Kaelen von Hellberg POV:
*Alpha Prince.*
The words echoed in the hallway. A brand. An accusation. I stood with my back pressed against the cold stone wall outside her door, the heavy silver ceremonial bowl clutched in my hand. Water, still warm, dripped from it, staining the priceless Aubusson rug at my feet. *Drip. Drip. Drip.* Each drop was a tick of a clock I was trying to outrun.
My wolf paced the cage of my ribs, snarling. Not in anger. In furious, possessive satisfaction. *She knows,* it growled. *She knows her place. With us.*
I clenched my jaw, the muscle leaping in protest. The wolfsbane I'd been having the kitchens put in her food—just a trace, enough to suppress her wolf and keep her weak, manageable—had side effects. Annelise had warned me. This was my fault. The pain, the humiliation. I had caused it, and she had named me her savior for ending it. The irony was a blade twisting in my gut.
This was untenable. The girl was a weed, her roots of trust and dependence twisting around my resolve, threatening to crack it wide open.
I needed to re-establish the distance. To remind myself, and her, of what she was: a rogue. A problem to be managed and moved.
That evening, I sent a pack member to fetch her. The instruction was clear: escort the rogue, Elara, to the west solarium for dinner.
When she arrived, she wasn't walking beside the guard. She was clinging to his arm like a child, her eyes wide as she took in the vaulted ceilings and tapestries depicting the history of the von Hellberg line. The moment she saw me standing by the long, formal dining table, she dropped the guard's arm and all but ran to me.
She didn't stop at a respectful distance. She came right up and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing her face into my chest. Her scent—wild honey and crushed lavender—filled my senses, a clean, sweet fragrance that was a stark contrast to the poison of my deception.
"You came," she whispered into my shirt, her voice thick with adoration. "I knew you weren't angry."
My hands hovered over her back, my fingers itching to close around her, to pull her tighter. I forced them into fists at my sides. "I am your Alpha," I said, my voice colder than I intended. "You will eat with me."
I tried to lead her to her chair, but she refused to let go, walking pressed against my side. Her dependence was a physical weight, a constant, warm pressure that my wolf gloried in and I despised.
The table was set with heavy silver cutlery and crystal goblets. A feast had been prepared—roasted quail, root vegetables glazed in honey, fresh bread. It was a display of power, of the wealth and stability of my pack. It was meant to intimidate. To reinforce the chasm between us.
It did the opposite. Her eyes shone. "It's like a fairy tale," she breathed, looking at me with a worshipful gaze that made my skin crawl. "My Alpha, I—"
"Eat," I cut her off.
She reached for a heavy goblet filled with the pack's dark, potent wine. I caught her wrist before her fingers could touch the stem. Her bones were so delicate. I could snap them with a thought.
"No," I said. "Not that."
Her face fell. "Why?"
"It's too strong for you." It was a lie. A half-truth. I needed to control every part of this. Every pleasure, every comfort. It was the only way to remind myself that I was in charge, that she was a pawn in a game she didn't know we were playing. I gestured to the sideboard where a chocolate torte sat, a richer, larger version of the mousse she'd had earlier. "You may have more wine," I said, my voice low and even, "or you may have dessert. You will not have both."
A choice that was not a choice. A petty display of dominance.
She considered it, her head tilted. The wine, a path to abandon. The dessert, a taste of comfort. She looked from the goblet to the torte, then back to me. A slow, sly smile touched her lips. It was the first time I had seen anything other than fear or adoration on her face. It was devastating.
Slightly flushed from the one glass of wine she'd already had, full from the meal, she leaned back in her chair. Her eyes locked on mine, a soft challenge in their depths.
"Carry me back to my room, Kaelen."
Not Alpha. My name. A soft pout on her lips. A demand wrapped in velvet.
Every instinct screamed at me to refuse. To put her in her place. To remind her that she was nothing. But I looked at her, at the fragile hope in her eyes, and I knew that the cruelty of refusing would be a far greater intimacy than the act of carrying her. It would be a deliberate wound, and I was already wounding her in ways she couldn't see.
A sigh escaped my lips, the sound of utter defeat. I rose, moved to her side, and slid my arms beneath her. She was impossibly light. She looped her arms around my neck and laid her head on my shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she belonged there.
My wolf howled in triumph.
I carried her out of the solarium and into the grand, silent hallways of the packhouse. The portraits of my ancestors watched us pass, their stern, painted eyes a constant judgment. My great-grandfather, who had conquered three rival packs. My father, who had ruled with an iron fist. Me. Holding this slip of a girl who was dismantling me one trusting look at a time.
I needed to break this spell. To save her from me.
"This is foolish," I said, my voice a low rasp in the echoing silence. I kept my gaze fixed on the end of the corridor. "Letting me carry you. Trusting me."
She stirred against my chest, her breath warm on my neck. "You're my Alpha."
"I am a male you do not know," I corrected her, the words tasting like ash. "An Alpha. I am stronger than you. Faster. I could hurt you, and no one in this house would stop me. You must learn to see the danger, not the comfort." I was warning her about myself, projecting a truth she couldn't possibly comprehend.
She was silent for a long moment, listening to the rhythm of my steps on the stone floor. Her scent was a torment, making my fangs ache. She shifted, lifting her head from my shoulder. Her eyes, clear and steady despite the wine, found mine in the dim light. Her fingers came up, gently, tentatively, and touched the scar on my jaw.
"But you're different."
The words struck me with the force of a physical blow. Utter, soul-shaking confidence. A blind faith that was the most damning indictment of all. She saw a savior. A prince. And I saw the monster she was blind to.
My composure shattered. The rest of the walk was a tense, silent eternity. I reached her room, pushed the door open, and deposited her on the bed more roughly than I intended. She landed with a soft gasp, looking up at me, confusion replacing the certainty in her eyes.
I didn't give her a chance to speak. I turned and left, pulling the door shut behind me, the click of the latch sealing her in, and me out. My plan was no longer a strategy. It was a desperate, burning need.
I found myself in my study, the door bolted, a heavy crystal tumbler of amber liquid in my hand. The ice clinked sharply against the glass, the only sound in the oppressive, wood-paneled silence. I stared at the massive family portrait above the cold fireplace—my father, my mother, and a small, stern-looking boy with blond hair and old eyes standing between them. My reflection ghosted over the face of that boy, a haunted man superimposed over a trapped child. The ice clinked again as my hand trembled, the emotion pure, suffocating self-loathing.
