The click of my heels on marble echoed with all the subtlety of a firing squad. My heart didn't so much pound as convulse, setting up a bass drum in my ribs as Derick and I made our way down the longest corridor I had ever seen. Maybe it just felt long because each stride brought me closer to the lions' den.
We passed under a succession of stone archways, each one carved with moon phases and celestial motifs, until we reached a set of doors so tall they seemed designed to intimidate. Each was made of some rich dark wood and edged with hammered silver, moonflowers blooming in relief along the surface.
Derick stopped just short of the threshold, turning to face me. His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady against my trembling hand. His eyes—that mesmerizing silver-blue that reminded me of moonlight on water—searched my face with tender concern. "If you feel overwhelmed at all, we can leave, okay?" he whispered, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles against my palm. The gentle pressure of his touch sent a calming wave through my rigid shoulders, easing the vise grip of anxiety around my chest just enough to draw a proper breath. I nodded, inhaling the faint cedar and bergamot scent that clung to his tailored jacket. His lips curved into that half-smile that never failed to make my heart stutter, and with our hands still firmly clasped together, we pushed open the massive doors.
I had imagined—hoped, really—that the grand royal luncheon would involve maybe six people: the King and Queen, Derick, and a scattering of trusted underlings. Instead, at least a dozen faces turned as one to greet us, seated around a table long enough to double as a runway. Every chair was filled. Some looked bored, others openly curious, a few already wearing the stiff half-smiles of well-bred nobles who could sense a social feeding frenzy in the offing.
For a second, the sheer sight of them rooted me to the spot. My brain, already addled, staged a brief walkout. I only snapped back when Derick's hand pressed a little firmer at my back, guiding me forward with the steady inevitability of a tide. The entrance hall behind us closed off, the heavy doors shutting with a dull, final thud.
The dining hall was a world apart from the training gym and the suites I'd seen so far. A pair of crystal chandeliers hung like inverted wedding cakes from the ceiling, scattering tiny rainbows across the white-and-black marble. The entire far wall was stained glass, the panes depicting ancient wolf packs in battle and harmony, the moon goddess hovering over all. Sunlight streamed through, dappling the floor in streaks of gold and blue and casting a subtle glow on the shoulders of those seated at the table. The air smelled faintly of violets and linen starch.
At the table's head, King Theo and Queen Lisa rose with synchronized grace, every inch the fairy-tale sovereigns. The Queen smiled first, and the sheer warmth of it threatened to unravel me right there. She wore her crown like it was just another accessory, her silver-blonde hair piled up in a loose chignon, eyes a vivid blue that seemed to telegraph understanding across the space. The King, tall and severe in a midnight suit, regarded me with a more guarded intensity. His gaze flicked once to Derick, then back to me, measuring, not unkind but not entirely reassuring either.
"Welcome," Queen Lisa said, voice a perfectly modulated soprano, carrying easily over the low hum of conversation. "We are so delighted to have you join us, Cassandra." She used my full name, but not in the way teachers or scolding adults had—it sounded almost affectionate.
King Theo's lips quirked into a subtle, knowing line. "Crown Prince Derick," he intoned, "and Miss Blackwater. Please, be seated." He gestured to two empty seats near the table's head, flanked on either side by what appeared to be the upper echelons of the royal household. I caught a quick glimpse of Derick's Beta Matt—his broad shoulders and steady gaze unmistakable even in formal attire—and beside him, his mate Nicki. Her dark hair was pulled into an elegant twist, but her eyes held that familiar warrior's glint as she nodded at me, lips curving into a conspiratorial smile that cut through the room's tension like a blade. That single look carried the weight of our shared training sessions, a silent promise of alliance amid this sea of calculating strangers.
We walked to our places under the weight of every gaze in the room. Derick slid out my chair, his palm briefly brushing the nape of my neck as I sat. The motion was so gentle and practiced that for a second I forgot to be afraid.
I risked a glance down the table and found several pairs of eyes on me, some openly appraising, others darting away when I caught their gaze. I recognized a few faces from photos on the internet—regional alphas, council members, minor royalty—but many were strangers. Each of them wore the same discreet medallion at their throat, a crescent moon inlaid with tiny emeralds, signifying their allegiance to the Silvermoon line. I became acutely aware of the mark at the base of my own throat—the barely-healed bite Derick had left the night before, still raised and dark beneath my collar. The memory of it, the way he had whispered "mine" into my skin, sent a flush up my neck.
The Queen resumed her seat, folding her hands with a dancer's poise. "You must be overwhelmed," she said, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye, as if we were sharing a joke at the expense of the entire court.
"A bit," I managed, my voice barely more than a croak.
The first course arrived, borne by silent servants who glided in and out like phantoms. Silver domes were lifted to reveal a delicate arrangement of smoked salmon and shaved fennel on crystal plates, garnished with edible flowers that shimmered under the light. I stared at my own plate, suddenly terrified I might forget how to use a fork. The girl across from me—a striking, raven-haired woman in an immaculate blue sheath dress—offered a tiny nod of encouragement. I returned it, hoping she didn't see my hands still quivering under the table.
Introductions began as soon as the last lid was whisked away. Derick cleared his throat. "Father, if I may?" The King nodded, and Derick stood, his hand warm and steady on my shoulder. He began on his left: "Councilor Alden, my father's chief advisor. And this is his mate, Lady Evelyn."
