Leon’s hands curled into fists so tight he felt his claws begin to press through. The war room buzzed with tension, but he didn’t hear any of it. Not the murmured warnings from ministers, not the clink of armor as guards shifted nervously. All he could hear was the echo of that one word: kill.
Someone had dared to speak Celine’s death like it was policy.
On his territory.
On their wedding day.
He felt the shift coming—his body crackling with rage, bones threatening to twist, fur begging to break through skin. His vision narrowed. The only thing keeping him from tearing the table in half was the sound of her voice.
“Leon.”
Soft. Grounded. Hers.
He blinked and looked at her—still in her wedding gown, standing too tall for someone who’d just been marked by prophecy, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
Her eyes were wide, not with fear of him, but with fear of what might come next.
The King.
Leon gritted his teeth, forcing the shift back down, barely containing the storm inside. His shoulders heaved once, then twice, before he finally straightened.
“You will not threaten my mate in my packhouse,” he growled, voice like thunder over ice. “Not today. Not ever.”
“Alpha,” the King said, lifting a brow. “You’re dangerously close to letting emotion override reason.”
Leon took a step forward. “Reason is not killing an innocent woman because of a prophecy none of us even understand.”
“History has—”
“History,” Leon snapped, “doesn’t get to decide Celine’s future. She hasn’t done anything wrong. You said it yourself—this hasn’t happened in generations. So maybe it’s time we stop treating her like a threat and start treating her like what she is.”
The King’s expression cooled. “And what’s that, exactly?”
“My Luna,” Leon said. “And the future of this pack.”
Silence fell again. But it wasn’t fear that followed—it was loyalty.
Helga stepped forward, standing beside him without needing to be asked. “Crimson Fang stands with our Alpha and his Luna.”
Outside the doors, faintly, came the sound of gathering. Word had spread. The pack was already moving, closing ranks, preparing.
Leon watched the King closely and caught it—the slight pause, the way his eyes lingered on the warriors lining the hall, the quiet tilt of his head as if recalculating a move mid-game.
They hadn’t come to observe. They had come to provoke, to gauge the strength behind the ceremony. But now the King had seen it for himself. The discipline. The unity. The power simmering beneath the surface. Crimson Fang wasn’t just ceremony and bloodlines. It was prepared. And any war brought to its gates would cost more than expected.
And if it started here, today, with a bride still in her wedding gown and petals still on the floor? They might not survive it.
The King exhaled slowly, spreading his hands. “This is not the time for conflict.”
“No,” Leon agreed. “It’s the time for celebration. And I won’t let you take that from us.”
The King gave a small, polite smile. “Of course not. We wouldn’t want to spoil the wedding.”