The Seclusion
The ball concluded with the pack’s traditional farewell, a moment steeped in history and expectation. Wolves from across the pack and neighboring territories gathered in the grand hall, their voices rising in a chorus of howls to honor the Alpha and Luna as they retreated to the private quarters reserved for the consummation rites. Isla felt the weight of every gaze as she walked beside Draven, her heart pounding with every step. The significance of what was to come wasn’t lost on her—this was more than a ritual. It was a test of her place, her worth, her bond with the Alpha at her side.
Draven’s hand rested lightly on her back, steadying her as they moved through the crowd. His touch was firm but not overbearing, a silent reminder that she wasn’t alone in this. Yet, despite his presence, Isla couldn’t shake the tension curling in her chest. The whispers followed them, some filled with admiration, others with doubt, but all of them seemed to weigh her down.
“Luna,” one elder murmured as they passed, bowing deeply. The reverence in his voice sent a ripple through her, but it wasn’t pride she felt—it was pressure.
As they stepped into the secluded wing of the packhouse, the noise of the celebration faded into a hush. The corridor stretched before them, lined with dimly flickering lanterns that cast golden light onto the stone walls. Each step echoed softly, a reminder of the intimacy of the space they were entering. Draven walked beside her, his stride confident and sure, while Isla’s was more tentative. Her hands clutched the soft fabric of her ceremonial gown, twisting it as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her.
When Draven pushed open the door to the private quarters, Isla hesitated for a moment before following him inside. The room was warm, bathed in the gentle glow of candlelight that flickered against the polished wood and stone. A large hearth dominated one wall, its flames crackling softly, while a thick, fur-lined rug stretched across the center of the room. The air was rich with the scent of cedar and lavender, the kind of fragrance that soothed and unsettled her all at once.
“This is it,” she thought, her heart pounding louder than before.
Draven turned to her, his dark eyes steady as he closed the door behind them. His presence filled the room, his energy calm but commanding. “Relax,” he said, his voice breaking the silence with a warmth that eased some of the tension in her chest. “This isn’t a test.”
Isla managed a faint smile, though her fingers continued to twist in the fabric of her gown. “It feels like one,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Draven stepped closer, the soft tread of his boots muffled by the rug. He moved with a quiet confidence, and when he stopped in front of her, his nearness made her breath hitch. “This isn’t about the pack, Isla,” he said, his tone gentler now. “Not the elders. Not the traditions. This is about us.”
His words hung in the air, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. Isla’s chest tightened as she looked up at him, her thoughts racing. The vulnerability of the moment made her feel exposed, and yet, there was comfort in his steadiness, in the way he carried himself as though nothing could shake him.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said softly, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he reached out. His hand brushed her cheek, the calloused pads of his fingers warm against her skin.
“I’m not afraid,” she replied, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her. Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it, but she refused to let the doubt creep into her expression.
Draven’s lips quirked into a faint smile, one that softened his sharp features. “Then show me,” he murmured.
The intimacy of his words sent a shiver down her spine. She felt the distance between them dissolve, as though the air itself conspired to draw them closer. His touch lingered on her cheek, light but deliberate, and Isla found herself leaning into it. Her breath came shallow as she looked into his eyes, dark and unreadable but not unkind.
For a moment, she let herself forget everything—the expectations, the whispers, the weight of what this night symbolized. All that mattered was the man in front of her, his presence anchoring her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.
Draven leaned in slowly, his movements unhurried but certain, as if giving her the chance to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she closed the space between them, her hands instinctively resting against his chest. The warmth of him seeped into her palms, and her eyes fluttered shut as the world seemed to still.
But outside the secluded wing, the world was far from still.
In the shadows of the packhouse, Seraphine moved with purpose. She had waited for this moment, every detail of her plan unfolding exactly as she had envisioned. Her gown, identical to Isla’s ceremonial dress, shimmered faintly in the low light. The crescent birthmark painted onto her cheek was flawless, the ink drying perfectly to mimic Isla’s own. And her silver dyed hair glistened into the moonlight. She had studied her sister’s every movement, every gesture, and rehearsed them until they were second nature. The disguise was perfect.
Seraphine’s lips curled into a cold smile as she crept through the servants’ corridor, avoiding the prying eyes of the guards. Her accomplice, hidden in the shadows, gave her a quick nod before vanishing into the night. She slipped closer to the entrance of the wing, her heart pounding not with nerves but with anticipation.
This was her moment.
Her fingers tightened around the vial of sedative tucked into the folds of her gown. She wouldn’t fail. Not this time.
Inside the private quarters, Isla leaned into Draven’s touch, unaware of the danger waiting just beyond the door.
