The jade-green fabric whispered around my legs as I made my way down the grand staircase, each step echoing through the ancient bones of our Packhouse.
Calling it a house was generous. It was a castle—a real, towering, fifteenth-century fortress of grey stone and proud arches, built long before anyone cared about modern heating or doors that didn't creak ominously. Tapestries hung along the curved stairwell, depicting great Alpha battles and noble wolf lineages, all staring down at me as if silently judging my posture.
Candles flickered in wrought-iron brackets on the walls, casting warm gold across the stone. Every flame danced like it had been waiting centuries for another grand celebration.
At the bottom of the stairs, the main hall opened into the Great Dining Chamber, a room so massive it absorbed sound like a cathedral.
Chandeliers of crystal and silver glittered above, their light reflecting off polished suits of armor standing as silent sentinels along the walls. A long carved table—oak, dark with age—stretched nearly the length of the room, already laid with gleaming plates, embroidered napkins, and three silver fountains waiting for dessert. (One of which, I suspected, would soon be filled with Max's personal heaven: chocolate.)
The scent of roasted meats, herbs, and warm bread wrapped around me like a welcoming cloak. Servants moved gracefully between the chairs, setting down bowls of rich sauces and baskets of steaming rolls.
My mother stood near the head of the table like a queen surveying her court. When she turned and saw me, her eyes lit up with smug satisfaction.
"Elenora, darling," she purred, gliding toward me, "you look perfect."
Which meant I looked exactly like a jewel she wanted to auction off.
Before I could respond—or flee—she hooked her hand through my arm and steered me directly toward a man standing beside the mantelpiece.
"Allow me," she announced, voice full of triumph, "to introduce Alpha Harold Hawthorne of the Silver Moon Pack."
I smiled politely. Because that is what you do when your mother is in matchmaking mode and the man she is presenting is already halfway through midlife.
Alpha Harold bowed slightly. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with neatly trimmed blonde hair threaded with the early hints of silver. His jawline was distinguished, and his eyes kind—a warm hazel that suggested he told excellent stories beside a fire.
Half of me wanted to respect him. The other half wanted to ask him if he needed reading glasses for the menu.
"A pleasure, Lady Elenora," he said in a smooth, refined accent. "I've heard much of your family's esteemed lineage."
I smiled again, careful, polite. "Thank you, Alpha Hawthorne."
He continued, "It is rare to meet someone of such refined heritage and youthful—"
"Maturity?" I supplied sweetly.
He blinked, momentarily confused. "Ah, yes. Precisely."
My mother shot me a warning glance. Behave.
Harold was, objectively speaking, handsome in that dignified, stately way that appealed to aristocratic women who collected antique vases. And I might have found him interesting…If I were forty-two. And also a vase.
But I didn't say that. Of course not. I simply folded my hands and smiled like a perfect little noble daughter while internally screaming.
And then—
The room shifted.
A ripple of murmurs spread from the entrance. Heads turned. Someone gasped. My mother's grip on my arm tightened.
I didn't have to look to know who it was.
Charlotte.
She appeared in the doorway wearing a deep silver-blue dress that shimmered like moonlight on water. Her blonde hair fell in soft curls, framing her face, and her eyes—those bright stormy-blue eyes—were glowing with a secret only I knew.
She looked radiant. Confident. Like a woman walking toward her destiny.
And standing just behind her, partly in shadow, was a tall figure whose presence alone stole the air from the room.
Her mate. There he stood, tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles clearly visible under his fine white shirt, and he had a striking chin that made him incredibly handsome.
He had red hair, which made him look like a sexy Viking. My sister had made a lucky choice, or the moon goddess had chosen well, whatever.
The room had fallen silent; everyone was watching with interest the unknown newcomer my sister had brought with her. My mother stood stiff as a board next to me, as if she had forgotten to breathe, her eyes bulging slightly, but then she pulled herself together, put on a fake polite smile, and hurried toward the new arrivals.