The corridor to the royal wing was lit in soft amber, the sconces casting shadows along the arched stone walls. Arin's heart beat faster with every step, her satin skirts whispering against the polished floor.
This was the night she had been raised to imagine, the consummation of her new role as queen, the moment that would secure her place beside the Alpha King. Her father's voice still echoed in her ears: Hold your head high, make him see your worth, and remember, our bloodline depends on you.
Two guards stood at the carved double doors of the bridal chambers. They didn't look at her as they pulled the doors open, their expressions unreadable.
Arin stepped inside.
The room was warm, perfumed with sandalwood and something richer, something intimate. A fire roared in the hearth, casting golden light across the sprawling bed draped in crimson sheets. Her lips curved in a tentative smile as she glanced toward it.
Then the smile froze.
Roan was not alone.
He stood near the bed, shirt undone, the hard lines of his chest visible in the flickering light. A dark-haired woman was pressed against him, her dress loosened at the shoulders, his hand resting low on her back. Her lips brushed his jaw, slow and lingering.
The sound in Arin's ears was a sudden rush, as if the air had been sucked from the room.
The woman turned slightly at the noise of Arin's arrival. She was beautiful, older, confident, her mouth curved in something between amusement and disdain. Roan didn't flinch, didn't pull away. He looked straight at Arin, his expression sharp enough to wound.
"Well," he said, his voice deep and without apology. "The queen arrives."
The woman stepped back but made no move to leave, as if she had nothing to be ashamed of. Roan fastened one button on his shirt, deliberately slow, his gaze never leaving Arin's face.
"If you were expecting something else tonight," he said, "you will be disappointed."
Arin's mouth went dry. "You…"
"I will never touch you, Arin." His tone was calm, almost conversational, but there was steel beneath it. "You and your father have already gotten what you wanted, your title, your crown. But you will never have the satisfaction you seek."
Her cheeks burned, though the heat was not from the fire. "You think I sought only that?"
"I know you did," Roan said, his voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. "Your father wanted his blood in the royal line. You wanted my bed. Neither will happen."
He stepped toward her, not quickly, but with the slow certainty of a predator closing the distance. The other woman watched silently, eyes glinting.
"You will wear the crown," Roan continued, "smile for the court, and play the role. But in this room, you will remain untouched. I will not give your father a claim through me."
The humiliation sank deep, filling every hollow space inside her. She could have fought back, could have thrown his cruelty in his face but her tongue felt heavy, her throat tight.
She turned sharply, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor, and strode from the room before the burn in her eyes could spill over.
The corridors blurred around her as she walked faster, then broke into a near run. She didn't know where she was going, only that she needed distance, from the warmth of that room, from the mocking glint in Roan's eyes.
She pushed through a side door and into the palace gardens.
The night air was crisp, tinged with the scent of roses and frost. The moon was full, painting silver light over the marble pathways and tall hedges.
Her breaths came too fast, her pulse pounding in her ears. She stumbled toward a stone bench near the fountain, the sound of water soft and steady.
Her hands pressed to her face, and she tried to will her mind to quiet. But Roan's words echoed too clearly. I will never touch you. You have already gotten what you wanted.
A strange dizziness swept over her. She gripped the edge of the bench, but the world tilted, the silvered garden spinning slowly out of place. The scent of roses grew stronger, cloying, and then
Darkness.
She woke to birdsong.
Arin blinked against the sunlight filtering through the branches above her. She was lying on a patch of soft grass near the fountain, her gown slightly rumpled, the edge of her sleeve damp with morning dew.
Her head throbbed faintly, as though she had slept far too long or not at all. She sat up slowly, brushing leaves from her skirt, and looked around.
The garden was empty. The water still trickled from the fountain's tiered bowl, but the moonlight and the silver stillness of the night were gone.
She frowned, trying to recall how she had come here.
The memory was broken fragments of the corridor, the sound of her own footsteps, the rush of cool air as she stepped outside. It felt like the world was spinning and then, nothing.
She pressed a hand to her temple. No matter how she reached for it, the rest of the night stayed locked away, sealed behind a wall her mind could not climb.
She noticed to her horror that even though she still had her clothes on, they were mussed and even ripped in some places, and her body was sore.
A maid's voice broke the silence. "Your Majesty!"
Arin turned. The girl was hurrying toward her, skirts gathered in her fists, her expression pale.
"We have been searching for you all night," the maid said breathlessly. "You missed the morning court."
"All night?" Arin repeated.
The maid nodded, glancing at the rumpled state of Arin's gown. "Come inside before anyone else sees you."
Arin rose, allowing herself to be led back toward the palace. But as they walked, she looked once more over her shoulder at the fountain.
Something had happened there, something she could not name, not remember.
And in the hollow of her chest, beneath the lingering sting of Roan's rejection, a new and sharper feeling began to take root.
Not grief.
Not shame.
Fear.