The night air smelled of pine, blood, and contempt.

I stood in the center of the Red River Pack's gathering grounds, my bare feet sinking into the cold, damp earth. Torches flickered all around me, casting dancing shadows on the faces of strangers who would soon become my captors. My wedding dress—if you could call it that—was a simple white linen garment, too thin for the mountain chill, too fine for a bride who had been bought and sold like livestock.

"Half-blood."

The whisper came from somewhere to my left. I didn't turn to see who spoke. I didn't need to.

"Dirty blood."

Another whisper, this time from behind. The words slithered through the crowd like snakes, wrapping around me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I kept my eyes forward, my chin raised, even as my heart hammered against my ribs like a caged bird.

Don't show weakness. Never show weakness.

That's what my mother had told me before she died. Before my father followed her to the grave, leaving me alone in a world that saw me as nothing more than a mistake. A mongrel. A creature not worthy of pack or family or love.

The crowd parted, and I saw him.

Ronan.

Alpha of the Red River Pack. My future husband. My owner.

He was massive—easily six and a half feet of muscle and arrogance. His reddish-brown hair caught the firelight like flames, and his golden eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a predator who had just cornered his prey. He wore no shirt, only leather pants, and his chest was covered in the scars of countless battles. Battle wounds. Alpha marks. Trophies.

He climbed onto the raised platform where I stood, his movements fluid and powerful. When he reached me, he didn't take my hand. He didn't smile. He simply turned to face the pack and raised his arms.

"Tonight!" His voice boomed across the clearing, silencing every whisper, every rustle of leaves. "Tonight, Red River welcomes its newest member!"

The crowd cheered, but I heard the hesitation beneath it. The doubt.

Ronan continued, "For too long, our bloodline has remained unchanged. Pure, yes. Strong, yes. But purity without evolution is stagnation!" He paced the platform like a caged wolf, feeding off the crowd's energy. "I have brought us a new mare. A half-blood whose veins carry the blood of two packs—the weak Turkish Bozkurt line and a forgotten American lineage."

Mare.

He called me a mare. Like I was a horse to be bred.

"Her blood is tainted," Ronan said, and the crowd murmured agreement. "But tainted blood can be useful. It can create new warriors. Stronger warriors. Her children will carry my strength and her... unique genetics."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw nothing in his golden eyes but hunger. Not hunger for me—hunger for what my body could produce. Puppies. Warriors. Weapons.

"From tonight, she is your Luna," Ronan declared. "You will obey her as you obey me. You will protect her as you protect me. And you will watch her carefully, because half-bloods are unpredictable. Untamed. Wild."

He made me sound like an animal. A dangerous one.

The crowd cheered again, louder this time, and Ronan turned to face me fully. He stepped closer, so close I could smell the wolf on him—pine and musk and something darker, something cruel. He reached out and gripped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"You belong to me now," he said softly, for my ears only. "Try to run, and I will drag you back myself. Try to fight, and I will break you. You are mine, half-blood. Mine to use. Mine to breed. Mine to own."

I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to shift and rip out his throat. But my wolf—that wild, uncontrollable part of me that had gotten me rejected from every pack I'd ever approached—remained silent. Cowering. Even she was afraid of this monster.

Ronan released my chin and turned back to the crowd, spreading his arms wide. "Tonight, we feast! Tomorrow, the mating ceremony. Red River has a new Luna!"

The pack erupted into howls and cheers, and I stood frozen on that platform, a statue in white, while the wolves celebrated their Alpha's latest acquisition. They didn't see me. They saw a broodmare. A half-blood. A thing.

I scanned the crowd as they began to disperse toward the long tables laden with food and drink. Most faces were hard, curious, or openly hostile. But then I saw her.

An older woman, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a braid, her green eyes soft with something I hadn't seen in years: compassion. She stood apart from the others, leaning on a walking stick, watching me with an expression that made my throat tight.

She didn't cheer. She didn't smile. But when our eyes met, she gave me the slightest nod. Just a small movement, barely visible. But it meant everything.

As the crowd pushed forward to congratulate Ronan, the old woman shuffled closer to the platform. No one paid her any attention—she was invisible to them, just another old she-wolf past her prime. But I watched her carefully as she approached the edge of the platform, her hand reaching out as if to steady herself against the wood.

Something cold pressed into my palm.

I looked down. A small knife, its blade barely longer than my finger, its handle wrapped in worn leather. The old woman's eyes met mine again, and this time she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper:

"Run."

Then she was gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving me standing there with a knife in my hand and a single word burning in my mind.

Run.

