Aurora hadn't slept.
She sat on the edge of her velvet-covered cot, hands folded, breath shallow, the echo of the black door still ringing behind her eyes.
Then came the knock.
It wasn't Zev.
It was a palace maid. Pale, silent, eyes downcast. "Her Majesty requests you."
Requests. As if it were a choice.
—
The Queen's chamber was a world apart—soft, sunlit, gilded with crystal and silence. A porcelain tea set steamed gently on a table carved from ivory. A harp played itself quietly in the corner.
Aurora stood in the center, still as stone.
The Queen didn't look up from her book. "Sit."
She obeyed.
"You've shown restraint," the Queen said. "You didn't cry. You didn't break. And you caught his attention."
Aurora's heart kicked once in her chest. "Zev?"
The Queen turned a page.
"He is the last of my blood. The last who bears the mark. And unlike his brothers, he does not chase. He does not bend. He was raised to rule in silence, not passion." Her eyes lifted then—sharp, silver, unblinking. "But even the coldest Alpha can be moved. If you are clever."
A pause. The Queen reached beside her, lifted a delicate satin box, and set it on the table between them.
"Seduction," she said, "is not about skin. It's about control. Influence. Timing." She opened the box.
Inside lay a red silk ribbon.
"Wear this tonight."
Aurora's voice nearly caught. "What does it mean?"
The Queen smiled. Cold. Knowing.
"It means he's been summoned. But he must make the choice. I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one notices."
She stood, crossing the room to the window. "I need an heir, Aurora. Not from any Alpha. From *him.* I have no illusions that he'll fall in love. But he may choose."
"And if he doesn't?"
The Queen turned.
"Then he loses his rank, and we both lose our legacy."
She moved closer. Her voice dropped.
"You want to survive?" Her finger brushed Aurora's cheek. "Make him *want* you. Don't rush. Don't beg. Let silence and sight do the work."
A beat passed.
"And if you fail…"
Aurora held her breath.
The Queen closed the box with a soft snap. "Don't fail."
—
That night, Aurora stood in her assigned chamber.
The ribbon laced her throat like a promise. Or a collar.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
She didn't turn.
She didn't speak.
She only listened as the Alpha's footsteps crossed the stone behind her—slow, deliberate, unhurried.
Closer.
Closer.
Until silence was the only thing between them.
And then she said softly, "I didn't call you."
Zev's voice—calm, low, dangerous—answered behind her ear.
"You didn't have to."
—
She hadn't answered.
Now she turned—fully. Slowly.
"I want choices," she said.
That made something flicker behind his silver eyes. "There are none here."
"There are always choices," she replied, voice low. "Some of us just hide them better."
His gaze dropped, just once, to the ribbon.
"You wear the Queen's favor like armor," he said. "But you forget whose name it carries."
"Yours."
That landed like a thrown blade between them. Sharp. Defiant.
Zev stepped closer—not touching, not crowding, but close enough that she could see the subtle tension in his shoulders.
"Don't mistake curiosity for mercy," he said. "I'm not one of your princes who smiles when asked."
"I know," Aurora said quietly. "You don't smile. But you haven't turned away either."
A beat of silence.
Then he exhaled once. Short. Almost amused.
"Careful," he murmured. "I don't know if I want to want you yet."
He turned and left without another word.
Aurora didn't move for a long time.
—
The Queen did not look up when Zev entered.
She didn't need to.
He stopped before her table, silent, still. The room cooled.
"You moved her into position," he said.
She poured her tea. Steam curled, delicate, like an illusion.
"I gave her purpose," she replied. "What you choose to do with her is your own failing. Or your success."
Zev's voice came quiet, razor-sharp. "You will not interfere again."
Now she looked at him.
"I interfered the moment you were born under a blood moon and branded heir. Everything since has been containment."
His jaw flexed once.
"If you want legacy," he said, "breed a war dog, not a woman who bleeds for her family."
"She's not for you to love," the Queen said coldly.
"I do not love," Zev answered. "And I do not mate because I'm told to."
A beat of silence.
Then: "You play games with ribbon and obedience." He stepped closer. "But I wasn't built to answer."
The Queen's gaze didn't break. "And yet here you are."
Zev smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm not here to obey." His voice dropped. "I'm here to warn you."
"Oh?"
He leaned in, slow and dangerous.
"If she breaks, I'll bury who breaks her. Even if it's you."
Then he turned and left, cloak trailing like smoke.
The tea cooled behind him.
The Queen sat very still—silent, but smiling.
Not because she had won.
But because he was finally *playing*.