The fire in the hearth had burned to glowing embers, casting the marriage chamber in shades of amber and shadow. I sat at the edge of our massive bed, silver gown pooled around me like liquid moonlight, hands folded so tightly in my lap that my nails carved crescents into my palms.
Hours had passed since Jasper walked away. Hours of sitting here in this beautiful prison, waiting for my husband to return and claim what was his by right. The mate bond thrummed faintly in my chest—a silver thread that pulsed with each heartbeat, reminding me that somewhere in this vast keep, he was still connected to me whether he wanted to be or not.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked steadily, each second hammering against my ribs like a funeral drum. I'd counted them at first—one thousand, two thousand—before giving up and letting the numbers blur together into white noise.
Maybe he wouldn't come back at all. Maybe our marriage would remain unconsummated, a political arrangement sealed with vows but nothing more. The pack would whisper, of course. They'd call me the barren Luna, the wife so worthless her own husband couldn't bear to touch her.
But at least I'd be spared this—whatever this cold mockery of intimacy would become.
The latch clicked.
My spine went rigid, every nerve suddenly alive with electric awareness. The door swung open with barely a whisper, and Jasper filled the doorway like a storm cloud given human form. His ceremonial armor was gone, replaced by simple black trousers and a shirt that did nothing to diminish his commanding presence. Storm-gray eyes found mine across the room, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
He didn't speak. Didn't offer an explanation for his absence or an apology for leaving me here like discarded baggage. He simply stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft but final click.
The sound echoed through the chamber like a death knell.
"Stand up."
The command cracked across the room like a whip. My legs trembled as I rose, silver silk whispering around my ankles. There was no tenderness in his voice, no hint of the gentle lover I'd foolishly hoped might emerge in private. Just cold, brutal authority.
He crossed the room in measured strides, each step deliberate as a predator stalking wounded prey. When he stopped in front of me, close enough that his scent—pine and steel and something wildly masculine—filled my lungs, I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
What I saw there made my heart shatter.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No desire, no affection, not even basic human warmth. Just the flat, emotionless stare of a man performing an unpleasant but necessary task.
"Jasper," I whispered, his name scraping my throat raw. "We don't have to—if you don't want—"
"Quiet." His fingers found the silk ties at my shoulders, and I flinched at the contact. Not from pain, but from the clinical detachment in his touch. "This needs to be done."
This. Not 'making love' or 'consummating our bond.' This. Like I was a chore to be completed, an item to be checked off his endless list of Alpha responsibilities.
The gown's ties gave way under his impatient fingers. Silver silk slithered down my body and pooled at my feet with a whisper that sounded like surrender. Cool air kissed my suddenly exposed skin, and I fought the urge to cover myself with my hands.
His gaze raked over me with the same emotion he might show when inspecting livestock. Clinical. Assessing. Finding me adequate for his purposes and nothing more.
Heat flooded my cheeks—not the warm flush of arousal, but the burning shame of being seen and found wanting. My wolf-less body was pale as moonlight, slender where pack she-wolves were lush, unremarkable where they were stunning. Standing naked before this perfect specimen of Alpha dominance, I felt like a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.
"Get on the bed."
The order hit me like a physical blow. I wanted to refuse, to demand he treat me like a person instead of an object, but the words died in my throat. This was my husband, my Alpha, the man fate had chosen for me. Who was I to question what Selene herself had decreed?
My feet moved without conscious thought, carrying me the few steps to our marriage bed. The black silk sheets were cool against my skin as I sat on the edge, then lay back against the mountain of pillows. Above me, the carved wolf heads seemed to watch with hollow wooden eyes, silent witnesses to whatever was about to unfold.
Jasper moved with efficient precision, stripping off his shirt and unfastening his trousers. Firelight painted his chest in gold and shadow, highlighting the powerful muscles and old scars that marked him as a warrior. He should have been beautiful—and he was, in the way that storms and avalanches were beautiful. Dangerous, overwhelming, utterly beyond my control.
But there was no appreciation in his movements, no hunger in his eyes as they swept over my exposed form. Just grim determination, like a soldier preparing for an unpleasant but necessary battle.
He came over me then, his weight pressing me deep into the mattress. The mate bond flared to life between us, silver threads sparking and crackling where our skin met. My body responded despite my mind's protests—pulse quickening, breath catching, every nerve suddenly hypersensitive to his proximity.
For one wild, hopeful moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his storm-gray eyes. A hint of warmth, maybe, or at least recognition that I was more than just a warm body beneath him.
Then his mouth crashed down on mine, and that foolish hope died a swift death.