I quickly closed my fingers around the blade and tucked it into the folds of my dress. My heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone must hear it. Did she know something? Was she warning me? Or was she simply offering me a choice—a choice I hadn't had since my parents died?

"Lyra."

Ronan's voice made me jump. He was standing beside me again, watching me with narrowed eyes.

"Yes?" I managed to keep my voice steady.

"Come. You'll sit beside me at the feast." He didn't wait for my response, simply grabbed my wrist and pulled me off the platform.

I stumbled after him, my feet barely touching the ground, the knife pressed against my hip like a secret promise. As we walked through the crowd, I heard the whispers again:

"Half-blood."

"Dirty blood."

"Look at her. She can't even walk properly."

"Poor thing. She has no idea what's coming."

That last whisper came from a young woman with dark hair and frightened eyes. She quickly looked away when I glanced at her, but not before I saw the pity in her gaze. The fear.

What did she know that I didn't?

Ronan pulled me to the head of the longest table and pushed me onto a bench. He sat beside me, his massive thigh pressing against mine, his arm draping over the back of the bench like a cage. Trapping me.

"Eat," he commanded, gesturing to the food piled on the table. Roasted meat, fresh bread, wild berries. My stomach growled despite itself—I hadn't eaten since dawn.

I reached for a piece of bread, but before I could take a bite, Ronan's hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was like iron.

"Not that," he said. "Meat. You'll need your strength for tomorrow."

I dropped the bread and took a piece of roasted venison instead. Ronan released my wrist and watched me eat, his golden eyes never leaving my face. It was unnerving. Intimidating. And strangely possessive.

"You're prettier than I expected," he said after a long moment. "For a half-blood."

I said nothing, just kept chewing.

"I've had pure-blood bitches before," he continued, his voice low and intimate. "They're boring. Too obedient. Too easy." His hand slid from the back of the bench to my shoulder, his fingers tracing the edge of my dress's neckline. "I think you'll be different. I think you'll fight."

I stopped chewing.

"I like breaking things that fight," he whispered, leaning close to my ear. "It's more satisfying."

I forced myself to swallow, then reached for another piece of meat. My hand trembled slightly, and I prayed he didn't notice.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His lips curled into a cruel smile, and he sat back, apparently satisfied with my fear.

The feast continued around us. Wolves laughed and ate and drank, celebrating their Alpha's new bride. No one looked at me. No one spoke to me. I was a decoration. A trophy. A broodmare.

And all the while, the knife pressed against my hip, a tiny spark of hope in a sea of despair.

As the night wore on and the fire burned low, I caught glimpses of the old woman again. She sat at the far end of a table, eating alone, her green eyes occasionally flicking to me. Watching. Waiting.

For what?

When the feast finally ended, Ronan pulled me to my feet. "Time to rest," he said. "Tomorrow is a long day."

He led me away from the clearing, away from the fires and the laughter, toward a large structure at the edge of the camp. His den. His home. My prison.

As we walked, I saw the old woman one last time. She stood in the shadows, barely visible, and as I passed, she raised her hand to her lips in a gesture I knew well: Be silent. Be brave. Be ready.

I nodded slightly, barely moving my head, and she disappeared into the darkness.

Ronan pushed open the door to his den and gestured me inside. The room was large, filled with furs and wooden furniture, a massive bed in the corner. It smelled like him—pine and musk and cruelty.

"You'll sleep here," he said. "With me."

My blood ran cold.

"Not tonight," he added, almost regretfully. "Tonight I have pack business. But tomorrow..." He stepped close, towering over me, his hand cupping my chin again. "Tomorrow, you'll learn what it means to be mine."

He released me and walked out, closing the door behind him. I heard a lock click, and then silence.

I stood in the center of that room, trembling, the knife still hidden in my dress. I pulled it out and looked at it in the faint moonlight filtering through a small window. It was small. Too small to kill an Alpha. But maybe big enough to buy me a chance.

I crossed to the window and looked out. The camp was quiet now, most of the pack sleeping off the feast. Beyond the structures, beyond the clearing, I could see the forest. Dark. Endless. Free.

Run.

The old woman's word echoed in my mind.

I looked at the knife. I looked at the window. I looked at the door.

Tomorrow, Ronan would claim me. Tomorrow, I would become his in every way that mattered. Unless...

Run.

My fingers tightened around the knife.

Run.

I crossed to the door and pressed my ear against it. Silence. I tested the lock—solid, but the wood around it was old. Weaker.

I had no plan. No idea where I would go. No guarantee I would survive the night.

But I had a knife. I had a choice. And for the first time in years, I chose to fight.