Marcus didn't respond at first. He just stared at the moonlight rippling on the water. A bride? He hadn't even begun to understand his own heart, hadn't been allowed to. The burden of the Alpha title had settled on his shoulders like a yoke—heavy, cold, relentless. Every choice he made now had to serve the pack, not himself.
Christopher's voice softened—just barely. "A mate may not come soon. But a Luna must be chosen. One who strengthens your position. One who can birth heirs commands respect. Love will come later. Duty comes first."
Marcus clenched his jaw. The word duty tasted bitter in his mouth. He hated how natural it sounded coming from Christopher's lips, how practiced. As if love was just a luxury that could be shelved, sacrificed when he himself married for love.
"And what if I never love her?" Marcus asked, barely above a whisper. "What if I choose a Luna and she's nothing but a symbol?"
Christopher sighed, long and heavy. "Then you honor her with loyalty. With protection. You treat her with kindness, even if your heart lies elsewhere. That's what it means to lead."
Marcus looked down at his reflection in the water—young, handsome, burdened. A future carved by bloodlines and expectation. He hated how small he felt in the face of it.
"What if I don't want to be like my father?" he asked.
Christopher placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then be better than him. But don't make the mistake of thinking love can lead when strength is what the pack needs."
The wind stirred the trees, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a long, mournful sound that echoed everything Marcus was too proud to admit. He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands, eyes hardening.
"Then I'll do what's required. I'll choose a Luna."
But in his heart, he whispered a quiet prayer to the Moon Goddess.
Please... don't let her hate me.
That night, when they returned to the village, Christopher took Marcus to the pack's social hall—and without fanfare, two beautiful women were waiting, handpicked, discreetly compensated, and instructed to be gentle with the Alpha's son. They smiled, coy and eager, as Marcus's heart thundered in his chest.
He wasn't naive. He knew what this was. A rite. A test. A quiet message from his father that manhood, power, and control were to be claimed, not felt.
And so, he did what was expected of him.
He let them lead him to the back room, where the air was thick with scented oils and tension. The flickering candles cast soft shadows across their bare skin, the silk sheets cool against his fingertips. They whispered his name like a secret, touched him with reverence, and yet all Marcus felt was a dull ache, an emptiness masquerading as initiation.
He tried to lose himself in it, to let instinct and pressure override the tremble in his gut. He kissed when they leaned in, touched where they guided his hands, and moved as he was told to move. But there was no fire in it, no connection. Just a performance. A submission to expectation.
Afterward, when they were curled beside him, one tracing lazy patterns on his chest, Marcus stared at the wooden ceiling above, listening to their soft breaths, their shallow contentment.
He felt... nothing.
No pride. No power. Just a gnawing hollowness and the sinking realization that he'd crossed a threshold he couldn't return from, not because he wanted to, but because he was told to.
When he stepped out of that room, buttoning his shirt under the judgmental glow of moonlight, Christopher was waiting near the hall's entrance, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Marcus didn't speak. Neither did Christopher. But something passed between them, a silent acknowledgment. Approval. Expectation met.
"You're a man now," Christopher finally said. "The pack will see it. They'll feel it in how you carry yourself."
Marcus gave a stiff nod, but inside, he wasn't sure what had changed. If anything, a piece of him had been buried that night quietly, discreetly, like a body no one would ever claim.
And somewhere deep in his chest, a quiet voice whispered:
This isn't who I wanted to be.
That night changed Marcus.
Something inside him shifted, not broken, but detached. The experience didn't leave him warm or connected. It left him aware. Aware of the way women looked at him, the way desire clung to him like a second skin, the way touch could be used without needing to feel.
And he became very, very good at using it.
At first, it was accidental, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his voice dipped into something smooth and velvet-lined. The way his hands found the small of a woman's back in passing, making her shiver with imagined promises.
But soon, it became deliberate. Calculated.
He learned to flirt like it was warfare, to disarm with a smirk, and to conquer with charm. His body became another weapon in his arsenal, a means to control, to command, to distract. He didn't need to crave intimacy to use it. All he needed was the understanding that power came not just through brute strength, but through seduction and restraint.
And the pack noticed.
The older wolves said he was becoming like his father: cold-eyed, magnetic, and dangerous. The younger she-wolves whispered about him in corners, daring each other to catch his eye, to be the one who might soften him.
None did.
Because Marcus never let anyone close enough to reach the raw place inside, the part that still remembered moonlight on water and the ache of wanting to choose for himself.
He took lovers, many of them. Brief, intense flings that ended with silence and distance. He gave them pleasure but not affection. He offered heat but never warmth. His kisses tasted like honey and smoke, addictive and fleeting.
And every time he walked away, it got easier.
Because he knew now: love made you vulnerable, but desire... desire could be controlled.
It wasn't that he didn't feel. It was that he chose not to.
And with every choice, Marcus Valen became less the boy who questioned and more the alpha-in-waiting, dangerously composed, devastatingly beautiful, and utterly untouchable.