Alpha Rodrigo stood in front of the exquisite mirror as his assistants dressed him.
The air in the room was freezing—below ten degrees, even in summer. The walls were painted pure white, carrying no warmth, and the only color came from the black furniture. Pieces so dark they seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it.
Three men stood in a straight line behind him, holding his coat, cufflinks, shoes. They looked more like a funeral procession than service staff. No one spoke. The only sound was the pitter patter of rain against the window panes.
Seven, Rodrigo's Beta and the only man permitted to touch him, stepped forward carefully. He reached for the cufflinks and placed them on Rodrigo's shirt with a precision that bordered on fear. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked, making sure not to brush against Rodrigo's skin.
Rodrigo despised being touched. Even Seven, after years of service, had only recently been tolerated this close. One wrong move, one accidental graze of skin, and he knew what would happen. He had seen it happen to others.
Rodrigo stood like a statue, eyes shut, body rigid. If he hadn't been standing upright, one could have sworn he was a corpse.
"Alpha, I am done," Seven announced softly, retreating several steps as if the floor around Rodrigo burned.
For several seconds, there was nothing. No movement. No acknowledgment.
Then Rodrigo's eyes opened.
Grey. Cold. The kind of eyes that made you forget what you were about to say. His reflection stared back at him from the floor-to-ceiling mirror—pale face, sharp jaw, rigid as stone. He stood six foot four, dwarfing most men, his long black hair cascading past his shoulders, a few strands falling across his face.
He looked like something that had forgotten how to be human.
The servants' heads dipped lower. Their bodies grew stiffer, if that was even possible.
"What's my schedule for the day, Seven?" Rodrigo's voice broke the silence.
Seven swallowed and stepped forward, picking up the tablet from the table. With a small motion, he dismissed the other servants. Only when they had all filed out and the door clicked shut behind them did he begin reading.
"A meeting with the council at nine a.m. Attending the opening of Honay's Winery." He paused. His throat tightened. "And..."
He hesitated.
Rodrigo's eyes shifted toward him. His frown deepened.
"And?"
Seven adjusted his tie. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "And dinner with the new Luna's family."
The room seemed to grow colder. The air itself felt thinner, harder to breathe.
A dark glint flickered in Rodrigo's eyes. His jaw clenched.
"Did I not tell the Matriach I wasn't interested in this arrangement?" His voice reverberated through the room, and Seven instinctively stepped back.
"I had told her," Seven stammered. "But she insists it will be different this time. She says the others were mere coincidences, and that this time she would make sure—"
Rodrigo didn't wait for him to finish.
He was already walking out, his footsteps echoing through the corridor with a weight that made the walls seem smaller. The servants pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.
No one dared to look at him.
"Grandmother!"
His roar shook the mansion as he stormed toward the matriarch's quarters. Without knocking, he shoved the double doors open. The crash of wood against wall startled the servants inside, sending them scrambling to their feet.
The Matriarch's eyes opened at the intrusion. A frown carved her face—until she saw his expression. With a flick of her hand, she dismissed her assistants.
They hurried out, heads bowed, not daring to glance at either of them.
The room fell into silence as Rodrigo and his grandmother locked eyes. Neither blinked. Neither looked away. The tension stretched between them like a wire pulled too tight.
The Matriarch was old, but she was not frail. She had ruled this family for decades after the death of her husband and until Rodrigo's father was of age. She was one of the very few people who could meet his eyes without flinching.
"What have you done?" Rodrigo asked. His voice was low, vibrating with barely contained rage.
The Matriarch lowered her legs from the stool and reached for the pitcher on the side table. She poured herself a glass of water, slowly, as if her grandson wasn't standing there ready to tear the room apart.
She sipped calmly before speaking.
"What have I done? I should be asking you that, since you stormed into my quarters without warning."
Rodrigo raked a hand through his hair, barely restraining himself. "I do not need another dead wife, Grandmother. Cancel whatever arrangements you have made."
"A pack cannot exist without a Luna, Rodrigo." She spoke firmly, meeting his gaze. She set the glass down and folded her hands in her lap.
Rodrigo's lips pulled into a bitter sneer. "And those women should just keep dying?"
"If a thousand must die for you to find the one who will live, then so be it." Her voice didn't waver. "I would sacrifice a thousand women. I do not care." The Martriach shrugged.
Rodrigo stepped closer, his fists tight at his sides. His presence filled the room, his shadow falling across her.
"Grandmother." he seethed.
She laughed. "Oh Rodrigo, don't pretend this is about those women, Rodrigo. You don't care about them. You never have." She tilted her head, studying him. "You simply do not want anyone near you. And I will not allow it. Not while I'm still breathing."
His chest rose and fell, fury almost bursting out. For a moment, he had no words. His jaw worked, his hands trembled at his sides, but nothing came out.
Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. He steadied his breath. When he opened them again, his voice was quieter—but sharper.
"Do as you wish, Grandmother. But get the casket ready too." He turned toward the door. "You will be needing it in twelve days."
He slammed the door behind him. The sound rattled through the house.
The Matriarch sat still for a moment, staring at the closed door. Then, with a burst of rage, she grabbed the glass from the table and hurled it against the wall.
It shattered into a thousand pieces.
---
Rodrigo stormed out of the Vermont mansion, tugging at his tie like it was strangling him.
His grandmother was a thorn in his side. This would be the fifth woman forced into marriage with him in less than a year.
The previous four hadn't lasted twelve days. Each one had ended in a coffin. And yet, still, she insisted on finding him another. As if the next one would somehow be different.
Seven hurried forward as soon as Rodrigo stepped outside.
"The carriage. Now."
The black horsed carriage pulled up within seconds, followed by a dozen foot soldiers. Seven rushed to open the door, his hands unsteady. He didn't breathe until Rodrigo was inside and the door slammed shut.
From the moment Seven had heard about the new bride this morning, he knew his day would be hell. He just prayed Rodrigo wouldn't cut off anyone's hands again.
Like last time.
The ride to the Den was silent. Seven sat rigidly in the front beside the coachman, making sure not to make a single sound. He didn't cough. He was barely breathing.
The council meeting went exactly as he had feared.
Rodrigo tore through the councilmen like a wolf through sheep. By the time it was over, three of them had resigned on the spot, and two more looked like they were reconsidering their life choices.
Seven didn't blame them.
By the time they were heading back to the estate, Seven felt like he had aged ten years. His legs were weak, his stomach was in knots, and he was fairly certain he'd developed a stress ulcer.
The carriage pulled up to the Vermont mansion as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the grounds. Rodrigo didn't wait for Seven to open the door. He stepped out and walked toward the large entrance doors, his expression darker than it had been all day.
Seven scrambled out after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.
"Alpha," he called, hurrying to catch up. He bowed low, breathless, his voice trembling.
Rodrigo stopped. He didn't turn around.
Seven swallowed hard.
"The new bride... is here."