[Daphne’s POV]
The omega maids work in reverent silence, fingers swift on the white silk pooling at my feet. It’s the back—really, the absence of one—that steals my breath: fabric draped low, spine and shoulder blades bare to the waist.
“It’s tradition, Luna,” the eldest murmurs, meeting my eyes in the mirror. “You’ll kneel before the King and Queen. They’ll anoint your back with sacred oils—unity between pack and Crown.”
My wolf paces, uneasy; the feeling slips like smoke when I reach for it.
The maids step away. In the mirror, I look ethereal—made to be displayed.
A knock at the door makes me jump. Hector enters without waiting for permission, immaculate in his Alpha regalia. Black leather and silver embroidery, every inch of him radiating power and authority. His eyes sweep over me with possessive approval, and his hand finds my waist immediately, warm and claiming through the thin silk.
"Nervous, little moon?" His voice is warm honey, but there's something beneath it. Something that makes my wolf's pacing intensify. "You'll be perfect. This ritual will change everything, believe me."
The words feel weighted with meaning I don't understand. I search his face, but he's already guiding me toward the door, his hand firm at the small of my exposed back.
The great hall steals my breath. Every member of the pack has assembled, dressed in ceremonial finery, their faces turned toward the massive throne at the far end. But it's the royal court that commands attention—nobles in rich velvets and jewels.
King Thaddeus sits on a throne of honor, his expression solemn and unreadable. The Queen’s gaze beside him sweeps over the assembled pack with barely concealed contempt, her lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.
Hector's hand tightens on my waist as he leads me through the parted crowd. Every step forward feels like walking toward a precipice. My wolf throws herself against my ribs, desperate and frantic now, but I don't know what she's trying to tell me.
The ritual master steps forward—an ancient wolf with milky eyes and a voice that carries through the hall like thunder. "The Luna of Shadow Ridge pack offers herself in service and unity. Before the Crown, she kneels. Before the Crown, she is anointed. May the sacred oils bless this union between pack and kingdom."
My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it. Hector guides me to the ceremonial cushion at the center of the hall—a circle of white silk placed directly before the King's throne. The position puts my back to the entire assembly. Every inch of my exposed skin on display for hundreds of eyes.
I kneel, the silk cool beneath my knees. My hands tremble as I clasp them in my lap. I've never felt so vulnerable, so displayed. The weight of all those stares presses against my bare back like physical touch.
"The King himself will perform the anointing," the ritual master intones. "A great honor for Shadow Ridge Pack."
I hear Hector's satisfied murmur behind me, feel the warmth of his approval like a hand on my spine. My wolf screams a warning I don't understand.
King Thaddeus rises. His footsteps echo on stone as he approaches, and I keep my eyes lowered in the ceremonial posture of submission. Through my lashes, I watch an attendant hand him a crystal bowl filled with oil that gleams gold in the candlelight.
He stops directly before me. I can feel his presence, his power, the weight of centuries of royal bloodline radiating from him like heat. When I risk a glance upward, his face makes my breath catch.
He's staring at my exposed back with an intensity that borders on violence. His hands tremble as he raises the oil, his expression shifting through emotions too quick to name—shock, disbelief, desperate hope.
"Your Majesty?" the Queen's sharp voice cuts through the silence. "Is something wrong?"
He doesn't answer. His gaze remains locked on my shoulder blade, on skin I can't see, and his breathing has gone ragged. When his oil-slicked fingers finally move toward me, they shake so badly that golden droplets spatter the stone floor.
The moment the oil touches my left shoulder blade, fire ignites beneath my skin.
Not pain—not exactly. But heat, brilliant and consuming, spreading from a point just below my shoulder in the unmistakable shape of a crescent moon. I gasp, arching away from the sensation, but it only intensifies. The mark—my birthmark, the one that's been hidden beneath spells and lies my entire life—erupts into visibility.
I can't see it, but I feel it. Glowing. Burning. Announcing itself to every soul in this hall.
The King staggers backward. The crystal bowl slips from his fingers and shatters on stone, the sound impossibly loud in the sudden, absolute silence. Oil spreads across the floor in golden pools that catch the light like spilled sunlight.
"The royal mark." His voice breaks on the words. "You bear the royal mark."
My mind goes blank. Royal mark? I twist, trying desperately to see my own shoulder, but I can only feel the warmth still pulsing from the crescent shape, can only hear the sudden eruption of voices—
"It's a trick!" The Queen's shriek cuts through the chaos. She's on her feet, her face twisted with rage and disbelief. "Some painted symbol, some illusion meant to deceive—"
"It's real." The King's voice shatters on the words. He falls to his knees before me—the King, kneeling at my feet—and his eyes shine with tears. "I can feel it. The blood call. She's mine." His hands reach for my face with desperate gentleness. "My daughter. My dear lost daughter."
The hall explodes. Pack members shouting. Royal guards surging forward. The Queen screaming accusations that tear through the air like claws. And through it all, I'm frozen, my mind unable to process the word that keeps echoing—
Daughter.
Princess.
Mine.
I manage to turn my head, searching the chaos, and find Hector standing at the edge of the maelstrom. While everyone else radiates shock and confusion, his expression is carefully, deliberately controlled. But I know him now. I see the satisfaction glinting in his eyes like winter stars.
He knew.
He knew this would happen. Planned it. Orchestrated every moment of this public revelation, down to the exposed back and the sacred oils and the King's own hands triggering the mark's appearance.
"Your Majesty." Hector's voice cuts through the chaos with Alpha authority, commanding instant silence. He steps forward, his expression grave and respectful, every inch the concerned protector. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately. The Princess has been under my protection for many years. There's much you need to know."
Princess.
The word detonates in my chest. I can't breathe. Can't think. The King is helping me to my feet with trembling hands, his touch unbearably gentle, his face full of wonder and grief and desperate love.
"After all these years," he whispers, and a tear slides down his weathered cheek. "I never stopped searching. Never stopped hoping."
Over his shoulder, I find Xander's face. He stands frozen near the hall's entrance, and I watch understanding dawn across his features like sunrise—terrible and inevitable. His eyes move from my glowing birthmark to his father's satisfied expression, and fury ignites in their amber depths.
He knows. He understands exactly what Hector has done.
Orchestrated this entire revelation. Timed it perfectly for maximum impact. Positioned himself as my protector before anyone could question his claim.
And now the King has discovered his lost daughter is already bonded to Alpha Hector—marked, claimed, tied by magic and blood to the wolf who has been controlling her life since before she could even remember having one.
My wolf finally stops her frantic pacing. In the sudden stillness inside my chest, I feel her grief like a blade between my ribs.
We've been playing exactly the role Hector designed for us. And we didn't even know the stage existed until the curtain rose.