The Growing Tension
As the day of the ball approached, the packhouse became a flurry of activity. Elaborate decorations adorned the main hall, and the scent of fresh flowers filled the air. Isla was swept into endless preparations—fittings for ceremonial gowns, rehearsals for the traditional dances, and briefings on the rituals.
Draven, ever composed, observed her from a distance. There was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself, but he could see the strain beneath it. He approached her one evening as she stood by the window of their shared quarters, the moonlight illuminating her profile.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through the stillness.
“I’m just… processing,” she admitted, turning to face him. “There’s so much I don’t understand about all of this.”
“You don’t have to understand everything,” he said, stepping closer. “You just have to trust me.”
Her breath hitched as he reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek. The touch was brief, but it sent a spark through her. “I’m trying,” she said quietly.
“Good,” he replied, his voice soft but firm. “Because when this is over, there won’t be any doubt about who you are. To the pack, or to me.”
The intensity of his words lingered long after he left, leaving Isla to wrestle with the unfamiliar heat stirring within her.
***
The night of the ball arrived, and the packhouse was transformed into a vision of elegance. Wolves from neighboring packs had gathered, their presence a testament to the importance of the occasion. Isla stood at the top of the grand staircase, her ceremonial gown shimmering like starlight.
The crowd parted as she descended, their gazes filled with reverence. Whispers followed her every step.
“She’s radiant.”
“She’s the one.”
But among the admiration, a shadow lurked. Seraphine had arrived in secret, her disguise perfect. She watched Isla from the edges of the crowd, her lips curling into a cold smile. The stage was set, and her plan was in motion.
Draven met Isla at the bottom of the staircase, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “Ready?” he asked, his voice low.
“As I’ll ever be,” she replied, her nerves tempered by his steady presence.
The night unfolded in a blur of music, dances, and whispered conversations. But as the festivities reached their peak, Seraphine slipped away, her path clear. The consummation rites would take place at dawn, and by then, Isla would be gone.
