I expected brutish. I expected crude. I expected the kind of obvious menace that announces itself with snarls and flexing muscles.
What I get is far worse.
He's massive, tall enough that I'd have to crane my neck to meet his eyes if we stood toe to toe, all lean, coiled power, but he wears it with an elegance that makes my stomach tighten. Dark blond hair falls past his collar, pushed back from a face that belongs on a warrior king rather than a mountain recluse. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that looks carved rather than grown, and a thin scar that bisects his left eyebrow and adds a brutal accent to features that might otherwise be too beautiful. His eyes are the pale gray of winter ice, and they track my approach with an intensity that makes heat prickle across my skin.
He wears black wool and leather like armor, silver wolf-head clasps gleaming at his throat, and his hands rest on the arms of his throne with the easy confidence of a man who has never been challenged and defeated. A blade is strapped to his thigh, within easy reach. Not decorative. Functional.
Everything about him screams danger.
And everything in my body responds in ways that make me want to claw my own skin off.
My heartbeat kicks against my ribs, and I hate it. Heat flushes through me and there's a strange, almost painful urge building in my chest. The urge to drop my gaze. To turn my head and bare my throat in submission.
I dig my nails into my palms and force the feeling down. I don't know where it came from or why my body is betraying me, but I refuse to give in to it. I stop at the base of the dais and meet his gaze directly, letting him see the defiance in my eyes.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. He studies me with that unnerving stillness, and I have the distinct impression that he's seeing far more than my face. That he's cataloging every micro-expression, every subtle change in my posture, every racing beat of my traitorous heart.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough, scraping against something raw in me that I didn't know existed.
"Iris Carswell. The blood debt made flesh."
"And you're the beast who thinks he bought himself a bride." I keep my voice flat and cold, refusing to match his formal cadence.
Something flickers in those pale eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or interest. Neither option comforts me.
"The blood pact is clear," he says. "Your ancestor owed mine a debt that could only be paid through marriage alliance. You are that payment."
"My ancestor is dead. Along with everyone else who agreed to those terms. I didn't sign anything."
"Blood binds beyond death. You know this, or your grandmother failed in her duties."
Grief twists beneath my ribs at the mention of Helena, but I don't let it show. "My grandmother taught me many things. Including how to recognize a prison when I see one."
He rises from the throne in a single fluid motion, and suddenly the space between us feels far too small. He descends the dais steps slowly, deliberately, giving me every opportunity to retreat. I plant my feet and refuse to move.
When he stops, he's close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to catch his scent, pine and woodsmoke and something wild underneath that makes my pulse stutter. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"You will remain in this keep," he says, his voice dropping into command. "You will fulfill the terms of the blood pact through marriage. You will learn your place within this pack. These are not requests."
"And if I refuse?"
"The pact will enforce itself. The consequences for breaking it will destroy your bloodline entirely. Every cousin, every distant relative, every person who shares even a single drop of Carswell blood." He pauses, letting the threat sink in. "I'm told you have a second cousin in Portland. A young mother with two children."
My stomach drops. "You wouldn't."
"I wouldn't have to. The pact would do it for me. Ancient magic cares nothing for innocence or fairness. It only cares about balance." He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "Your grandmother understood this. That's why she spent your entire life preparing you rather than helping you run."
He's right, and I hate him for it. Helena never tried to break the pact or hide me from its reach. She trained me instead. Combat, strategy, supernatural politics, and survival. She made me into a weapon because she knew I would need to be one.
I just didn't expect to feel so powerless when the moment finally arrived.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth. "I'll stay. I'll play your political bride. But don't expect me to be grateful, and don't expect me to submit."
That slow smile returns, curving his lips without touching his eyes. "I expect nothing but defiance from you, Iris Carswell. Your grandmother's reports made that clear."
The words jolt through me. "Reports?"
"Did you think I accepted this arrangement blindly? I've known about you for years. Known what you are, what you're capable of, what fire burns beneath that careful control." He leans closer, and his voice drops to something intimate and dangerous. "I've been waiting for you."
