Sarah's POV
Grief makes men predictable, and predictable men are easy to maneuver.
I have watched Paul for two days now—forty-eight hours of studying the way he moves through this packhouse like a man walking through fog.
The pack sees their Alpha working tirelessly, coordinating search parties, demanding updates from his trackers with the fierce urgency of a leader protecting his people.
I see the truth they cannot.
Paul is not searching for a troubled servant girl who fled in the night.
The intensity of his desperation suggests something that looks suspiciously like a bond no Alpha should share with a woman who isn't his Luna.
The signs are subtle enough that most would miss them entirely. His responses come half a second too fast. He paces instead of sitting.
He dismisses conversations mid-sentence when they no longer serve his purpose. The careful control has become a cage, and I can see him pressing against its bars.
I recognize the pattern because I have spent months learning to read him—not as a wife learns a husband, but as a chess player learns an opponent.
Every tell, every weakness, every fracture in that stoic facade has been catalogued in my memory for exactly this kind of moment.
The evening of the second day arrives with no news from the trackers, and I dress for dinner with deliberate care.
The formal dining room glitters with candlelight when I enter, and three senior pack members are already seated at the long table.
Cormac, whose grizzled presence commands respect from everyone in the room; Aldrich, the aging treasurer whose advice Paul values above most; and Helena, the pack's protocol mistress who oversees every ceremony and ritual.
Perfect witnesses. I chose them deliberately, extending personal invitations earlier today with the explanation that pack unity required visible leadership during this difficult time.
What a joke.
Paul arrives last, his shoulders rigid beneath the dark fabric of his formal jacket.
He takes his seat at the head of the table without meeting anyone's eyes, and the conversation that follows is stilted and careful—updates on territory patrols, discussions of winter supply chains, the mundane business of pack administration that fills silence without requiring emotion.
I wait until the second course is served before I strike.
"Helena," I say, turning to the protocol mistress with an expression of gentle concern, "I wanted to ask your opinion on something that has been troubling me."
Helena sets down her fork with interest. "Of course, Luna. What concerns you?"
"The ceremony." I let the word hang for a moment before continuing.
"The Luna confirmation ceremony that should follow the wedding. I've had the preparations ready for some time now, but we haven't been able to finalize a date. I wanted to ask whether there's something I should understand about the delay."
The silence that falls over the table is immediate and weighted. Cormac exchanges a glance with Aldrich.
Helena's brow furrows with discomfort like she has been wondering the same thing but lacked the position to ask.
Paul's attention snaps to me from across the candlelit expanse, and I feel the force of it like pressure against my skin.
"This isn't the time for that discussion," he says, his voice carefully measured.
"I apologize if I've raised an uncomfortable subject." I let regret color my tone while my eyes hold his without wavering.
"But the pack has been patient, Paul. A Luna without a ceremony is a title without confirmation. The elders have asked me twice now when we intend to proceed."
Helena nods reluctantly. "It's true, Alpha. There have been inquiries. The members of both packs attended the wedding with the understanding that the formal presentation would follow within the traditional timeframe."
"The timing isn't right," Paul says flatly.
"It never will be if we wait for perfect timing." I set down my own fork, folding my hands on the table before me.
"The treaty between our packs was built on this marriage. If you can't confirm it publicly, both packs are going to start asking what the arrangement actually is."
The words land exactly as I intended them to—a reminder wrapped in concern.
Aldrich clears his throat into the uncomfortable silence. "The Luna raises a valid point, Alpha. The alliance between Blood Ridge and Silver Moon has always rested on the strength of the bond between our leading families. Delays in confirming that bond formally could be interpreted as... uncertainty."
"Uncertainty breeds whispers," Helena adds carefully. "And whispers breed doubt. It's the nature of pack politics, I'm afraid."
Paul's jaw tightens, and I watch the muscle flex beneath his skin as he processes the trap I've constructed around him.
He cannot deflect in front of witnesses without it becoming a question of Alpha conduct. He cannot dismiss their concerns without appearing to dismiss the alliance itself.
And he certainly cannot explain the true reason for his hesitation—that his heart belongs to a woman who is not sitting at this table, a woman whose disappearance has left him hollow in ways his pack can never know.
"You're suggesting I schedule the ceremony now," Paul says, and the words come out flat enough to cut glass. "While the pack is in the middle of a crisis."
Cormac shifts in his seat, his weathered face carrying discomfort. "With respect, Alpha—a servant girl running off in the night isn't a pack crisis. A pack without a confirmed Luna? That's the instability we should be addressing."
I reach for my wine glass, letting the crystal catch candlelight as I lift it toward my lips.
"I'm not trying to pressure you, Paul. I simply want what's best for both our packs. If you believe the ceremony should wait, then I'll support that decision and find other ways to address the elders' concerns."
The lie tastes sweet on my tongue.
Paul looks at me across the table, and for a long moment I see him calculating—weighing the cost of refusal against the cost of compliance, measuring exactly how much leverage I hold and what I might do with it.
He understands that if he refuses to confirm this marriage publicly, I will go to the Silver Moon elders and tell them the alliance is in jeopardy.
And if the alliance crumbles, the war resumes.
"Fine," he says finally. Two words, flat and absolute. "Schedule it."
Helena's face brightens with professional satisfaction. "I'll begin preparations immediately, Alpha. Shall we aim for the end of the month, or would you prefer—"
"Discuss the details with Sarah." Paul pushes back from the table, his plate still half-full. "I have reports to review."
He leaves without another word, and the three senior pack members exchange glances that carry a mixture of relief and lingering unease.
I lift my wine glass, letting the burgundy liquid catch the light.
I do not smile. Smiling would be unwise with witnesses still present.
But I settle deeper into my chair with satisfaction because I have just confirmed that every piece remains exactly where I need it on the board.
"If you'll excuse me," I say graciously, rising from the table, "I should let the Alpha know how much I appreciate his support. Helena, perhaps we could meet tomorrow morning to discuss the ceremony details?"
"Of course, Luna." Helena inclines her head with the respect my title demands.
The corridor outside Paul's office is empty when I reach it, the flickering sconces casting shadows that dance across stone walls.
I can hear his voice through the door—low and clipped, demanding updates about Morgan.
I pull out my phone and navigate to the encrypted messaging app that Thomas installed for me months ago.
The screen glows pale in the dim corridor as I type three words.
Me: Proceed with planning.
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