The Prince’s fingers trace my cheekbone as his warm eyes look with deep affection into mine. I can’t help but melt into his touch. “You know…you look formidable with your scars,” he compliments, his touch roaming to the scar over my eye, then to the semicircle blown in the side of my ear.
It’s been six months since the night of my First Shift. I never did find the courage to rebuke the Prince. I should have thanked him for such an opportunity – it’s because of his ambition that I earned a silver pendant at all. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to thank him, either. So, I swallowed my anger, but a part of me died when I did.
Tomorrow is our wedding day. I’m clinging onto any excitement I can muster. I’m grateful for nights like tonight, when I’ve convinced myself of my affection for Prince Donnacha. Though we seldom see eye-to-eye, he never fails to lavish me with attention. He always shows me in different ways how much he adores me. A bouquet of roses in the morning, or a home-cooked meal in the evening, or a surprise picnic out in the palace gardens. One night, I arrived at my family’s estate and found a note on the door:
‘I’m hiding with a water gun in the house. There’s a spare water pistol waiting for you on the counter. Game on, Kiana.’
The spoiled brat I met five years ago has all but disappeared. He doesn’t treat me with such disrespect anymore; now, I feel seen and heard. I don’t know what changed – I’m just glad he has.
I always feel like a goddess when I’m around him.
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asks as we linger by my bedroom door. The stars twinkle brightly outside, and we both need a good night’s rest for the big day. He’s stalling for time, reluctant to leave me. Tonight, I don’t mind.
“Of course,” I lie, though he purses his lips. “You must work on your lying skills, darling,” he chides with a sigh. More and more often, he refers to me with pet-names. It makes no sense, but I always recoil a little.
He wraps me in a hug, his huge stature dwarfing mine. I look like a child next to him. He kisses the top of my forehead, we say our farewells, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.
You’re excited about this, I remind myself. He’s a good man, and this is your duty. Chin up.
I wake up long before the sun warms the snow-buried land. A throng of attendants surround me to adorn me in traditional werewolf wedding makeup. As I sit, eyes closed and swaddled in a heavy fur blanket, they work with their paintbrushes, pencils, liners, and lipsticks. All too soon, my blanket is ripped from me and I shiver in the cold, until I’m laced up in my winter wedding dress. A few beads and strings here, a few necklaces there—
“Open your eyes,” one of the attendants purrs.
A gentle gasp lifts my chest. My fair skin is adorned with earth-brown runes and knots, painted exquisitely to accentuate my femininity, unapologetic strength, and trophy-like scars. Thick eyeliner surrounds my eyes, making them look like sparkling raindrops against the earth. My hair is styled in an intricate, braided bun with draping beads, decorative fangs, flowers, and loose curls – a black, teardrop pendant rests on the center of my forehead. A jeweled and beaded choker clasps around my neck, but my smooth chest is left bare.
I’m dressed in a gorgeous white gown – a tradition borrowed from human tribes. The sweetheart neckline is accentuated with majestic white fur; long, slitted sleeves spill down alongside the corseted bust; and the flowy skirt graces my bare ankles. The back is secured with laces, and a white fur wrap drapes across my arms.
“I – wow,” I stammer disbelievingly. Is that really my reflection?
Another attendant leans in close and gushes, “Just wait until you see the Prince – you two will be like a god and goddess together!”
A blush rises to my cheeks, eliciting giggles from the artists around me. Then, I feel all the color drain from my face as a thought creeps in:
I’ll be expected to consecrate the marriage…tonight.
The thought should excite me, but instead, I focus again on my reflection and how divine I look. As vain as it is, I’m calmed by the distraction.
Mother pulls back the drapes to the room, and the attendants bow before scurrying away. I nod respectfully to her, but soon look back at the mirror. “Hello, Mother,” I greet coldly.
Mother moves to stand behind me, admiring me with a proud smile. Her eyes twinkle sadly, and she breathes in deep as she suffocates her emotions. “I really am proud of you,” she whispers, her long nails gliding across my cheek.
I flash a trained, yet faint, smile.
Her lips purse, and she steels herself against something. I frown as she struggles with her words – she’s never struggled with words.
“Mother, is something--?”
“Cillian and Sorcha are here watching you, I’m sure of it,” she blurts, the muscles in her neck flexing anxiously.
I freeze. She never talks about them. Never.
“…They should be here,” I croak, my jaw ticking.
Her hands land on my shoulders, and she grips me firmly. “Kiana, I must ask something of you,” she declares gravely. She walks in front of me, eclipsing the mirror, and glares down at me. I gasp as I notice the tears pooling in her eyes.
