The performance time arrives like an executioner's dawn.
In the main hall the other new arrivals primp and preen, their excitement palpable. They discuss strategies for catching the king's eye, compare the intricacies of their choreographed dances, speculate about what he likes.
Their eagerness makes my stomach turn.
All I can think is how desperately I want to disappear into these silk-draped walls. To become invisible. To fail so spectacularly that Madam Margot dismisses me to the kitchens or gardens—anywhere but the royal bed.
"You're very quiet, Coralina," some blonde with sharp eyes observes. "Aren't you nervous?"
"Terrified," I admit, which makes her laugh like I've made a joke. I haven't.
My fingers find the moonstone pendant. The cool stone grounds me, a secret comfort from a stranger whose kindness still warms me more than it should.
I rub it between my thumb and forefinger, feeling its smooth surface, and try to steady my breathing.
"Ladies," Madam Margot's voice cuts through the chatter. "It's time."
The walk to the throne room feels endless. When the massive doors swing open, the throne room drowns my senses.
Candlelight everywhere—hundreds of flames reflecting off gold leaf and polished stone. The air is thick with frankincense and myrrh, making everything feel dreamlike, unreal.
Courtiers line the walls in their finery, watching with the hungry interest of those who've already eaten but still crave entertainment.
And there, elevated on a dais at the room's far end, sits on his throne.
Distance and ceremony make him more shadow than man. The half-mask covering his face—traditional for these presentations, I'm told—makes him look more predator than ruler.
Only his mouth and jaw are visible, carved from stone, giving nothing away.
I take my place among the other women, kneeling on silk cushions arranged away from the dais. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it.
The first girl rises when her name is called. She's graceful, her dance a fluid display of sensuality and skill. The king watches impassively. When she finishes, he gives a slight nod, and she's dismissed.
The second girl attempts something more daring—acrobatic movements that showcase flexibility. Still, that carved mouth doesn't shift.
Another nod. Another dismissal.
One by one, they perform. All of them are desperate for his approval, and none of them receives more than that cold, courteous acknowledgment.
My turn approaches too quickly. "Lady Coralina of the Mountain Pack."
I rise on shaking legs, my fingers finding the moonstone one last time before I step forward. The space before the throne yawns vast and terrifying.
Every eye in the room fixes on me, but I can only see him—that masked figure who holds my entire future in his hands.
The musicians wait for my signal to begin the traditional dance Madam Margot taught us. But as I stand there, something shifts inside me. A memory surfaces—my mentor, the pack healer who trained me, showing me an ancient ceremony when I was fifteen.
"This is sacred," she'd said. "The moon's dance."
I signal the musicians differently. Confusion flickers across their faces, but they adapt, shifting to the older, slower rhythm my mentor once hummed.
I begin to move, and this isn't seduction. It's supplication.
It's the dance the first she-wolves performed for the Moon Goddess herself, offering everything—strength, vulnerability, devotion. My body remembers the movements my mind had half-forgotten.
The room falls silent except for the music. Even the courtiers' whispers die.
I dance barefoot across cold stone, arms lifting in offering, spine arching in surrender. Each movement strips away another layer of pretense until I'm raw, exposed, entirely myself beneath the Moon Goddess's eye.
The candlelight catches on my gown, making me shimmer like moonlight on water.
As the final notes fade, I sink to my knees before the throne, tilt my head back, and offer my throat. The ultimate gesture of submission, of trust, of absolute surrender.
The room holds its breath. Silence stretches so long I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake. Then Madam Margot's voice rings out:
"Coralina of the Mountain Pack. Chosen for the king's pleasure tonight."
The words hit like a physical blow.
My vision swims as maids materialize beside me, helping me to my feet with gentle hands. The other girls watch with expressions ranging from envy to relief as I'm led from the throne room.
The preparation happens in a blur.
Even more rose oil, rubbed into my skin until I gleam. They remove the performance gown and replace it with something simpler—white silk that whispers against my thighs, held at the shoulders with delicate clasps.
My hair is brushed out, falling in soft waves down my back. Then they're leading me through corridors that grow quieter, more private, until we stop before massive doors.
"The king will call for you when he's ready," one maid murmurs, and then they're gone.
I'm alone in the antechamber, my fingers rubbing the moonstone compulsively, before the doors open.
"Enter."
That voice. Something about it makes my wolf stir restlessly, pressing against my skin with recognition that makes no sense.
I step through into chambers darker than I expected, lit only by firelight that casts dancing shadows across rich furnishings. He stands by the windows, his back to me.
"Close the door," he says, and I do, the sound of it clicking shut feeling terribly final.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Then he turns, and even with half his face hidden, the power of his presence fills the room. He's taller than I realized, broader, commanding in a way that makes my breath catch.
"Come here," he says softly, and my feet move before my mind can question.
I stop a few paces away, my heart hammering. He reaches out slowly, deliberately, and his hands catch mine. His skin is warm, calloused, and unexpectedly gentle.
His thumb brushes over the moonstone wrapped around my wrist.
"I'm glad you kept it," he says, and the world tilts sideways.
My eyes snap up to his face, really looking now, and I see them. These familiar silver-grey eyes watching me from above the mask's edge. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow, partially hidden but unmistakable.
The strong jaw I remember from the festival.
No. No, it can't be—
He reaches up with his free hand and removes the mask, letting it fall away.
"Hello again, little moon," Ryder says softly, and my knees nearly buckle as recognition slams through me with devastating force.
The kind stranger who bought me the pendant at the festival. Who comforted me when my world shattered. Who kissed me at Gwendolyn's wedding like I was something precious, something worth saving.
The man whose absence I'd been mourning alongside everything else I'd lost.
He's been the Lycan King all along.