Cordelia hadn’t really slept. The night had nibbled itself into scraps, and her thoughts scattered like startled birds.
He had proposed. She hadn’t refused, not really.
It was madness and yet a steadying kind of madness that made the rest of the world look slightly out of place.
Saturday breakfasts alone with her Father were a habit older than grief. Lord Leon glanced over the rim of his notes and took in the untouched slice on her plate.
“Were you reading all night again?”
Cordelia let a smile find her mouth. “Yes, Father. The book was captivating…”
“Was it? What was it about?” He cut the pie and slid a generous wedge onto his own plate.
She touched the warm china to anchor herself.
“Two young people,” she said carefully, “from families that have hated each other so long they’ve forgotten why. They meet by chance. He is… not what he’s been called. Everyone says he’s cold, dangerous, proud, but he keeps choosing gentleness when he could take the easier path. She notices, and that noticing won’t leave her alone.”
Lord Leon’s mouth tilted. “Love is clever that way in stories.”
“In stories,” she agreed, and let the word hide the quiver in her chest. “It’s frightening… and also…”
She let the sentence trail, as if embarrassed by her own softness.
“Captivating?” Leon supplied, amused.
“Yes.” She lifted the mask he liked, naive and dreamy, and wore it with care. “Very silly. I expect it ends badly, as such tales do. I haven’t reached the final chapters.”
“Spare yourself,” he said, dry. “The families keep their old hatreds, the young keep their romantic notions. And a priest earns his coin burying the difference.”
A small laugh escaped Cordelia, trying to hide complicated feelings behind her ribs.
She broke a corner from her crust, crumbled it, and forgot to eat it. Her own voice asked before she could stop it, “What if it could be real?”
Leon looked up, humor draining. “What if what could be real?”
“The story,” she said in a mild tone that cost effort. “Not the names, only the shape. What if the families weren’t inventions but—” she chose her steps “—say, two people who don’t understand each other. Humans and wolves, for instance.”
His face did not close so much as harden in place. The room’s warmth thinned. “Cordelia.”
“I’m only speaking of a story.”
“No,” he said, setting his cup down with care “You are testing fences. Wolves killed your mother. That is not a tale to keep children obedient; that is what they are. They are incapable of love. Their hearts are stone.”
She had known he would say it. Still, the words struck cold. Memory offered fragments—her mother's shawl hanging where it no longer belonged, the hush in the house, Father's voice turned to iron.
Cordelia lowered her gaze and let obedience find its familiar lines.
“Yes, Father,” she said quietly. “You’re right.”
He exhaled and reached across again, meaning to soothe.
“I don’t say it to frighten you,” he added, softer. “Only to spare you a pain I cannot mend.”
“I know.” She looked up long enough to give him the gratitude he wanted.
They finished on ordinary matters—grain tallies, a cracked cartwheel, whether the south watch would need new boots before the thaw. Then Lord Leon gathered his notes to meet his captain.
Cordelia excused herself and left the breakfast room, her mind a tangle of thoughts she couldn't begin to unravel. The corridor stretched before her, empty and echoing with her footsteps.
Her father's words circled like vultures. Wolves killed your mother. They are incapable of love. Their hearts are stone.
But she'd felt Dante's heart beating against hers when he held her. She'd tasted the tenderness in his kiss. Heard the vulnerability in his voice when he said he loved her.
How could something so real be the lie her father claimed?
Lost in thought, she didn't notice the figure stepping from the shadows until a hand caught her wrist and pulled her sideways into a hidden alcove. She gasped, but before she could make a sound, she recognized the golden skin and forest-green eyes.
"Dante!" she whispered harshly, even as relief flooded through her. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"My apologies." His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—too hungry, too pleased at having her close again. "But you were walking past looking so serious, and I couldn't resist."
"Someone could see us."
"Then we'll be quiet." He stepped closer, backing her gently against the stone wall. "I needed to see you. Last night, when you left—I couldn't stop thinking about what you said. That you'd think about it."
Her breath caught. "I am thinking about it. Constantly. It's all I can think about."
"And?" The hope in his voice made her chest ache.
"And I'm still terrified," she admitted. "My father just spent breakfast reminding me that wolves are monsters incapable of love."
Something dark flickered across his features. "And do you believe him?"
"No." The word came out fierce. "I know what I feel. I know what you are. But Dante, he's so convinced—"
"Shh." He pressed a finger gently to her lips. "We don't have to solve it all right now. I just wanted to give you something."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate silver chain. A moonstone pendant caught the dim light filtering through the tapestry, glowing with an ethereal blue-white shimmer.
Cordelia's breath caught. "It's beautiful."
"May I?" He gestured to the necklace.
She nodded, unable to speak. His fingers were warm against her neck as he fastened the clasp, gentle and careful. The moonstone settled in the hollow of her throat, and she felt the weight of it like a promise.
When she turned back, his eyes had darkened with something that made her pulse race.
"Perfect," he murmured. "Like it was made for you."
