Page 142 of Alpha's Rejected Warrior
Council members in formal robes descend the main aisle first, their strides long and unhurried as they process to claim the front benches arranged at the base of the Seers Hall steps. Lady Gemma settles into her seat in the front row with the practiced ease of someone who has attended a thousand ceremonies, though I still catch her scanning the crowd with sharp, assessing eyes. Xander takes his place beside her, the torchlight carving shadows beneath his jaw.
Behind the Council, the Seers file in wearing their midnight robes, the five of them moving with that preternatural unison they always share, like a single organism made up of multiple bodies. Nobles follow in clusters, some laughing, others whispering. Candles held in glass vessels sit along the base of each step, their small flames doubling in the polished stone.
After the nobility comes the rest of the pack.
My eyes find Conan, Branson, and Jayme among the crowd, along with the rest of my guards in their ceremonial leather, torchlight glinting off their buckles and insignia. The kitchen staff are still dusted in a faint layer of flour. The stable hands carry a lingering aroma of hay and horse musk. Families with whelps perched on their shoulders point at the decorated steps where white petals are scattered across the dark stone, mirroring the stars above. Our packmates fill the benches row by row, and when space runs out, they stand along the edges of the torch-lined paths, pressed shoulder to shoulder on both sides of the outer aisles, their voices converging into a low, rising hum that vibrates through the glass under my fingertips.
“Our moonlit wedding,” I whisper, using the moniker Ethan called it earlier.
Cinnamon cuts through the lavender when he gets close enough, warm and familiar, and my wolf leans into it like it’s as vital as sunlight.
“How many are out there?” his voice comes from behind me.
I step back from the window, but the flutter in my stomach only spreads into my ribs, into my wrists, into the bond humming under my skin. “Many.”
He stands near the center of the hall, tugging at the knot of fabric at his throat. Atie, Thea called it. I gather that it’s meant as a sign of respect for the occasion, but it seems uncomfortable. His suit is charcoal gray, fitted in sharp lines across his shoulders in a way that makes his frame look broader, more pronounced. The collar of his white shirt sits crisply against his neck. He looks polished. Devastatingly handsome.
“Stop messing with that.” Thea swats his hand away and smooths the tie back into place. “You’re going to wrinkle it before we even get out there.”
“It’s choking me.”
“It’s silk. It doesn’t weigh anything.”
“Tell that to my windpipe.”
Thea steps back to inspect him, her hands on her hips. The lavender dress she chose — a human bridesmaid’s dress she insisted on — flows over her pregnant belly in soft waves of fabric, cinched with a ribbon just below her bust. She looks radiant. She also looks like she might strangle Ethan if he touches the tie again.
I turn to the long mirror propped against the far wall and study my reflection.
The gown is traditional Lycan. Long, beige linen pools at my feet. The hem and sleeves are alive with embroidered silver thread tracing patterns of crescent moons and interlocking wolves. The fabric is simple, but the needlework is certainly not. Every stitch was placed by the elder seamstresses who havedressed every Luna and bonded female in this pack for three generations. When Thea first saw it, she tilted her head and smirked, “It looks just like the christening gown Lady Gemma made me wear to my wedding.”
Akila appears at my shoulder in the mirror’s reflection, her formal guard uniform gleaming: blackened leather overlaid with chainmail, the Crescent Pack sigil stamped into the shining chest plate. She reaches past me and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, then adjusts where the embroidered sleeve has folded over itself.
“There.” She meets my eyes in the glass. “Perfect.”
“Are you ready for this?” Akila leans in close enough that only I can hear. Her question carries no trace of doubt, but the tone of a fellow warrior checking another’s footing before the charge.
I hold her gaze in the mirror. “I’m sure.”
Everyone was surprised when I told them I wanted the full pack present. Bonding rituals between high-ranking wolves are usually intimate affairs, held in private chambers with only a handful of witnesses, the High Seer’s blessing spoken in low tones behind closed doors. When I announced that the ceremony would be held on the steps of the Seers Hall, open to every member of the Crescent Pack and every remaining Shaman guest, the silence that followed could have swallowed the room.
Xander asked me twice if I was certain.
I was. I still am.
There will be no room for doubt about the strength or the source of this bond. No speculation traded in shadowy corridors about whether the Moon Goddess truly sanctioned what everyone thought impossible.
They will see it with their own eyes. They will hear the words spoken aloud, out in the open. They will witness my mark,already healed to a tinted scar just above Ethan’s collarbone, and they will know that the Moon Goddess herself ordained this bond in the continuum of time before any Lycan had a say in it.
I will not hide it from the Council, the nobles, or a single soul in this pack.
Warm fingers brush the small of my back, and Akila slips away without a word.
Ethan’s reflection appears beside mine in the mirror. His jade-green eyes travel the length of the gown, lingering on the silver embroidery at my collarbone before settling on my face.
“You look...” He swallows. “Stunning.”
His tie is already crooked again.
