Chapter 2

The dress clung uncomfortably to Freya’s thin frame as she worked in the kitchen, stirring the pot of stew that would feed her family. The scent of herbs and simmering meat filled the air, but instead of pride, she only felt the familiar ache of exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders. Even in something new, she was still the servant.

The door creaked open. Amanda strutted in, her curls bouncing, her lips tinted with color. She looked at Freya as though she were filth standing too close to her shoes.

“You. Come,” Amanda snapped, seizing her wrist without waiting for a response.

The spoon slipped from Freya’s hand, clattering against the pot. Her stomach knotted. She wiped her palm nervously against the fabric of her skirt but followed, because resistance only ever ended with bruises.

The moment they stepped into the hallway, Freya noticed it. Enzo stood tall in a polished tunic, his hair neatly combed back. Amanda’s dress shimmered faintly in the candlelight, elegant and well-fitted. Richard and Lycril wore garments meant for occasions, their posture regal, their smiles poised.

Freya faltered. Why are they dressed like this?

Then she saw him.

A tall young man stood speaking with her father, his shoulders broad, his aura sharp and commanding. Even without knowing, Freya could sense the power thrumming through him—Beta.

Before the man’s eyes could lift toward her, Lycril’s head snapped around. Her lips curled in horror, as though Freya’s very presence was a disgrace.

“Excuse me,” she murmured to the young man, her tone falsely sweet. Then she strode over, her heels striking against the stone floor.

Before Freya could take a breath, Lycril’s hand clamped around her arm. “What are you doing here looking like this?” she hissed under her breath. “Do you want to shame us?”

She dragged Freya down the corridor, away from curious eyes, and shoved her toward the small washing basin.

“Wash your face. Fix your hair. You look like a stray. You are not going to humiliate me in front of the Beta.”

Freya’s hands trembled as she splashed the cold water against her face, rubbing the dirt from her cheeks, pushing her tangled hair back with trembling fingers. When she looked up, her eyes landed on the cracked mirror propped against the wall.

Her reflection stared back at her—a girl of eighteen, but her skin was pale, her lips dry, her eyes shadowed by years of silent suffering. Scars traced faint lines across her arms, reminders of every whip and slap.

Eighteen.

She had waited for this age with hope that had burned like a fragile flame inside her chest. Eighteen was the year a werewolf found their wolf. Eighteen was the year fated mates appeared. She had dreamed of it since she was a child—that her wolf would come, that she would feel whole, that somewhere, someone was waiting to look at her not with disgust, but with love.

But the mirror showed her truth. There was no wolf. No mate. Just the unwanted omega with hollow eyes and a bruised heart.

Tears pricked at the corners of her vision, but she blinked them away quickly. Lycril would never allow weakness.

“Hurry up!” Lycril snapped, yanking her away from the basin. “The Beta doesn’t have time for your daydreams.”

She tugged Freya back down the hall, her nails biting into her skin. When they reached the gathering again, Lycril leaned close, her voice low and venomous.

“Stay in that corner,” she ordered, pushing Freya toward the shadows of the room. “You are not to speak. You are not to move. Do not disgrace us.”

Freya obeyed, pressing herself against the wall, her head lowered.

From her corner, she could see Richard’s broad smile, Lycril’s elegant curtsy, Amanda’s eager simper, Enzo’s prideful stance. And standing before them—Beta Xavier, strong, commanding, the man whose name already bound itself like a chain around her fate.

Freya’s heart pounded.

Whatever bargain her father had made, she could feel it pressing closer, tightening like a noose.

***

Richard’s booming voice carried across the hall, smooth and practiced.

“Beta Xavier,” he said with a bow of his head, “it is an honor to host you in our humble home. Please forgive the lack of grandeur—times have not been… kind.”

Xavier’s sharp gaze swept the room, taking in the ornate garments of Richard’s family, then flicking briefly—almost dismissively—toward the corner where Freya stood half-hidden. His presence filled the air, heavy, commanding.

“I am not here for grandeur,” Xavier replied, his tone low, controlled. “I am here for what was promised.”

Richard’s grin widened, his chest puffing with false pride. “And I am a man who keeps his word. You will find that I have done everything to ensure the arrangement is… satisfactory.”

Lycril stepped forward then, her smile polished, her voice dripping with charm. “Our family has long respected the Northridge Pack, Beta. When my husband received word of your interest, we were honored. Truly. You will find no deceit here.”

Freya’s stomach twisted. Interest? Arrangement? Each word was a blade carving at her chest.

Xavier’s dark eyes studied Richard, then Lycril, as though weighing the truth of their words. Finally, he said, “I don’t care for flattery. I was told there would be no delays.”

Richard chuckled nervously, his hands rubbing together. “No delays, of course. Everything is in order. You shall see for yourself soon enough.”

Amanda stepped closer, curtsying sweetly, her eyes shining with eagerness. “It is such a blessing for us to host someone of your stature, Beta Xavier. The honor is all ours.”

Xavier’s expression did not soften. If anything, he looked impatient, his gaze flicking once more toward the shadows where Freya stood.

Her breath caught in her throat. Though he hadn’t called her out, she felt as though he could see straight through her—through the rags she had worn minutes ago, through the bruises she tried to hide, through every secret her father wished buried.

Richard followed his gaze and quickly stepped in front of her view, his voice loud, rehearsed. “Why don’t we discuss this matter further over wine, Beta? Please, this way.”

Lycril nodded eagerly, her smile tightening as she cast one last sharp glare toward Freya. “Stay put,” she hissed under her breath as she swept past.

Freya lowered her head again, her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress.

What arrangement? What promise? Why does it feel like every word they say is sealing my fate?

From her corner, she listened as their footsteps faded deeper into the hall, carrying their lies and bargains with them.

And though no one had spoken her name aloud, Freya knew.

The promise… was her.