“Promise me that you’ll never forgive me,” she pleads, the grief overflowing in her eyes. “What your father and I did that day is unforgivable. So, don’t waste your time trying to forgive.”
I stammer, mouth agape. I’ve never tried to forgive her…right? Maybe, deep down, I’ve wanted to. Maybe, in the silent hours of the night, I yearn for the bond we used to share. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for me to hold onto my hate.
“I’ve seen the way you look at your father and me. Don’t let that anger die, Kiana. Forge it into a weapon.” A single tear falls, and she bitterly wipes it away. She leans in close, her hot breath ghosting against my ear. “Grow your anger until it’s strong enough to change this cursed pack… Or until it’s strong enough to burn it to the ground!”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. She pulls away, and all I see on her face is grief. I never knew she held this much hatred toward the pack. Why hate the pack, when you were the one who dealt the killing blow?
“Promise me that,” she rasps.
I don’t know what to say. I’m just left confused and overwhelmed. I try to speak—
An attendant enters the room. “The pack has gathered to witness the ceremony! We must begin!” she chirps. Mother closes her eyes, a tapestry of anguish knitting her brows. She takes in a long breath, and when she opens her eyes, the agony is gone from her gaze. She looks down at me with the trademark coldness of royalty.
“Very well. Come along, Kiana. It is time.”
The snowy path is strewn with bleeding heart flowers, bright pink against crystal, sparkling white. The pack surrounds the path on both sides; everyone kneels with their heads bowed, and their combined breath puffs in fog-like mist. The early morning sun casts a rosy wash over the winter wilderness, the tall trees leaving endless shadows that streak across the snow dunes.
At the end of the glittering path is the Prince, staring at me with burning eyes. He’s dressed in black furs that broaden his shoulders and frame his sharp jawline. A black-dyed, deer-hide cape falls to his ankles, its onyx antlers still attached. Large, polished fangs rest in his earlobes and trail beads to his pierced nose. He stands tall and proud – a living, breathing icon of the pack’s strength.
My breath, inevitably, is stolen when he offers me a warm smile. His confidence bleeds into me, and his ember-like gaze chases away the chill and fear that grip me.
Mother, who was walking alongside me, bows and steps away to join Father in the crowd. Luna Bleeding Heart steps forward, reaching her hand out to guide me forward. With stilled breath, I take her hand, and she holds on tightly. Muted gasps and excited shuffles echo throughout the pack. This small gesture holds great weight; it signifies that the Luna is now my mother as well. She guides me to her grandson and hands me off to him.
Donnacha gently wraps my chilled hands in his warm, calloused ones. As Luna Bleeding Heart speaks about the sacredness of a royal marriage, I focus on Donnacha’s eyes. He looks deep into me, smiling softly and stroking my knuckles whenever he senses my fear. I’m so glad he’s here to comfort me against the sea of eyes and expectations.
“…Do you, Beta Kiana Graveheart, promise to fight for Prince Donnacha Firetongue ‘til your dying breath?”
Donnacha regards me proudly, barely able to contain the smile that threatens to break his composure.
“I do.”
His lips part to reveal a beaming grin, his eyes twinkling with delight.
“Do you promise to love him ‘til the end of time and avenge him with fang and claw if he falls?”
“I do.”
“And do you promise to eternally devote yourself to him – mind, body, and soul – through good and bad?”
“…I do.”
The Luna turns to her grandson, whose smile is so infectious that I can’t help but mirror it. She repeats the same vows to Donnacha, who readily swears by all of them.
“Then, under the authority of Aoibh and Cadhla, I pronounce you husband and wife!”
The crowd erupts into cheers as bleeding heart petals are tossed at us. Donnacha tucks a lock of ginger hair behind my ear and sweeps me off my feet, plunging me into a low dip and kissing me longingly, greedily, and deeply. I’m startled at first, and I navigate awkwardly around his kiss – my first kiss. He pulls me back up as the pack continues clapping and cheering.
“Now, you may mark each other,” the Luna declares.
Donnacha takes my hand gently in his and raises it up to his lips. He brushes his soft lips against my skin, a warm breath of air trickling across my flesh. He exposes the underside of my wrist, and his sharp teeth extend into canines. He smirks, his charisma easing my nerves, and he sinks his teeth into my soft tissue. Pain shoots up my arm, but I don’t wince; I’m not allowed to.
He releases me, and streaks of crimson blood flow down my wrist and dribble into the snow. He offers me his wrist, and I do the same to him. His hot, salty, metallic blood dances on my tongue; his rough skin breaks easily beneath my sharp fangs.
I pull away, and we clasp our blood-soaked hands together, our bite marks forever etched onto our wrists. A scar that will forever bear the proof of our sacred marriage.
Now nothing can tear us apart.