It wasn't a kiss—it was a claiming. Brutal, possessive, designed to dominate rather than seduce. His teeth caught my bottom lip, and I tasted copper as blood welled up between us. The metallic tang mixed with his breath, creating a flavor that would haunt my nightmares for months to come.
I tried to respond, to give him something back, but he was already moving. Rough hands positioned my legs, calloused fingers digging into soft skin hard enough to leave bruises. The mate bond screamed between us, silver fire racing through my veins as our wolves recognized each other on some primal level.
But recognition wasn't acceptance. And acceptance wasn't love.
Pain lanced through me as he took what he'd come for—sharp, tearing, brutal in its efficiency. I bit down on a cry, teeth cutting deeper into my already wounded lip. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. The stories, the whispered conversations between mated she-wolves—they spoke of fire and passion, of bonds forged in ecstasy and sealed with devotion.
This felt like dying.
Each movement was mechanical, methodical, utterly devoid of tenderness. He might as well have been performing maintenance on a piece of equipment for all the emotion he showed. My body tried to adjust, tried to find pleasure in the connection our souls demanded, but my heart was already retreating to some cold, distant place where the pain couldn't reach.
The bond pulsed between us, silver threads weaving tighter with each thrust. I could feel his wolf now—Veyron, proud and ruthless, touching the edges of my consciousness like ice water. But where there should have been warmth, acceptance, the joy of recognition, there was only cold calculation.
Duty, his wolf seemed to whisper. Obligation. Nothing more.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, tracking hot paths down my temples to disappear into my hair. Not from physical pain—though that was considerable—but from the crushing weight of understanding. This was my life now. This cold, brutal claiming would be repeated whenever he deemed it necessary to produce heirs, and I would endure it because that was what Lunas did.
They endured.
When it was over—and goddess help me, it felt like hours though it could only have been minutes—he pulled away without a word. The sudden absence of his weight left me feeling hollow, aching, more alone than I'd ever been in my life.
The mate bond still thrummed between us, silver threads now permanently welded into place by what we'd just done. But instead of the warm, comforting presence I'd dreamed of, it felt like a chain around my neck. A constant reminder of everything I'd lost and would never have.
Jasper rolled to his feet with fluid grace, already reaching for his discarded clothes. In the firelight, his body was a sculpture carved from marble and moonlight—perfect, untouchable, completely indifferent to the broken girl bleeding on black silk sheets behind him.
He dressed with the same mechanical efficiency he'd shown in everything else. Trousers, shirt, boots—each piece of clothing another barrier between us, another wall thrown up around his carefully guarded heart.
I pulled the sheet up to cover myself, suddenly desperate to hide from those cold gray eyes. My hands shook as I clutched the silk to my chest, trying to hold the scattered pieces of my dignity together through sheer force of will.
"Jasper," I whispered, his name barely a breath in the suddenly oppressive silence. "Please. Can't you just... say something? Anything?"
For a moment—just a heartbeat—he went still. His hand paused on the door latch, broad shoulders rigid beneath his shirt. Hope fluttered in my chest like a caged bird, fragile but desperate.
Turn around, I begged silently. Look at me. See me. Tell me this meant something, even if it's a lie.
But when he moved again, it was to open the door. Cold air rushed in from the corridor, making me shiver despite the sheet wrapped around me. His boots struck the stone floor with measured precision, each step carrying him further away from me and whatever fragile connection we might have forged.
The scent of him lingered—storm and steel and the faint copper tang of my blood on his lips—but it was already fading. Within minutes, even that would be gone, leaving me alone with the echoes of what we'd done and the terrible understanding of what our marriage would be.
I sat there in the darkness, sheet clutched against my chest, and felt something vital break inside me. Not just my body, though that ached with a deep, thrumming pain that would last for days. Something deeper. Something that had once believed in fairy tales and true love and the sacred bond between mates.
The silver threads still pulsed faintly in my chest, carrying his emotions like poison through my veins. Distance. Relief. The cold satisfaction of a duty completed.
And underneath it all, so faint I might have imagined it—disgust.
I closed my eyes and let the tears fall, each one carrying away another piece of the girl who'd walked into this chamber hours ago full of hope and naive dreams. When I opened them again, that girl was gone.
In her place sat a woman who finally understood the truth about her marriage, her mate, and her place in the world.
And the first stirrings of something that might—if I was very unlucky—grow into hatred.
But first, I had to follow the silver thread that still connected us, still pulsed with his retreating presence. I had to see where my husband went when he finished using me, what—or who—was worth more than the broken girl he'd left bleeding in their marriage bed.
I slipped from between the sheets on trembling legs, pulled on a discarded robe, and followed his scent into the shadows of Ironfang Keep. The stone floor was cold beneath my bare feet, but not as cold as the realization settling in my chest like winter.
This was only the beginning.