Faye's POV
Hardy settled back in his chair, his dark eyes sliding toward Sally with calculated indifference. "Bring us some pastries."
Her perfectly practiced smile wavered for just a heartbeat, but I caught the slight tremor in her manicured fingers as she reached for the serving tray. Here was a woman who expected to rule as Luna, now reduced to playing servant. I watched her eyes dart desperately toward Father, silently begging him to intervene. He remained motionless.
The tension in the room was suffocating as Sally placed the silver platter between us, every movement rigid with suppressed humiliation. She had already poured the wine. Now she was serving food. What would come next? Would he ask her to clean the floors?
How dare Hardy publicly embarrass Sally like this? Surely he knew she was meant to marry the Alpha King. Yet something dark and shameful unfurled in my chest at seeing her brought low. Was he doing this because of me? No. The thought was ridiculous.
Hardy selected a honey pastry with deliberate slowness, taking his time to savor each bite as if he hadn't just destroyed Sally's dignity in her own home. Golden crumbs clung to his bottom lip. His tongue swept them away with lazy precision before his attention turned to me.
I kept my gaze lowered, but Sally's furious stare burned against my skin like a brand. Without acknowledging her presence, Hardy extended the half-eaten pastry toward me.
"Eat," he commanded.
My breath caught for a split second. Then I leaned forward, my lips grazing the exact spot where his fingers had been. The pastry was warm and sweet, but underneath the honey was something far more intoxicating. Something dangerous.
His eyes never left mine.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but somehow filling the entire room.
Heat coiled low in my stomach. Not from fear. From something I refused to acknowledge.
"The Deon Demons will advance within days," Father interrupted, his voice cutting through the electric tension like a dull blade.
Hardy didn't even glance at him. He reached for another pastry instead.
"Discussing war on my wedding night," he said, brushing crumbs from his long fingers. "How romantic."
"My lord, when the Deon Demons move, Duskwood will be their first target," Father pressed, desperation creeping into his tone. "We stand directly in their path of destruction."
Finally, Hardy met his eyes. "A third of my northern army will remain stationed here. Let them come."
Father's composure cracked. I felt it in the way his shoulders tensed, as if the answer wasn't what he expected. Perhaps it was too generous an offer. Why would the Lord of the North willingly leave such a substantial force in the south? But these were political calculations beyond my understanding.
I studied Hardy's profile. He looked utterly bored by the conversation, already reaching for more wine, his lips stained crimson.
Sally settled back into her chair, desperately trying to salvage her composure. But I could see it now. Hardy wasn't simply making a point. He was systematically seizing control of the room. First with the wine service. Then the pastries. Now the war itself.
And I sat beside him, silent and watchful, a captive audience to his conquest.
"War interests me far less than my new bride," he declared suddenly.
My blood froze. My head snapped toward him. What game was he playing now?
"I've examined the dowry you prepared. Rather modest for an Alpha's eldest daughter, wouldn't you agree?"
The words hit me like ice water. Dowry? Why was he discussing my dowry?
"My lord..." Father began.
Hardy cut him off with surgical precision. "This dowry was prepared by your Luna, my bride's own mother, was it not?" Something in his tone reminded me of my mother's bitter words from the previous night.
He turned his head with predatory slowness. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume it was meant for a servant girl." His gaze sharpened like a blade. "Are you certain I'm marrying your daughter, Alpha Rowan?"
Father's spine went rigid. "Are you accusing me of deceiving the crown?"
Hardy's eyes glittered with dangerous amusement. "Did you?"
"Outrageous!" Father exploded. "I would never risk my pack with such treachery."
"Then summon your Luna," Hardy said, his voice cutting through the air like steel through flesh. "I want to speak with her directly."
It wasn't a request. It was an absolute command.
In that moment, I understood something chilling. My father ruled Duskwood through authority and tradition. But Hardy Brookhaven didn't rule at all. He conquered everything in his path.
The room became a tomb. I heard Father's sharp intake of breath. Sally shifted nervously. Even the servants froze like statues.
"My lord," Father said quickly, "if the dowry seems insufficient, we can supplement it immediately. There's no need to involve..."
"I asked for the Luna," Hardy repeated, his voice rising with unmistakable menace. "Unless you're suggesting your wife deliberately insulted me."
"No, absolutely not. I'll summon her immediately." Terror flickered in Father's eyes as he gestured frantically to the servants.
Hardy leaned back, looking far too pleased for someone supposedly offended. His gaze found mine briefly before sliding away, as if I were merely the excuse, not the actual subject.
"Tell me," he added with casual cruelty, "if Lady Sally were marrying into royalty, would her dowry be identical?"
Silence swallowed the room. We all knew the truth. So did he.
If Sally were the bride, they would empty the entire treasury without hesitation.
Mother appeared within minutes, offering a hasty bow. "My lord, I understand you have concerns about the dowry arrangements. I..."
Hardy rose before she could finish. "I have no interest in excuses."
The room held its breath. What was his endgame?
He stepped forward like a predator cornering prey. "My consort will receive everything she deserves. I expect a complete inventory before we depart tomorrow. If anything is missing..."
He let the threat hang in the air. He didn't need to finish it. Everyone understood he would unleash hell itself.
Then he extended his hand toward me. "I'm tired. We'll retire to our chambers now."
My lips parted soundlessly. I had never encountered anyone so ruthlessly confident that no one would dare challenge him.
Despite everything, I rose and placed my hand in his. We had barely taken two steps when a servant moved to escort us. Hardy stopped.
"My bride will show me to our rooms," he stated.
That was all it took. The servant froze, bowed hastily, and melted back into the shadows. The others followed like smoke dissipating at dawn.
We left the study in absolute silence.
I guided him through corridors I barely knew, past the council chambers and through doors I had seen opened only once in my lifetime. The royal guest quarters for visiting nobility and war generals. Wolfless daughters weren't even permitted near this hallway, much less through its doors.
But now I was the bride. His bride.
The latch clicked as I closed the door behind us. I turned slowly, taking in the opulent space.
The room was massive, larger than Father's private chambers. A fireplace crackled warmly in the corner. The sitting area featured velvet chairs arranged around a table carved with Duskwood's crest. Curtained windows overlooked the eastern gardens. A polished bar gleamed beneath shelves of crystal decanters. Through an archway, I glimpsed the bathroom with its enormous tub and gilded fixtures.
At the room's center stood the bed. Four-posted, draped in silver silk that looked soft as moonlight.
I stood frozen, overwhelmed by the luxury.
Hardy shrugged off his military cloak, black wool embroidered with red northern designs along the collar. It fell carelessly to the floor. Underneath, he wore a dark shirt, slightly damp at the throat, sleeves rolled to reveal powerful forearms.
He said nothing. Simply walked past me and settled into the nearest chair like he owned not just the room, but the entire castle. One arm draped lazily over the backrest as he studied me with predatory patience.
"Wine," he said without looking up.
I nodded and moved to the bar, keeping my footsteps silent. The selection was impressive. Reds, whites, aged vintages from distant shores. Not knowing his preference, I chose the strongest wine I recognized and poured it into a crystal goblet.
When I turned, he was already watching me.
I crossed the room and offered him the glass.
He accepted it without comment but didn't drink immediately. Instead, he held the rim near his mouth while his dark eyes studied me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve.
Slowly, I met his gaze.
"You're not trembling," he finally observed.
I didn't respond. I didn't trust my voice.
His eyes traveled slowly downward.
"Remove your clothes."