Marked by the King

The car rolled to a stop on the gravel road, tires crunching loudly in the quiet forest. Headlights swept across towering pine trunks and caught the faint shimmer of lanterns strung deeper in the woods, glowing like fallen stars.

Selene stayed frozen in her seat.

Beyond the windshield, firelight flickered at the base of the hill and climbed toward the Hollow Grounds. Old stone steps rose into the trees, worn smooth by generations of passing feet. Sacred. Unavoidable. Somewhere beyond them, drums had already begun their slow, ritual rhythm, each beat tightening the knot in her stomach.

Her father shut off the engine. The sudden silence felt sharp. He unbuckled, straightened his cufflinks as if they weren’t fraying at the seams, and opened his door.

“Get out,” he said without looking at her.

Selene didn’t move. “I told you I didn’t want to come.”

“And I told you this has nothing to do with what you want,” he replied, stepping into the cold night and slamming the door behind him.

Of course it didn’t.

She unclipped her seatbelt with stiff fingers and followed him out of the car. Pine needles crunched beneath her heels, and her breath puffed white in the air. The dress clung uncomfortably to her frame—sleek, but too tight at the waist. Her hair remained polished and pinned, catching the lantern glow with soft shine.

She looked composed. Even if the pit in her stomach begged to disagree.

Lanterns lined the path ahead, casting warm light that only made the surrounding darkness feel deeper. Shapes moved among the trees as others arrived, wolves dressed in silks and furs, carrying themselves with easy confidence and polished grace.

Selene felt like a mistake walking among them.

As she and her father made their way up the path, conversations hushed. Heads turned just long enough to register her presence before sliding away again. She felt every glance, every quiet assessment. They all knew who she was. The daughter of a lowblood diplomat. Technically packless. Publicly rejected at the last moon ceremony by Lucan, the newly risen heir to the Northwind pack.

That rejection still clung to her, acrid and inescapable. It followed her through the trees and settled heavily in her chest.

“You will behave tonight,” her father said, his gaze fixed ahead. “Lucan may still offer.”

She let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Lucan? The same Lucan who told me I wasn’t fit to stand beside him? That Lucan?”

“He spoke under pressure,” her father said coolly. “Now he holds power. Circumstances change.”

“People don’t,” Selene muttered.

He stopped at the base of the stone steps and turned to face her. “If he offers again, you will accept. This is larger than your pride. You owe me that much.”

Her jaw tightened. “I owe you nothing.”

“You owe me your name,” he snapped, his voice sharp as frost. “You owe me the roof over your head and the protection I secured after your mother disgraced us both. You will not ruin this. Do you understand?”

Her heart thudded painfully in her throat. She looked away, staring at the steps leading upward. “I understand.”

The mating hall opened above them beneath the forest canopy, moonlight spilling through the branches in pale ribbons. Stone walls wrapped in crimson banners rose as though the land itself had shaped them. Candles burned in iron sconces, their flames steady despite the night air. Wolves filled the space, laughing, flirting, circling one another with intent. Music threaded through the crowd, and the scent of wine and heat hung thick in the air.

This was a night of choosing. Of claiming.

Selene wanted to vanish.

She kept her gaze lowered as she entered, the sharp click of her heels echoing against stone. She avoided the altar at the center of the hall and did not look for Lucan, though she knew he was there. She felt his presence like a prickle along her spine, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

All she wanted was somewhere to sit. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere she could breathe.

She slipped past a group of silver-dressed females and slid into the first empty seat she found along the edge of the feasting tables, far from the altar. Relief washed through her when she realized no one else occupied the space.

She discreetly adjusted the hem of her dress beneath the table, smoothing it where it had ridden slightly higher during the walk.

She didn’t notice the presence beside her until her leg brushed against something solid. Warm.

Her breath hitched.

She froze and turned her head slowly.

The man beside her was enormous. Even seated, he dwarfed everyone around him. His suit jacket strained across his broad shoulders, the fabric dark as smoke. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, revealing arms covered in black ink—runes, beasts, a broken crown tangled with serpents. The tattoos seemed to pulse subtly beneath the firelight.

She swallowed hard.

He wasn’t eating or drinking. He wasn’t watching the crowd. He sat utterly still, as though waiting.

No one else sat near him. A wide, instinctive distance had formed around his end of the table, as if every wolf present understood the danger of proximity.

Selene felt the heat of him beside her, radiating from his body. He hadn’t turned his head, but she was acutely aware of his attention.

Then he looked at her. Slowly. Deliberately.

His eyes were a pale, metallic silver, sharp and unblinking.

“You’re the first,” he said quietly, his voice low and rough as wind over stone, “to sit beside me by choice.”

Her mouth opened, then closed again. The music had shifted, but she hadn’t noticed. Her heartbeat filled her ears.

“I’m sorry,” she managed. “I didn’t realize anyone was—”

“You would have left if you had,” he said.

There was no accusation in his tone, only certainty.

She should have stood. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to put distance between herself and whatever he was. His presence felt like the edge of a precipice—silent, immense, and merciless if you slipped.

Yet she remained still. Watching. Waiting.

“I’m not afraid,” she said, even as the lie tasted bitter.

He turned fully toward her, the fabric of his jacket pulling tight across his shoulders. “You should be.”

The fine hairs along the back of her neck lifted. She shifted the hem of her dress again, trying to regain composure.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached behind him, slipped off his blazer, and draped it over her bare legs. The warmth of it wrapped around her like something forbidden.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, fumbling to hand it back. “Really.”

“I wasn’t asking,” he murmured, leaning closer. “Cover your legs.”

Her breath caught.

“They’re distracting,” he continued, his gaze lingering on her thighs, “and I don’t trust myself to ignore them much longer… my mate.”

The word struck her like lightning.

Mate.

She stared at him, shock and disbelief crashing through her. “What… what do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out, slow enough not to frighten, bold enough not to ask permission, and brushed his fingers along the hem of the blazer now covering her legs.

“You felt it,” he said softly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Her wolf stirred at last, heat blooming beneath her skin where his jacket rested.

Then the music stopped.

The hall fell silent, every voice dropping away at once. Selene felt the weight of dozens of gazes turning toward them.

Her body tensed. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

His jaw flexed as he looked her over, slow and deliberate.

“They’re staring,” he said quietly, “because you just sat beside the Lycan King.”