Chapter 32
Chapter 32
Chapter 32
I don’t turn. I don’t breathe at all as they’re called.
Because if I do–if I see them–I’m not sure I’ll survive what comes next. The rage within me still boils and I know I won’t be able to hold my disguise if I lay my eyes on them.
My spine feels as though it’s been welded straight and my jaw hurts from how hard I’m clenching it.
Fuck, pull it together, Sorin.
Carriage wheels crunch on gravel behind me, the sound scraping through my nerves. Their perfume–Ariel’s sticky–sweet poison I’d recognize anywhere–reaches me, and bile claws at my throat.
No. Not here. Not now.
“I–excuse me,” I blurt, my voice sharper than I intend, and I force my legs to move before anyone can question why I’m bolting.
I don’t look back. Can’t.
By the time I reach the servant’s wing, my hands are trembling so hard I nearly drop the bundle of ledgers clutched against my chest. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, so loud I’m afraid someone might hear it.
Tully spots me first, leaning against the doorway with a half–empty mug of ale. Her brows knit together as she straightens. “Sor? You look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost p>
I plaster on the most pathetic excuse for a smile. “I’m fine.” My voice cracks halfway through. Smooth. “Just… need to get back to work before I lose my mind p>
Marg appears behind her, wiping her hands on her apron. “You sure about that? You’re pale as shit p>
“I’m fine,” I repeat, sharper this time. If I keep saying it, maybe it’ll stop being a lie.
Tully doesn’t buy it, but she lets me pass. “Workaholic,” she mutters, trailing after me anyway.
We end up near the training grounds where the Omega women are practicing the opening dance for tonight. A symbolic performance, they said. A tribute to the moon. A tradition that had to be perfect–because apparently the Alpha King himself watches every step like a hawk.
The dance master, an older Omega with a stick that she wields like a weapon, snaps at one of the girls. “Again!” She whacks her palm when her arm lifts too high, then smacks the back of her legs when she missteps. The poor girl stumbles, blinking back tears, but bows her head and repeats the movement.
Beside me, Tully leans close, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “You see him? Over there? By the pavilion. Another Alpha just arrived. Tall, dark, handsome as sin p>
My gut drops. I don’t even need to look.
She’s talking about Wade.
Tully sighs dreamily. “Not as handsome as the Alpha King, of course–no one fucking is–but damn, I wouldn’t say no to p>
Marg cuts her off with a scoff. “Handsome doesn’t mean shit if you’re rotten inside. Word is, that one cheated on his Luna. Heard he even killed her just to stick his little mistress in her place p>
My head snaps around before I can stop myself. “No, he didn’t! ”
Chapter 32
The words come out too fast, too defensive. The hell’s wrong with me?
Both of them whip their heads toward me.
Tully’s brows shoot up. “… Okay? How the hell do you know that p>
Marg narrows her eyes, curious. “Yeah, Sorin. Sounds like you’re awful sure about a story that doesn’t even concern you p>
My mouth goes dry. Shit. Think, Sorin, think.
I let out a weak laugh, waving a hand as if I don’t give a damn. “I just mean–it doesn’t add up, does it? Killing his Luna? That’s… dramatic. Wolves love drama, but not that much p>
They keep staring.
Damn it.
I clear my throat and jerk my chin toward the training grounds. “Look at her. Poor thing’s about to collapse. Can we maybe not gossip about murderous Alphas for five seconds p>
Thankfully, their attention shifts back to the girl being corrected again, and I finally breathe.
I watch her stumble through the movements, the rhythm off, her posture trembling. My chest tightens.
Once upon a time, that would’ve been me.
I practiced that same fucking dance every day in Woodridge. It was expected–the Luna’s duty to open the Full Moon ceremony. I remember bloody feet, aching calves, exhaustion pressing down while Wade’s shadow loomed over me. Back then, I thought it mattered. That it would make me worthy of standing beside him.
I clench my fists, shaking my head to shove the memory back where it belongs–rotting in the past.
The great pack bell tolls, deep and echoing across the grounds. The sound vibrates through my bones.
Dusk.
The ceremony is about to begin.
“Are you guys ready to do this?” I turn to Marg and Tully, voice low but steady. My pulse, however, isn’t. It’s hammering like I’m about to walk into a battlefield instead of a ball.
Marg grins at me, her mouth tugging up in that sly, knowing way. “As ready as I’ll ever be. You p>
Tully’s bouncing in her little flowy dress like she’s heading to a fucking festival instead of a death–trap ceremony. “I look cute, don’t I?” she spins once, dress flaring, mask catching the candlelight.
