Aura POV:
I pushed open the passenger door, my legs feeling unsteady as I stepped out onto the wet pavement. Damien was already out of the car, waiting for me on the sidewalk, a tall, imposing silhouette against the bright lights of the City Hall entrance.
The lobby was cavernous and cold. The air conditioning blasted down, and my still-damp clothes clung to my skin, making me shiver violently. Without a word, Damien shrugged off his cheap black jacket and draped it over my shoulders.
It was surprisingly heavy and enveloped me in that scent of cedar and pine. The warmth from his body still clung to the fabric, a comforting heat that seeped into my skin and, miraculously, began to calm the frantic beating of my heart.
There was something else threaded through the scent now, something sharp and almost medicinal beneath the cedar. Scent suppressant, maybe. Drivers who worked late routes through Pack territory sometimes used it to keep aggressive wolves from reading too much from them. I had no wolf of my own, no instincts worth trusting, but even I could tell Damien was hiding something under all that clean, careful control.
We walked to the registration window. A tired-looking clerk slid a thick stack of forms and a pen across the counter. The Marriage Application came with a thin gray attachment stamped Pack Registry Addendum. Civil status. Pack affiliation. Wolf status. Mate bond, if applicable. The sight of those boxes made my stomach twist.
It looked so official, so final.
My hand trembled as I picked up the pen. The ink hovered over the first line, my signature required to seal this insane pact. Suddenly, a large, warm hand covered mine, steadying it. His touch was firm, grounding.
I looked up at him. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes held a flicker of something that wasn't coldness. Reassurance, maybe?
I took a deep breath and signed my name: Aura Bonner.
Under wolf status, I checked wolfless. The word sat there in black ink, small and humiliating, like an official confirmation of every weakness Frankie Glover had ever thrown in my face.
Damien took the pen from me. His signature came out fast and slanted, almost unreadable, the kind of impatient scrawl a man used when he had signed too many receipts at gas stations and fast-food counters and wanted to get back on the road. Damien Montgomery.
On the Pack affiliation line, he hesitated for half a second before writing unaffiliated. Rogue by status, then. That should have scared me. Rogues were supposed to be unstable, dangerous, outside the protection of any Pack law. But compared to being handed over to a Glover Pack Warrior, a Rogue husband felt less like ruin and more like a locked door between me and the wolves hunting me.
The clerk took the forms, stamped them with a heavy, satisfying thud, and slid two copies of the marriage certificate back to us. "Congratulations," she said, her voice flat with boredom. "You're officially married."
I stared at the certificate in my hand. Mrs. Aura Montgomery. It felt like a dream, a dizzying, unreal sensation washing over me.
Just then, a phone vibrated. It wasn't mine. Damien pulled a plain black smartphone from his pocket, the rubber case worn at the corners and the screen nicked near the edge. The screen lit up with the name Caleb.
He walked a few feet away, turning his back to me as he answered. His voice was low, but I could hear the edge of irritation in it.
"What?" he snapped. A pause. "I was busy."
Even from a distance, I could feel the tension radiating from him. He was listening intently, his shoulders rigid.
"Forget the dinner," he said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a cold, hard blade. "It's not happening. Find someone else for your business deal." Another pause, longer this time. A humorless, sharp laugh cut through the quiet lobby. "Because I just got married. So you can tell the elders to call off their little matchmaking scheme."
The elders. Not church elders. Not harmless old relatives meddling over Sunday dinner. In Pack language, elders meant bloodlines, alliances, contracts signed over people like livestock.
He ended the call without another word, shoving the phone back into his pocket. He turned and walked back towards me, his face a mask of controlled anger.
"I just told my father," he said, his voice clipped. "He wants to meet you."
My stomach plummeted. A father? I had just married a complete stranger, and now I had to meet his family? I clutched the marriage certificate tighter, the paper crinkling in my fist. It was part of the deal, I reminded myself. This was the price.
"Okay," I whispered, my throat dry.
We walked out of City Hall and back into the damp night air. A black car was now parked at the curb, sleek and low and expensive. It wasn't the Toyota. This was a luxury sedan, the kind I'd only ever seen in movies.
For a second, my thoughts snagged. What kind of Uber driver's father rode around in a car like that?
Then I forced myself to breathe. Maybe it wasn't his. Maybe Caleb worked as a private driver. Maybe the car belonged to some boss or client or rich uncle who needed favors at midnight. People borrowed things. People pretended. A nice car did not mean a nice life, and God knew expensive-looking men could be drowning in debt.
The back window rolled down with a soft whir, revealing an older man in the backseat. He had the same dark hair as Damien, threaded with silver at the temples, and the same intense, piercing eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and radiated an aura of immense power and authority.
The kind of authority Pack men carried when they were used to being obeyed before they ever raised their voices. Even without a wolf, I felt it press against my ribs.
His sharp gaze landed on me, and I felt myself shrink under its weight. It was like being examined under a microscope. I instinctively took a half-step back.
Damien immediately moved, positioning himself slightly in front of me, a subtle, protective shield.
The older man's eyes flickered to his son's protective stance, a brief flash of surprise in their depths before his face settled back into a stern, disapproving mask.
He opened the car door and stepped out. He was tall, like Damien, and moved with a predator's grace. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my cheap, rain-splattered coat and worn-out shoes. I felt a hot flush of shame creep up my neck.
I forced myself to stand tall. I was Mrs. Montgomery now, wasn't I? I extended a hand. "Hello, sir. I'm Aura." My voice was small but it didn't waver.
He ignored my outstretched hand. "If you are married," he said, his voice a low growl of command, "you will live together. Immediately. A marriage must look like a marriage."
My head whipped around to look at Damien. Live together? I thought this was just a paper transaction, a business deal. We would be husband and wife in name only, leading separate lives.
"The registry will ask for a shared address," the older man continued, each word clipped and absolute. "And if your pack challenges the claim, separate households will make your marriage look weak. A claimed wife does not sleep under another roof while scavengers circle."
A claimed wife.
The words made my pulse stumble. I wasn't his mate. I wasn't anyone's mate. I was wolfless, and this was only a legal shield. But the way Damien went still beside me made the phrase feel heavier than law.
Damien's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to argue, but his father shot him a look, a silent communication that passed between them, charged with unspoken meaning. It felt less like a father's warning and more like an old Pack command, the kind that expected obedience even from grown sons. It was a clear power play, and from the tense set of Damien's shoulders, it was one his father had won.
Damien turned to me, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "He has a point," he said, his voice low. "Living together will make this more convincing. It will keep both our families off our backs."
He was right. The thought of Erin and my mother, of Frankie Glover, knowing I was living with my new husband... they would have no choice but to leave me alone. It was the ultimate protection.
I bit my lip, then nodded. "Okay."
A grunt of satisfaction came from the older man. "You have three days to move in," he commanded, before turning on his heel, getting back into the car, and slamming the door.
The black sedan sped away, its taillights disappearing into the night.
I stood on the sidewalk, the flimsy marriage certificate in my hand suddenly feeling as heavy as a block of concrete. I had escaped one cage only to walk straight into another, far more complicated one.