Lady Evelyn offered a smile so polished it could have been sold by the carat. She leaned in, eyes sweeping over me in a deliberate scan before settling on my neck. A flicker of amusement—or maybe calculation—danced in her gaze as she noted the mate mark Derick had left. I tried to mimic her smile, but the heat crawling up my face probably ruined the effect.
Next were a succession of minor nobles, their names blurring together in a parade of ancient lineages and double-barreled surnames. Each offered a handshake or a brief nod, all eyes inevitably drifting to my throat. Some tried to hide their curiosity behind polite conversation; others didn't bother. A few of the younger wolves even exchanged glances, as if keeping score on how many times they could catch me blushing.
By the time we reached the far end of the table, my mind was a scramble of names and obligations. The woman in the blue dress watched me with eyes too steady, too calculating. When she blinked, it seemed deliberate, like a camera shutter closing. "And this is Miss Natalia Daniels," Derick said, his voice light—too light, almost forced. His fingers tensed against my back. "She will be teaching you Royal Etiquette, besides my mother there isn't anyone else I would say has more knowledge." Something flickered between them, a current of unspoken history that made the hairs on my arms rise.
Natalia rose with a grace that defied physics, her posture so perfect my shoulders ached just looking at her. Her dress hugged her frame like a second skin, the fabric whispering against the chair as she stood. My wolf bristled inside me, hackles rising without explanation. Her hair, dark and sleek, framed a face that reminded me of the porcelain dolls my mother once warned me not to touch. When she smiled, something cold slithered down my spine—those teeth were too straight, too white, arranged in perfect symmetry behind lips that never quite softened at the corners. My mouth went dry as our eyes met, and I knew instinctively this woman was not what she appeared to be.
She extended a hand, her fingers long and cool, and I took it. "Pleased to meet you," I said, hating how my voice wobbled on the last syllable. Her grip tightened just enough to make my knuckles compress. Her eyes flicked to Derick—just for an instant, so fast I doubted myself—then back to me, her smile widening to reveal perfect teeth.
"Likewise, Cassandra," she said, rolling the name across her tongue like she was testing expired milk. "We have much to prepare. The transition from Blackwater to the Silvermoon court can be... overwhelming for someone with your background." She released my hand with a gentle pat that felt like pity. "But don't worry. I've helped others with far less potential than you. We'll have you presentable in no time."
I nodded, not trusting myself to reply. My palm slicked with sweat as I tried to decode her tone—had that comment about my "background" been an innocent observation or a deliberate slight? Maybe I was being oversensitive. Maybe this was normal royal talk. I discreetly wiped my hand on my napkin beneath the tablecloth, wondering if everyone could smell my anxiety as clearly as I could.
Derick guided me to the next guest: a sharp-featured woman with cropped white-blonde hair and an electronic tablet glowing in her lap. "This is Miss Hailey, the Royal PR director," he explained. "She manages the public face of the royal family."
Hailey wasted no time. "If I may, Your Highness," she said, addressing Derick but stabbing her gaze at me, "we'll need to discuss Miss Blackwater's public image at the soonest opportunity. The press have been… persistent."
The word pressed into me like a brand. My stomach lurched, the memory of the newspaper headline—my mother's death, the intimate details of my own life spattered across the pages—flaring behind my eyes.
Hailey continued, "I have already drafted a preliminary statement addressing the, ah, recent Blackwater developments. But it would be helpful to have Miss Blackwater's cooperation for the formal interview." She tapped the tablet meaningfully, a hint of impatience in the gesture.
Derick's hand found mine under the table, his grip tightening. "Yes, of course," he said, shifting his body slightly to place himself between me and Hailey's predatory stare. "But my mate has barely had time to breathe since arriving. The interview can wait until next week." The temperature of his voice dropped several degrees, the Crown Prince suddenly visible beneath the concerned mate. "And I'll need to review any statements before they're released."
"Certainly, Your Highness," Hailey replied, her eyes darting between us before her shoulders lowered a fraction. "As you wish."
Finally, after the last introduction faded into silence, a dozen pairs of eyes turned to Derick expectantly. He straightened his shoulders, the fabric of his tailored jacket pulling taut across his broad back. Derick looked at me with a smile that transformed his regal features into something impossibly tender. "Everyone," he announced, his voice resonating against the crystal and silver, "I would like to introduce you to my Mate, Cassandra Blackwater." The word 'Mate' hung in the air, weighted with significance, each syllable etched with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down my spine. The muscle in his jaw tightened slightly, a subtle warning to anyone who might challenge his claim.
I forced my lips into what I hoped was a gracious smile, though my cheeks felt stiff as porcelain. The weight of their collective stares pressed against my skin like physical touch—some curious, others calculating, a few openly skeptical. "It is a pleasure to meet you all," I managed, my voice smaller than intended in the cavernous room. "I will try to live up to your expectations."
The rest of the table became a blur, conversations folding over themselves as I tried to keep my breathing even. The air was thick with the scent of polished silver and crushed violets, and my hands felt clammy even when I pressed them flat against the linen. Every time I lifted my water glass, my fingers trembled just enough to make the ice clink loudly in the silence.