remember that."
The wedding banquet began, and the champagne tower was stacked five layers high.
As she was attending to guests with her wine glass, a young male waiter handed her a glass of champagne. The waiter was a human boy in his early twenties with a clean smile, and he glanced at her again as he handed her the tray.
Vincent was speaking to an elder beside her. His gaze shifted and landed on the waiter's face. Then he moved.
He moved so fast that no one could see his movements clearly.
A sudden cracking sound echoed through the banquet hall. A waiter let out a muffled scream as his glass shattered, champagne spilling everywhere. Vincent gripped the waiter's wrist as he handed him the glass, his fingers tightening, the bones cracking continuously in his palm.
“Vincent—” Selena grabbed his arm.
He didn't look at her, his grip on her hand didn't loosen in the slightest. The waitress was in so much pain she couldn't speak, her knees buckled, and her body slumped downwards.
“Who gave you permission to look at her even once?” Vincent’s voice was very soft, so soft that only the nearest people could hear it. His eyes were golden—his half-wolf transformation was eroding his self-control.
The manager rushed over, apologizing profusely, and dragged the limp waiter away. The whole process took no more than three seconds. Vincent had already regained his gentlemanly demeanor, bent down to pick up the broken wine glass from the floor, and smiled at the guests beside him: "Just a little accident."
The banquet continued. Laughter and music filled the hall once again.
After the wedding banquet, Selena sat alone on the edge of the bed in their new home. Outside the window, the city lights of New York stretched out, and the sound of running water came from the bathroom. She was waiting for Vincent to wash the blood off his hands.
The door opened. He walked in, wearing a bathrobe. She instinctively sat up straight. He reached out and lifted her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone, gazing at her for a long time, so long that goosebumps rose on her back.
Then he let go, lay down next to her, and pressed one arm across her chest.
A cold glint flashed in his eyes, and he whispered four words.
"Stop making that sound."
Her heart clenched. She hadn't fallen asleep—she'd been awake, waiting for him to fall asleep first. But she had been thinking about that name the whole time.
She didn't answer. She simply lay in the darkness, eyes open. In the bathroom mirror, the antique diamond necklace gleamed dimly on her collarbone. The pendant was heavy, like a clasp.
She realized that what had happened tonight was just the beginning. As dawn approached, she still couldn't sleep. But she dared not move.
Meanwhile, far away in the Yukon wilderness, in a cabin, Ethan sat up from his wooden bed.
The high fever had subsided. This was his third day lying in the cabin, and the feeling of being awake was more unbearable than when he was unconscious, because the pain of the branding was clearer. Moonlight seeped in through the cracks in the window, falling on his chest, as if someone had reheated it with a branding iron.
“Don’t go near the window.” Thomas sat by the stove peeling potatoes. “The Silverflame Mark will burn you in the moonlight, you should know that.”
Ethan withdrew his foot and leaned against the headboard.
"You said extreme cold can delay the curse. How long exactly?"
“It’s hard to say.” Thomas finished peeling a potato and threw it into the bucket. “I’ve seen a lone wolf who survived in Alaska for nine years. I’ve also seen one who only lasted two and a half years because he spent three summers in the south. The key is that you can’t leave during the winter—once you enter a warmer dimension, the curse will accelerate its backlash.”
Ethan gazed out the window. The snow continued to fall, showing no sign of stopping. The silver flame on his chest grew dimmer, but it was indeed less intense than when it had been branded. The cold, like a slow-acting anesthetic, suppressed the piercing burning sensation into a persistent, dull ache.
“Then stay here,” he said. “This place is quiet enough to wait for death.”
"What's a better option?"
There is no better option.
He spent the entire day convincing Thomas that he could walk on his own. On the morning of the fifth day, he pushed open the door of the cabin and stepped into the Yukon wilderness.
The snow has stopped.
He found a high spot and stood there for a long time. Below him stretched a continuous white mountain range; the birch trees had lost all their leaves, their black branches sharply defined against the grey sky. In the distance, a frozen river flowed, its surface reflecting a dim, silvery light.
He recalled that when he was eighteen, in the garden of Ashford Estate in Boston, Selena asked him where he most wanted to go.
“North,” he said. “The very, very far north. Nobody knows you, nobody has any expectations of you. You just stay there, and that’s enough.”
At that time, she laughed and said that it sounded too lonely and not suitable for her.
Now he stands alone in the Yukon wilderness, a curse etched on his chest. It's as if he chose this fate himself.
He got to work. He chopped down trees, moved stones, and filled cracks in the walls with lichen and moss. Thomas helped him find tools and seeds. It took them several months to build a small cabin, and several more months to cultivate a vegetable garden. Progress was slow because he had to stop and catch his breath after working for several hours. The burning from the branding wouldn't stop, but the Yukon's harsh cold did slow its spread. Thomas regularly brewed him a pungent herbal remedy, supposedly learned from the local Inuit people, mixed with snow water, to reduce the corrosive effects of the silver on his heart.
Three years later, the vegetable garden finally yielded its first harvest.
That was in the autumn of 2007.
That evening, Ethan sat under the oil lamp and opened a leather-bound notebook. He had found it at a flea market, and the cover was covered with barely recognizable old stains.
He began to write. He wrote slowly because his fingers were no longer as strong as before.
"The first batch of potatoes was harvested from the garden today. They're a bit small, but they taste great. Thomas made potato stew with rosemary, and it was the best meal I've ever had."
He paused for a moment.
I hope she is happy.
“I hope she never thinks of me. Guilt is heavier than any silver chain.”
He put down his pen and pressed his palm onto the notebook. The light of the silver flame mark had completely dimmed, turning grayish-white. His body had become very thin, his shirt hanging on his shoulders like it was on a clothes hanger. But he was still alive. Three years had passed, and he was still alive. That in itself was a small miracle.
But he was at peace. This was the first time in three years that he had acknowledged this peace.
Footsteps sounded outside the door. Thomas pushed the door open and came in, carrying a shortwave radio.
“News from New York.” He placed the radio on the table. “You might want to listen.”
Ethan glanced at him but didn't move.
A female announcer's voice came through the radio, crackling and humming: "...The Hargrave family announces today that Vincent Hargrave and Selena Hargrave—formerly Ashford—are about to celebrate their third wedding anniversary. It is understood that Mr. Hargrave has assumed the position of Vice President of the North American Werewolf Council, and it is widely expected that he will become the youngest president in the council's history within five years..."
Thomas reached out to turn off the radio.
“No need,” Ethan said.
He listened to the news. The announcer then read a report about the Hargrave family's new property purchase in New York, followed by an announcement of new parliamentary policy. Ethan listened to the entire report without showing any expression.
The radio stopped playing. Only the crackling of burning firewood remained in the room.
“Thomas,” he said after a moment of silence, “you asked me before why I didn’t tell her.”
Thomas did not answer.
"Because she now has her own life. A respectable position, a prestigious surname. I had already thought it through when I left that ring in the dock."
He stood up, walked to the table, closed the notebook, and put it in the drawer.
"You don't need to tell me anything about her anymore."
Thomas watched his retreating figure without saying a word.
Outside the window, night was spreading over the Yukon. The wind rustled through the birch forest. The radio's power indicator light still glowed a tiny red dot, like a lifeless spark in the dim light.