“Cute enough to survive tonight,” I mutter, tugging my plain servant’s uniform straight and fixing my mask. I don’t bother with gowns. Marg doesn’t either. Uniform and a mask–blending in is safer than standing out.
We finally step into the corridor with the others, and I quickly spread the remaining servants out, directing them with quick gestures. “You, trays to the east wing. You two, wine carafes on rotation. Keep moving, don’t linger.” My voice is sharper than usual, but no one questions me. Good.
The doors to the grand dining hall creak open, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
It’s chaos wrapped in elegance p>
Golden candelabras burn bright on every long, polished table, flames licking the air. The chandeliers overhead sparkle with hundreds of crystals, scattering light like shattered glass. Servants pour in with silver platters stacked with roasted meats,
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Chapter 32
glazed fruits, and pastries too delicate for a place like this. The air is thick with spices–cinnamon, cloves, roasted garlic- and the underlying musk of wolf bodies pressing close together.
Guests file in, their laughter echoing, their masks hiding smirks and whispers. Some servants slip in and out unnoticed, others stay back in the shadows. My skin prickles under the weight of too many eyes, even if they can’t see me behind the mask.
The ceremony starts slow–wine goblets clinking as I weave through the crowd, refilling, offering, smiling faintly when I need to. The pack members blend seamlessly with the nobles. Masks level everyone for once, but it doesn’t hide the arrogance dripping from their postures.
The King isn’t here yet.
My throat dries. Of course, he isn’t. He always makes them wait. The tension builds with every passing second, every fucking heartbeat.
Then the hall shifts. A ripple passes through the crowd like a current, silencing voices before anyone orders them to hush.
The moon.
The glass dome above us frames the night sky perfectly, an ancient design I’ve only ever heard about. And now, the moon hangs dead center in the circle, pale and glowing, illuminating the center of the hall. The white light slices across marble floors, swallowing the gold glow of candles and painting everything silver. It’s holy. Eerie. Like something from another world.
Every head bows. Chairs scrape as everyone rises to their feet.
And then–him.
The doors slam open.
Alaric Hayes strides in.
The room bends around him, silent, reverent, afraid. He walks like he owns the earth, like nothing could touch him. Midnight hair, golden eyes burning under his mask, shoulders broad enough to blot out the moonlight. He doesn’t glance at anyone, doesn’t need to. Every step of his boots against the floor echoes like a countdown.
He climbs the stairs to the raised platform, the throne carved from obsidian looming behind him. The King sits, leaning back, one hand draped lazily over the armrest, but there’s nothing casual about it. He radiates power so heavy I can feel it on my skin, a pressure that makes my bones want to bend.
The music cuts.
The silence is brutal.
Everyone is waiting for one thing.
The dance.
My chest tightens as I nod to an Omega across the floor. She vanishes backstage, quick steps muffled by curtains. A moment later, the background dancers are lined up. I should feel relief, but the center–the lead dancer’s spot–remains glaringly
empty.
“Where is she?” I hiss under my breath, moving quickly toward the group backstage. The air back here is hotter, filled with sweat, perfume, and nerves. The background dancers shuffle, masks hiding their panic.
“Where the fuck is she?” I demand, scanning their faces.
One of them looks down, voice trembling. “She… she ran. Said she couldn’t do it p>
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Chapter 32
GJ
I blink. “Ran? Ran where? This isn’t–fuck.” My teeth grind. “Which direction p>
No one answers. Their silence is more deafening than the quiet in the hall.
“She fucking ran,” I repeat, blood boiling. My fists clench. That coward left us hanging in front of the King. In front of him.
I’m two seconds from storming off to drag her back by her hair when the head maid bursts in. Her mask is crooked, her face pale. “They’re waiting. The silence is killing us out there. There has to be a dance. Now p>
The room stiffens.
I whip my gaze to the dancers, each one shifting uncomfortably, none of them daring to step forward. My heart pounds against my ribs. The King is out there. The entire fucking hall is out there.
And no one is moving.
The maid’s glare snaps to me. “Well p>
I exhale hard through my nose, chest tight, and scan the room once more. My stomach sinks.
“Where’s the lead dancer’s dress?” I ask.
Gasps. Eyes widen behind masks. The head maid stares like I’ve lost my damn mind.
But I don’t waver.
I’m already stepping forward, already shoving my fear down so deep it’ll drown before anyone else sees it.
Because if no one else will do it…
I will.
AD
Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.