Chapter 3

The Silver Ridge Pack was nestled in the southern forests, far from the Lycan Kingdom's mountain fortress.

By the time my cart reached the capital, the sun had bled into the horizon, painting the stone towers in crimson and gold.

The Lycan Kingdom was nothing like the wolf packs.

Where packs had lodges and bonfires, the Lycans had towering cathedrals, cobblestone streets, and guards in black armor who moved like shadows.

Everything was cold. Grand. Untouchable.

Just like the prince, I thought.

A woman in a gray cloak — the royal matchmaker — guided me off the cart. "Straighten your back. Don't speak unless spoken to. And for the Moon's sake, don't cry."

I almost laughed. I hadn't cried in two lifetimes.

She led me through an arched corridor into a vast hall lit by a thousand candles.

And there, at the far end, stood a figure.

Dorian.

Even from a distance, I recognized him. Tall. Still. His silver-white hair catching the light like frost on a blade. His face was carved from marble — beautiful and completely expressionless.

In this life, I was supposed to be a stranger to him.

But my heart clenched anyway.

Tradition required the groom to step forward and place a bonding ribbon around the bride's wrist.

Dorian didn't move.

Seconds passed. The matchmaker's smile tightened. She whispered something to a guard, who whispered to the prince.

Still nothing.

Finally, the matchmaker herself tied the ribbon on my wrist, her hands trembling with embarrassment.

I pressed my lips together.

Even knowing Dorian's reputation for coldness, his refusal stung. Hundreds of noble Lycans were watching. This was a deliberate humiliation — not of me, but of the wolf packs he clearly despised.

Fine, I thought. Be cold. I didn't come here for love.

I came here to survive.

The bonding ceremony was brief and joyless. Afterward, I was led to the bridal chamber — a stone room with a single candle and a bed that looked like it had never been touched.

No food. No attendants. Nothing.

My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since dawn.

I spotted a bowl of ceremonial nuts on the bedside table and reached for them when the door slammed open.

A figure staggered in, gripping the doorframe.

Dorian.

His silver hair was disheveled, his coat half-undone. He dropped into the chair across from me, and for a long moment, said nothing.

Then —

"I want an annulment."

His voice was low, rough, as if the words cost him something.

But his pain was not my problem.

I shot to my feet. "You proposed to my family. You accepted the bonding. And now, on our wedding night, you want to annul it?"

My voice cracked with a fury I didn't bother to hide.

"I may be wolfless. I may be no one. But I will not be humiliated and sent home like defective goods. Do you understand me?"

The candle flickered between us.

Dorian stared at me. For the first time, something shifted behind those frozen eyes.

Then he spoke again, quieter this time.

"You don't understand. I didn't propose for you. I proposed for the daughter born under the Blood Moon — the one called Vivienne."

"She chose another. And the woman I..."

He stopped. Swallowed.

"The woman I actually wanted to find has been hidden from the world her entire life. I don't even know her face. Only her name."

The candle between us sputtered.

"What name?" I whispered.

Dorian closed his eyes.

"Layla. Her name is Layla Ashford."

My breath stopped.

"I've searched for her across two lifetimes," he said, "and I've failed her in both."

His head dropped into his hands.

"So please — if you have any mercy — let me go find her before it's too late."

The room tilted around me.

He was walking toward the door when I reached up and tore the veil from my face.

"Dorian."

He turned.

"The woman you're looking for," I said, my voice breaking, "is standing right in front of you."