He arrives three days into training.

I’m crossing the courtyard in royal dress—deep silver silk that makes my eyes look luminous, my hair styled instead of tangled. Looking like what I am: a princess.

That’s when I feel it. The pull. That corrupted, artificial bond thrumming to life.

I turn, and there he is.

Theron stands at the courtyard entrance with Marcus beside him and Celeste clinging to his arm. She’s dressed perfectly, playing devoted Luna, but there are cracks—the tight line of her mouth, the way her fingers dig into his sleeve.

Theron’s eyes find mine across the distance, and I watch him go completely still.

His wolf is right there, gold bleeding into his irises. The bond flares between us—painful, wrong, artificial magic recognizing itself. I feel it in my chest, my stomach, everywhere. And I hate it. Hate that it’s still there.

He takes a step forward.

A hand closes around my elbow. Malik. “Training. Now.”

“Malik—”

“Now, Kira.” His voice drops. “Unless you want that conversation here, in front of everyone.”

I glance back. Theron is watching us, his jaw clenched so tight I can see it from here. Celeste says something to him, but he’s not listening. Not looking at her. Just at me.

And the man whose hand is on my arm. But I let Malik lead me away.

This training session is different.

We’re both shifted—him a dark wolf, me silver-white and slightly slower. He’s teaching me to fight in this form, to trust instincts I’ve barely had time to develop.

“Stop thinking,” he growls in my mind. “Just move.”

He lunges. I dodge, but barely.

“You’re still in your head. Your wolf knows what to do. Let her.”

I tried again. This time, when he attacks, I don’t think—I react. Duck under his strike, dart to the side, find an opening at his flank.

“Better.”

We circle each other, and it’s intimate in a way that has nothing to do with romance. Two wolves moving in sync, understanding each other without words. He attacks from the left; I counter from the right. He feints; I don’t fall for it.

My muscles remember his rhythms now. The way he shifts his weight before striking.

When I finally land a solid hit—teeth grazing his shoulder—he shifts back to human, grinning despite the dirt covering him.

I shift too, breathing hard, covered in sweat and earth.

“You’re learning,” he says, moving closer. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. His eyes are intense. “Remember that when you face him tonight.”

“Face who—”

“Theron. At the banquet.” His jaw tightens. “He’s here on ‘pack business.’ Which means he’ll find a way to corner you.”

The bond thrums in response to his name. I press my hand to my chest, hating it.

“I can handle him.”

“I know you can.” Malik’s thumb traces my jaw one more time. “But you don’t have to handle him alone. C’mon.”

The banquet hall glitters with too many wolves in too much silk.

I’m seated beside Damon at the high table—a position of honor that makes every noble in the room stare. He’s been cold all evening, barely looking at me, playing his part perfectly.

Theron sits three tables away with the other visiting Alphas. Celeste beside him. Marcus watching with calculating eyes.

Every time I glance in that direction, Theron is staring. The bond pulls. Aches. I grip my wine glass hard enough to make my knuckles white.

“Stop looking at him,” Damon says without turning his head.

“I’m not—”

“You are. And everyone’s noticing.” He takes a drink, expression bored. “If you want to appear weak, keep it up.”

I force myself to look away. To focus on my plate even though I can’t eat. That’s when I hear it. A noble three seats down, speaking loud enough to carry.

“—the servant princess. Tell me, does she still know how to scrub floors?”

Damon’s wine glass shatters in his hand and the entire hall goes silent.

That wasn’t about the crown. That was about me.

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