Grace POV:
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"No," I gasped, the sound a raw, broken thing.
My strength returned in a desperate surge. I pushed against his chest, scrambling away from him. The cool air on my exposed skin was a shock, a brutal reminder of my disheveled state.
"I refuse," I choked out, my voice trembling. "I can't marry a stranger."
The room, the hallway, the entire world had fallen silent after his declaration. Now, a wave of whispers erupted from the crowd. My name. His name. Words like "disgrace," "Omega," "wolfless."
Eleanor seized the moment. Her feigned horror morphed into righteous fury. She pointed a trembling finger at Constantine.
"You shameless cripple!" she spat, her voice dripping with venom. "How dare you take advantage of this poor girl's confusion! You have corrupted her!"
My eyes scanned the crowd wildly, searching for the one face that mattered. The one person who could stop this nightmare.
And then I saw him. Julian.
He stood just behind his mother, his face a mask of shock, disgust, and something I couldn't name. Confusion? Fear?
"Julian!" I cried, my voice cracking. I tried to stand, to go to him, but my legs buckled. "Julian, help me! It was your mother..."
He took a half-step forward, his mouth opening as if to speak. But Eleanor was faster. She whirled on him, her face a mask of tragic motherhood.
"Julian, my son, look what he's done!" she wailed, clutching his arm. "He has ruined Grace! He has ruined our family's honor!"
Julian's gaze flickered from his mother's tear-streaked face to my desperate, pleading one. I saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between his duty and... whatever he felt for me.
And I saw him make his choice.
He looked away. He dropped his gaze to the floor, unable to meet mine. A silent, gutless retreat.
A wave of dizziness washed over me. The faces in the doorway swam and blurred. The whispers grew louder, a roaring in my ears. The combination of the drug's after-effects and the soul-crushing betrayal was too much.
My body went limp. I started to fall.
But I didn't hit the floor.
Strong arms caught me. Constantine had moved his wheelchair closer, and he effortlessly scooped me back into his lap. My head fell against his chest, the steady, solid rhythm of his heartbeat a strange comfort in the chaos.
"It's alright," he murmured, his voice so low only I could hear it. "I've got you."
He began to shrug off his tailored suit jacket. The movement was smooth, economical. He draped it over my shoulders, carefully covering my torn dress, shielding me from the vultures in the hall.
It was a gesture of pure protection. But to the onlookers, it looked like an act of possession.
Eleanor saw her advantage. "Guards!" she shrieked. "Seize him! Seize this wolfless monster and this... this unclean woman! Take them to Elder Alistair for judgment!"
Two burly Pack guards stepped forward, their faces grim. They reached for me, their hands like claws, ready to rip me from Constantine's arms.
He didn't move a muscle. He simply looked at them, his grey eyes flat and devoid of emotion.
"Are you sure you want to touch her?" he asked. His voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried a weight that made both guards freeze in their tracks. They saw something in his eyes, a flicker of warning that a "wolfless" man had no right to possess.
They hesitated.
Constantine broke the standoff. "There's no need for force," he said, his voice calm and steady. "I will go to see Elder Alistair. But she stays with me."
He adjusted his hold on me, settling my unconscious form more comfortably against his chest. With one hand, he expertly maneuvered the joystick on his wheelchair, turning it around to face the hallway. The strength required to hold me secure while operating the chair with his other hand was considerable, a subtle contradiction to his frail reputation.
A triumphant smirk flickered across Eleanor's face. Her plan was working perfectly.
Julian remained silent, a puppet on his mother's strings, his face pale and drawn as he followed her.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. A pathway of shame opened up before us. I was paraded through the heart of the manor, limp and disgraced in the arms of my fiancé's crippled uncle.
The long corridor was lined with portraits of Blackwood ancestors. Their painted eyes seemed to follow us, stern and judgmental, silent witnesses to this fresh stain on their legacy.
We finally reached the main hall, a vast, intimidating space with a vaulted ceiling, usually reserved for the most important Pack assemblies. At the far end of the hall, seated in a high-backed, carved wooden chair like a throne, was an old man with a severe expression and eyes as sharp as a hawk's.
Elder Alistair Blackwood. The highest authority in the Pack.
His gaze swept over our procession, and when it landed on Constantine holding me, his brow furrowed in a deep, disapproving line. He struck the marble floor with the base of his heavy wooden staff.
Thump.
The sound echoed in the cavernous room, a gavel calling this impromptu court to order.
Eleanor immediately rushed forward, her performance reaching its crescendo.
"Elder Alistair!" she cried, her voice thick with manufactured grief. "You must help us! A terrible crime has been committed under this very roof!"
