The cruelest thing about weddings is that they force you to witness joy you cannot share.
I stand at the back of the crowd, invisible among the servants, watching white silk flutter in the mountain breeze. Sarah is radiant. Triumph carves itself into every line of her beautiful face as she takes her place beneath the flower-draped arch.
Paul stands tall beside her, cold and detached. He performs his role with the precision of a man completing a transaction, nothing more.
The officiant's voice carries across the gathered packs. Words about unity and honor and eternal bonds drift through the air like smoke. I force myself to watch every moment of this ceremony unfold.
"Do you, Alpha Paul of Blood Ridge, take this woman as your Luna and mate?"
"I do." His voice doesn't waver when he speaks the words.
But his eyes find mine across the sea of guests for one burning heartbeat. Regret flashes through his gaze, followed by hunger and an apology I feel more than see. Then he looks away.
"And do you, Sarah of Silver Moon, take this man as your Alpha and mate?"
"I do." Her voice rings with victory.
The officiant raises his hands toward the watching crowd. "By the authority vested in me, I declare you Alpha and Luna of Blood Ridge."
Applause erupts around me, and I force my hands to move. I clap with everyone else, my palms meeting in a hollow rhythm.
Don't shatter. Not here. Not where anyone can see.
Sarah turns to kiss her husband, and I watch their lips meet with detached precision. My chest aches with emotions I refuse to name or examine.
The reception blurs past in a haze of forced smiles. Music plays, glasses clink, and laughter echoes through the decorated ballroom.
"You look like you're calculating escape routes," Zane murmurs, appearing at my side.
"Maybe I am," I admit quietly, unable to muster anything resembling humor.
He studies my face with concern that feels undeserved. "The ceremony was beautiful, wasn't it?"
"Beautiful," I echo, the word tasting like ash on my tongue.
Zane stays close all evening, reading my distress as general discomfort with crowds and festivities. His presence soothes me in ways I don't deserve.
"Dance with me?" he offers, extending his hand toward mine.
"I don't think that would be appropriate," I say, glancing toward where Sarah holds court.
"Since when do you care about appropriate?" His smile carries gentle teasing. "One dance won't start a war."
I take his hand and let him lead me to the edge of the floor. His arms wrap around me with careful respect, and we sway together in comfortable silence.
This could be enough, I think desperately. This kindness, this warmth, this safety.
But my traitorous eyes keep drifting toward Paul, who stands rigid beside his new bride.
The evening stretches on until tradition demands what tradition demands. The crowd parts as Sarah takes Paul's arm with possessive triumph.
"Time for the Alpha and his Luna to retire," someone announces.
Cheers and suggestive whistles follow them as they walk toward the Alpha quarters. Sarah's laughter rings through the night, bright and victorious.
Jealousy rips through me with violence I cannot contain. My nails dig into my palms until I feel skin break, the sharp pain the only anchor keeping me upright.
He belongs to her now. Legally. Permanently. Forever.
I retreat to my small room and undress mechanically, each movement automatic and hollow. The darkness welcomes me when I lie down.
The images come without mercy, vivid and devastating.
Paul's hands sliding the white silk from Sarah's shoulders. Paul's mouth tracing patterns across Sarah's skin. Paul whispering words of desire against Sarah's throat while she arches beneath him.
A sob tears from my chest before I can stop it. I press my fist against my mouth, muffling the sound that threatens to become a scream.
This is madness. This is self-destruction. This is everything I swore I would never let myself feel.
But my heart refuses to listen to reason, and the ache spreads through my body like poison with no antidote.
Exhaustion eventually claims me, dragging me under despite the agony clawing at my ribs.
A knock startles me awake.
My heart pounds as I stumble toward the door, pulling my robe tight around my trembling body. The hallway light silhouettes a massive figure.
Paul fills my doorway, still in his wedding clothes. His chest heaves with ragged breath, and his pale blue eyes burn with feral intensity.
"You shouldn't be here," I whisper, stepping back as my pulse roars in my ears.
"I know." He enters anyway, closing the door behind him with shaking hands. "Sarah is unconscious, she passed out from champagne."
My mind struggles to process his words through the fog of interrupted sleep and residual anguish.
"The marriage remains unconsummated," he continues, each word torn from him like confession. "I couldn't touch her, Morgan."
"Why not?" The question rips from me before I can stop it, desperate and raw.
"Because your scent haunts me." He stalks closer, his muscles coiled with terrible tension. "Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw your face instead of hers."
Heat floods through me, dangerous and overwhelming. My hands shake at my sides as everything I tried to bury comes rushing back to the surface.
"Paul, what's happening to you?" I ask, watching him struggle for control.
"I'm going into a rut." The admission grinds through gritted teeth. "I haven't experienced a true rut in years, but your scent has shattered my control completely."
I understand what rut means for male wolves. The mating frenzy that consumes them, the drive to claim and breed that overrides everything else.
"You should leave then," I breathe, even as my body betrays me with its response.
"I know." He prowls toward me anyway, each step deliberate and desperate. "I should leave, but I can't stay away from you, Morgan."
His hand reaches for my face, then stops mid-air with visible effort.
"Tell me to go." His voice breaks on the command. "Tell me to leave, and I will."
He's giving me a choice. Even burning with need, his body screaming for release, he won't take what isn't offered.
"What happens if I don't tell you to leave?" I whisper, my voice cracking on the question.
"Then I claim what's mine." His eyes flash with possessive hunger. "Then I claim you, little wolf."
The nickname sends electricity racing through every nerve ending I possess. My decision crystallizes with the clarity of someone standing at the edge of a cliff.
I don't want safety tonight. I don't want kindness or comfort or the gentle warmth that Zane offers so freely.
I want the devastation burning in Paul's eyes. I want the desperation in his ragged breath. I want the ruin that will follow when morning comes.
My hand closes around his wrist, and I pull him toward me.