"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll treasure it."
"Cordelia." Her name was a prayer on his lips. He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs tracing her cheekbones. "Whether you say yes or no to my proposal—I want you to know that I love you. That I'm yours. That you’re mine."
When he kissed her, it was different from the one in the garden. Like they had all the time in the world, like he was memorizing the shape of her mouth, the taste of her breath.
His hand slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she made a sound that would have embarrassed her if she'd been capable of rational thought. But rational thought had abandoned her the moment his mouth touched hers.
"Alpha."
They broke apart like guilty children, both breathing hard.
Silas stood at the edge of the alcove, his calculating eyes taking in the scene with damning precision. Cordelia flushed and disheveled and Dante's hands still on her waist.
"Silas." Dante's voice carried a warning.
Cordelia felt heat flood her cheeks as mortification crashed over her. "I should— I need to go."
She ducked out of the alcove without meeting either man's eyes, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst from her chest.
Silas fixed Dante with a look that could have frozen fire.
"That necklace," he said quietly, "was your mother's."
"I'm aware."
"You gave it to a human girl. Leon's daughter." Silas stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "You're making a huge mistake, Dante. Whatever this is—it needs to stop before it goes too far."
"It's already gone too far." Dante met his second's gaze without flinching. "She's my mate, Silas."
"She's a complication that will destroy everything we've worked for." Silas's jaw clenched. "Leon will never accept this. When he finds out—and he will find out—this alliance will shatter."
"I know the risks."
"Do you?" Silas demanded. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're thinking with your other head. You're the Alpha. Your decisions affect the entire pack. And right now, you're risking everything for a girl who hasn't even said yes to you."
The words hit their mark, but Dante's expression didn't waver.
"She's not just a girl. She's my mate. And I would risk everything for her."
Cordelia stared at the cooling slice on her plate and felt something in her settle into shape. She had offered him a story because it was safer than the truth. He had answered with a verdict because that was safer than uncertainty.
But safety had no business writing the end of this.
‘It’s my story,’ she thought, sudden and fierce. ‘I will write it myself.’
She pushed back her chair so fast it rapped the floor. She left the room with a speed that felt like relief. Like snapping a leash that had been tightened slowly for years.
She didn’t know where she was going; her feet knew.
Down the corridor, through the service hall that smelled of soap and yeast. Past the side door where the cold slapped her awake. Across the yard where mud slicked over frost.
Instinct tugged, unerring as a magnet.
The clang of steel led her to the inner courtyard. Dante, Daniel, and Silas were training in the winter sun.
Daniel laughed as he recovered from a failed feint; Silas’s blade described precise, economical circles, while Dante moved with an ease that made all other motion look wasteful.
He stilled before he saw her. He felt her, the way a compass feels north. His sword dropped to his side; he lifted a hand, and Daniel and Silas stopped as if a string had been cut.
Cordelia didn’t slow. Faces turned—guards on the wall, a stable lad with a bridle looped over his arm. Daniel was already grinning as if good news had entered the court. Silas’s eyes narrowed, quick as a shutter.
She went straight to Dante, heart loud, breath white in the air.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
He didn’t make her clarify. He only stood very still, as if any sudden move might shake the world apart.
She took a breath that didn’t hurt. “I’ll marry you.”
For a heartbeat, the yard held its breath. Then Daniel whooped, a boy’s sound escaping a man’s chest. Silas’s brows climbed a fraction and fell; whatever he thought, he hid it.
Dante let his blade fall to the mat. No triumph showed—only quiet astonishment, like water after thirst.
“Cordelia,” he said, and her name carried everything he could not say here. “You don’t have to answer in public,” he added, voice low. “If you want—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I brought it where it could breathe.”
A small, private smile touched his mouth. “We’ll find the way,” he said.
“Together,” she answered.
Daniel planted his hands on his hips, still grinning. “About time.”
“Daniel,” Silas said mildly, without looking away from Dante. Then, to the Alpha: “The lord will not bless this.”
“Then we’ll bring him reasons,” Dante said.
“I will bring mine,” Cordelia added.
She didn’t know yet what shape those reasons would take—law, mercy, proof of safety—but the promise felt solid.
Silas inclined his head, polite. Dante’s attention flicked once toward the watching walls; the courtyard had ears.
“Not here,” he said softly. “Later.”
She nodded. “At dusk.”
He returned the nod. No touch passed between them. It didn’t need to. The word they had both chosen stood where anyone could see it, and that was touch enough.
Daniel, still buoyant, clapped Dante’s shoulder and trotted toward the gate.
“I’ll make sure the men are elsewhere,” he said over his shoulder.
Silas saluted with cool precision and followed. The rings of steel resumed faintly beyond the arch as practice shifted to another yard.
Cordelia and Dante remained a breath longer in the thin winter light.
“It’s yes,” he said again, almost to himself.
“It’s yes,” she answered, and turned away before the look in her own eyes betrayed more than she was ready to give the world.