Aurora returns to her room. Her movements are quiet, but not gentle.
She undoes each piece of her clothing—not to seduce or soothe, but to **strip away every layer of expectation** placed on her. The gown the Queen selected. The scent laced with compulsion. The red ribbon still clinging to her throat like a leash.
Each piece dropped is a rejection.
*"This was not mine. None of it."*
Standing by the mirror, bare before the glass and the palace beyond, she doesn't flinch. She stares. Not at her body—but at the silence.
At what's becoming clear.
She dresses again—**not in silk, but in the simplest clothes she owns**. No paint. No perfume. Only skin and soul and readiness. This moment is not about vulnerability. It's about **defiance in quiet form**.
She walks to her writing table and lights a single candle.
Pulls out parchment.
Begins a letter—or a journal—or even a list:
- Who watches her.
- Who speaks to the Queen.
- Every crack in the walls she's noticed.
It's not war yet.
But it's *coming*.
She was about to snuff the candle when the knock came.
Not loud. Not urgent. A single, crisp rap on the doorframe. Servants never knocked like that.
Aurora didn't flinch.
She didn't ask *who* it was, either. She simply said, "Enter."
The door opened—but no one stepped through. Instead, something slid inside across the polished stone floor: a silver tray. Upon it, a sealed envelope. No signature. No crest. Just a strip of crimson wax pressed smooth with a symbol she didn't recognize—*a crescent eclipsed by a claw.*
Aurora rose and walked over.
The moment she touched the envelope, a faint warmth pulsed beneath her fingertips. Magic, subtle and controlled. Not enough to harm… but enough to brand.
Inside: a single card.
*"Attend the supper. Midnight. No ribbon required."*
There was no name.
But she knew.
Only one person in this palace had eyes like shadowfire and a temper coiled so tightly it barely breathed.
Zev.
She looked at the tray again.
Beneath the envelope, she hadn't noticed it at first—a thin, flat box. She opened it with slow fingers.
Inside was a necklace: a simple chain of blackened silver, bearing a pendant shaped like a fang. No gems. No gold.
Just a message.
He was done using the Queen's symbols.
Now he was sending his own.
Aurora didn't smile. Didn't cry. She simply placed the chain around her neck, cool and weighty.
Then returned to her chair, picked up her quill, and wrote one more line.
—
The hall was radiant—glass chandeliers catching every breath of flame, soft music curling through the air like perfume.
Aurora stood at the threshold, fingertips brushing the edge of the cloak Zev had laid out for her earlier. Simple. Elegant. Modest in cut, but lined with silver-threaded detail that shimmered when the light touched just right.
She hadn't known what to wear.
No one told her the rules.
As she stepped into the room, her pulse betrayed her. Half the girls were radiant in layered lace and bold color—gowns dipped too low, sleeves fallen off shoulders, hips wrapped like gifts for unwrapping. Others? In stiff servant's garb, loose at the collar, dull in tone—clearly instructed to *not* tempt.
And she—
She felt caught in the middle.
Not seductive. Not drab.
Just… unsure.
Eyes slid toward her from every angle. Not cruelly. Just *appraising*.
She kept her chin high and walked forward.
The King sat at the far end of the grand table, gold crown like fire in the torchlight. To his left and right sat the alphas—heirs from northern and eastern wolf kingdoms, each flanked by their chosen companions.
The girls seated beside them were the bold ones. Laughter too loud. Lashes lowered. Touches far too casual for court. Aurora felt the cold slide of inadequacy crawl beneath her skin.
She lowered herself onto the bench behind Zev, unsure if she was meant to. He hadn't spoken to her since that strange invitation.
He didn't even glance her way now.
But his aura?
It poured off him—controlled, unreadable, coiled like something watching a battlefield unfold.
Then the King stood.
"My sons," he said. Voice steady. Empty of warmth. "And to the women they've chosen—for now."
A chuckle echoed down the table. One of the flirt-drunk girls twirled her hair and winked at the alpha beside her.
The King raised a hand.
Silence.
"We extended this supper to judge not your beauty, but your instinct." He paced the edge of the table. "Tonight, you were meant to look one way to your alpha… and invisible to mine."
Stillness.
Aurora's breath caught. Around her, she felt muscles shift—tiny flinches. One girl, seated in a crimson corset that hugged like armor, paled.
The King didn't shout. He smiled.
"Those who dressed to be touched by all… may leave this hall. And my palace."
The flare of tension was immediate. Dresses rustled. A chair scraped. One girl gasped before collecting herself.
Aurora sat frozen.
The King pointed—not loudly, not cruelly. Just three fingers. Three girls. The ones who had turned heads all evening.
"Your alphas may keep you, of course," he said lightly. "But not here. We only keep those who understand *who* they serve."
A deadly pause.
And then, still not looking at her, Zev moved his fingers—barely—and the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smirk. Almost approval.
It clicked.
He *knew* the rule. He *heard* the rule. And he gave her that cloak for a reason.
She hadn't failed.
She'd been *shielded*.
She looked at him—serious, unreadable, still stone at the edge of firelight—but now… she saw the thread beneath it. The one thing more dangerous than affection:
**Intention.**
The supper was over. The hall emptied in ripples of footsteps and failed pride. Aurora waited—not out of instruction, but instinct.
Zev had remained seated long after the King dismissed the others. He hadn't looked at her once, but that didn't mean he wasn't watching.
So when she finally approached him, it wasn't loud. No flutters. No smiles.
She stood behind his shoulder, voice soft enough to barely graze the air.
> "Thank you. For the cloak. For not letting me become… something discarded."
Zev didn't turn.
But something in his aura shifted—less storm, more silence.
Aurora waited a beat longer, then stepped beside him, eyes fixed ahead.
Then she tilted her head, just enough for candlelight to touch her cheek. Her voice softened—not out of fear, but memory. The Queen's demand echoing like perfume on silk.
"You didn't want me to leave… did you?"
The words hung there, sweet and dangerous.
A flirtation. A challenge. A test.
Still, Zev didn't move. But now his gaze slid toward her—just enough to be felt, not fully seen.
"Don't say what you don't mean," he said, low.
Aurora smiled faintly.
"I mean everything. Even the parts you refuse to hear."
She took one step closer, close enough for her shoulder to almost brush his arm—almost.
"You can warn me with wolves and silence all you want, but you kept me. And you knew what the cloak would mean."
Still no touch. No smile. Just heat coiling in the unspoken.
And then she stepped back—not retreating, just reminding him she could.
"Next time," she whispered, "don't dress me like a secret… if you plan to ignore the consequences."
Then she walked away—no ribbon this time, no orders, no chains.
Only her voice, trailing just loud enough for him to hear as she reached the door.
"Good night… my Alpha."