Chapter 2

The brazier in the banquet hall burned high. Waves of heat rolled upward, churning alcohol, sweat, leather, and iron-blood stink into something thick enough to choke on.

The moment I stepped inside, whispers rose like a tide.

“She actually dared to show up.”

“Just a half-blood. She really thinks she matters.”

“Abbott letting her stay until today was merciful enough.”

I took the farthest edge, my back against a cold stone pillar. Not too near, not too far—close enough to see, far enough that no one could force me into participation.

Abbott stood at the center of the raised platform.

When he lifted a hand, the entire hall seemed pressed down by an invisible palm.

“The wedding will be the third night after the full moon,” he said, voice low. “The marking ceremony will be next week.”

Cheers surged like a wave. Someone howled; someone dropped to their knees and kissed the floor; cups lifted in salute, loyalty offered in a single, fevered direction.

Roberta stood at his right.

She wore something bright tonight, as if she meant to steal attention from the firelight. The moment the announcement landed, she laid a hand lightly over her abdomen—slow, deliberate, precise, as if demonstrating.

Pregnant.

The next second, the cheering rose even higher. Everyone shouted the pack’s name. No one cared whether a half-blood existed.

More accurately: the pack never left space for a half-blood in a room like this.

Toasts, blessings, gifts—everything moved forward according to ritual. I thought I could stay quiet until it ended, then slip away like a shadow.

But Roberta came over with her glass.

Her steps were light and unhurried. She stopped in front of me, lifted her cup, and smiled—warm, proper.

“Savy.” When she said my name, it was the way you’d speak to a child who didn’t know the rules. “You came. Abbott will be pleased.”

I didn’t touch her glass. I only looked at her.

She didn’t mind my coldness. Instead she lowered her voice, as if granting me dignity.

“You should thank Abbott,” she said. “If he hadn’t brought you back to the territory, you’d have died out there. Not every half-blood gets that kind of luck.”

She made luck sound soft—like syrup coating a blade.

I looked at the silver ring on her finger and suddenly found it ridiculous. What she was displaying wasn’t love—it was ownership.

I spoke, my tone steady. “I’m alive. It wasn’t luck.”

Roberta blinked, as if she didn’t understand what refusal meant, still gentle. “Of course. You’re strong. That’s something Abbott values in you. It’s just—” She paused, like she was instructing me. “You need to understand gratitude. Understand your place.”

I didn’t answer.

I wasn’t going to argue inside her rules. Fighting her would only drag me into the mud she handled best.

I looked away, about to leave.

Just then, the crowd behind me parted again.

Abbott walked over.

His scent pressed closer, like cold iron against skin. Roberta immediately hooked her arm to his—natural, as if it were her right.

Abbott stopped in front of me. His gaze swept my face and paused for less than a second.

“Come to the wedding,” he said.

Still not a question.

Like something he could arrange with an idle thought.

I looked at him. Inside me, I was strangely calm. I had no intention of throwing my real plans out early—giving them a chance to stop me, surround me, force compliance through the pack link.

So I only said, “I can’t make it that day.”

Abbott’s eyes darkened. “You can’t?”

I nodded. “I have something to do.”

“What could be more important than this?” His voice dropped, carrying that familiar, offended chill. “Savvy, don’t refuse on purpose.”

His gaze chilled further. “Don’t make people think you’re still throwing a tantrum.”