POV Matteo
The morning sun streams through tinted windows, as my car cuts through the countryside toward the Aldridge pack, doing nothing to ease the pleasant ache in my muscles—remnants of last night's activities that I have no intention of regretting.
My escort, a gray-haired advisor my father insists on sending to these things, sits rigidly across from me in the spacious cabin.
A partition separates us from the driver, soundproof, private, which unfortunately means I can't escape the lecture he's been delivering for the past twenty minutes.
His voice drones on about propriety and responsibility and the sacred importance of this alliance.
I stopped listening somewhere around minute five.
"Spending the night with a stranger. Partying at some underground club until dawn, right before the most important matchmaking of your life. Your father would be deeply disappointed to know how you've chosen to prepare."
I don't bother looking at him. My eyes stay fixed on the window.
"But you didn't tell him." My voice is silk over steel, not a muscle twitching on my face. "And you won't."
The advisor's jaw tightens. I can see it from my peripheral vision—the way his hands clench in his lap, the vein that pulses at his temple.
"I'll be forced to if you continue to jeopardize the pack's future with your reckless behavior."
I almost laugh. Almost.
These threats have always been empty, and we both know it.
My father needs me too much—I'm the Corsini heir, the only viable option, sins and all. My brothers are either dead or disgraced, and my sisters can't inherit under pack law.
So dear old dad is stuck with me, the family disappointment who also happens to be the family's only hope.
The irony isn't lost on me.
I let the advisor's words wash over me like water, already bored with the conversation.
My mind drifts back to last night instead—to the girl in the club, the one with no wolf scent and no fear. The way she moved between me and Soren like she was made for us. The sounds she made when we took her apart.
The Aldridge estate rises into view, and even I have to admit it's impressive. Sprawling. Ancient. Dripping with the kind of old-money power that makes lesser wolves bare their throats on instinct.
The main house looks like it's been standing for centuries, all gray stone and climbing ivy and windows that gleam like watching eyes.
The car pulls through the gates just as three other vehicles arrive.
My competition.
The driver opens my door, and I step out, watching the other princes emerge with lazy interest.
Sebastian Vane is first—golden and polished, flashing that charming smile that makes everyone trust him. He looks like sunshine given human form, all warmth and easy grace.
But then I watch him greet the Aldridge servants, clasping hands with the footman like they're old friends, making a maid blush with some quiet compliment.
His wolf radiates something I don't expect. Sebastian Vane might play the golden boy, but there's steel beneath that sunshine. The kind of Alpha who earns loyalty instead of demanding it.
Khalil Amari follows from another car, all gentle grace and soft edges. He moves like he's apologizing for taking up space, his wolf so calm it barely registers.
Too soft. A wolf like Eva's father, the infamous Alpha King Aldric, would never take him seriously. He'd see Khalil's gentleness as weakness and eat him alive.
But as Khalil approaches, I notice something that makes my wolf sit up and take notice. The other servants actually relax in his presence. Their shoulders drop. Their breathing slows.
His power isn't loud or aggressive, but it's there, spreading through the courtyard like a quiet tide. A mate who can calm an entire pack without lifting a finger?
That's not weakness. That's a weapon the Alpha King would kill to possess.
Neither of them will be as easy to defeat as I first thought.
Then I spot Soren unfolding from his vehicle, and a genuine grin spreads across my face.
Well, well. My partner in crime.
I catch up to the Nordic pack’s prince with a few long strides, bumping his shoulder deliberately. He's dressed in his usual black, sharp and severe, but there's something off about him today.
Something deliciously human.
"Well." I pitch my voice low, for his ears only. My grin turns wicked. "Hungover or still hard from last night?"
Soren's response is a low growl that vibrates through the space between us. "Fuck off, Corsini."
But I already have my answer.
The dark sunglasses hiding his ice-pale eyes—indoors, Soren never wears sunglasses. The languid, careful way he moves, like every step costs him something. The bottle of water he keeps raising to his lips with mechanical regularity.
The Ice Prince of the North is definitely feeling the effects of our shared evening.
The Aldridge palace reeks of legacy and expectation—marble hallways, priceless paintings, servants who bow so low they nearly scrape the floor.
I catalog everything with the practiced eye of a predator assessing new territory.
Exits. Sight lines. The subtle power dynamics between the staff.
Then we enter the formal receiving room, and everything stops.
Princess Evangeline stands beside her father, dressed in something elegant and modest that does absolutely nothing to hide her beauty.
Dark hair cascades over her shoulders like silk. Green eyes flash with barely concealed defiance, even as she holds herself with perfect poise. And her body…
Her body I know intimately, even if I only explored it in darkness.
I freeze. My wolf surges against my ribs, snarling with recognition so violent it nearly breaks my composure.
It's her.
The girl from the club. The wolfless stranger who matched my darkness without flinching, who gasped and begged and shattered between me and Soren like she was made for us.
I can still taste her on my tongue, still feel the echo of her nails down my back.
My shock must show on my face, because I catch Sebastian glancing at me curiously. To anyone else, it probably looks like I've been struck dumb by the princess's beauty—and there's truth to that.
In the club's strobing lights and the hotel room's shadows, I never got a proper look at her face. But now, in unforgiving daylight, I can see exactly what I claimed that night.
She's stunning.
And she's the heir to the most powerful pack in the territory.
Beside me, Soren has gone rigid as stone. His sunglasses hide his eyes, but I notice the tell-tale signs—the clench of his jaw, the sharp swallow, the way his hands have curled into fists at his sides.
The Ice Prince recognizes her too.
I stare at Eva with undisguised hunger, letting my gaze drag over her slowly, deliberately. I watch the flush climb her cheeks, watch her look away in discomfort.
Is it an embarrassment from my intensity? Or does some part of her recognize the wolves who took her apart piece by piece too?
She doesn't show obvious signs of recognition. No widening eyes, no sharp intake of breath. Either she truly doesn't remember our faces, or she's a better actress than I gave her credit for.
It doesn't matter.
I bow to the Alpha King, all proper respect on the surface while my wolf howls with possessive intent beneath. Eva's father drones on about honor and alliance and bloodlines, but I barely hear him.
My attention stays fixed on the princess—on the woman who fled my bed before dawn and somehow turned out to be the prize I came here to claim.
If she doesn't remember me, I'll make sure she does. I'll remind her of every touch, every sound, every way she came undone in my hands.
The game just became infinitely more interesting.