“If I Love You, I’ll Die.” The Secret Curse That Bound the Alpha King to His Scentless Queen
The mate selection was where wolves went when no one wanted them.
And as Imara stood among the desperate she-wolves who had been overlooked or abandoned, she knew she was the most unwanted of all.
Not because of her face, not because of her bloodline, because she had no scent.
In a world where wolves knew their mates by scent alone, Imara was invisible, empty, a ghost among the living.
Heavy perfume clung to her skin, masking what wasn’t there.
She kept her head bowed, praying no one would notice her, praying the night would end and she could disappear into obscurity.
Then, the Alpha King arrived. Varen of Valdren. Cold, brutal.
Whispered to be half mad from a curse that had claimed every king before him.
He walked through the hall like death itself, past beautiful she-wolves who preened and posed, past nobility who offered daughters wrapped in silk and promises.
He stopped directly in front of Imara. “You have no mate,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.
“Why?” Every eye turned to her. Every breath held. The truth would damn her.
The lie would damn her faster. So, Imara lifted her chin and whispered the words that would change everything.
The entire pack went silent. Varen’s golden eyes flickered with something unreadable.
Then, against all reason, against all logic, he spoke. “I’ll take her.”
He offered her protection, a crown, a place at his side.
He swore he would never truly claim her, never mark her, never make her his in the way that mattered.
Because he didn’t want a mate. He wanted a shield.
Neither of them understood how impossible that vow would be.
The great hall of Valdren had never seen so many unmated wolves in one place.
They lined the walls three males on one side, females on the other.
All of them desperate. All of them hoping tonight would end differently than every night before.
This was the gathering of bonds, an ancient tradition where those who had failed to find mates through normal means were given one final chance.
Imara stood at the very back of the female line, pressed against cold stone, trying to make herself as small as possible.
The gown her father had forced her into was too thin for the autumn chill, but she barely felt it.
She was too focused on the perfume. Three layers. She had applied three layers of crushed moonflower and cedar, the strongest scent masking combination she could afford.
It clung to her skin, her hair, the fabric of her dress.
Anyone who got close would smell the perfume. They wouldn’t smell what was beneath it.
Nothing. Imara had no scent. She had never had one.
While other wolves could identify pack members, enemies, and potential mates through scent alone, Imara moved through the world like a blank page.
Empty. Unreadable. Wrong. “Goddess, look at her,” someone whispered nearby.
“Why does she even bother coming?” “I heard Lord Aldrich threaten to turn her out if she didn’t find a mate this year.”
“As if anyone would want her.” “She’s practically human.” The words cut, but Imara had learned long ago not to flinch.
She kept her eyes on the floor, counting the stones, waiting for this humiliation to end.
The gathering had been going on for an hour. Wolves approached each other, scented, sometimes felt the spark of compatibility that might lead to a bond.
Matches were made. Couples retreated to speak privately. The crowd thinned.
No one approached Imara. No one ever did. She was wondering if she could slip out unnoticed when the great doors exploded open.
Not literally, but the force of the presence that entered might as well have shattered them.
Every wolf in the hall dropped their head instinctively, submitting to an Alpha power so overwhelming it pressed against Imara’s chest like a physical weight.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only stare as he walked in.
Alpha King Varen of Valdren. He was tall, taller than any wolf she had ever seen, with shoulders broad enough to block out the torchlight behind him.
His hair was black as a moonless night, falling past his jaw in waves that looked like they had never known a gentle touch.
But it was his eyes that made Imara’s wolf, dormant as it was, stir with something like fear.
Golden. Not amber. Not honey. Pure molten gold, burning with an inner fire that seemed barely contained.
Rumors said the kings of Valdren were cursed, that their beasts slowly consumed them until nothing human remained.
That Varen’s father had gone feral and slaughtered half the court before being put down.
That Varen himself was already showing signs, the gold in his eyes growing brighter each year, his control slipping in moments of rage.
Looking at him now, Imara believed every word. “Your Majesty,” the gathering master stammered, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
“We are honored by your presence. If you seek a mate, we have many fine candidates who would be worthy of”
“I’m not here for a mate.” His voice was deep and frigid, like a river frozen solid.
It silenced the hall completely. “I’m here for a wife.”
Confused murmurs rippled through the crowd. A mate and a wife were very different things.
A mate was chosen by fate, by scent, by the bond that formed between two wolves meant for each other.
A wife was a political arrangement, a transaction. The Alpha King began walking through the hall.
Wolves parted before him like water before a blade. He passed the most beautiful she-wolves without a glance.
He ignored the nobles who pushed their daughters forward. His golden gaze swept the room with cold calculation.
Then it landed on Imara. She stopped breathing. He changed direction, walking straight toward her, and the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath.
Imara wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, but her legs wouldn’t move.
Her wolf, silent for so long, was suddenly howling inside her skull.
Varen stopped directly in front of her. Up close, he was even more terrifying.
She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands were curled into fists at his sides, as if he was constantly fighting something.
His scent hit her. Pine and frost and something darker.
Something wild. It made her dizzy. “You,” he said. Imara couldn’t find her voice.
His nostrils flared once, twice. A frown creased his brow.
“You have no mate,” he said slowly. “Why?” The question was a death sentence.
To admit the truth was to confirm what everyone suspected, that she was defective, broken, less than wolf.
But lying to the Alpha King was treason. Imara lifted her chin.
If she was going to be destroyed, she would face it standing.
“Because no one can scent me, Your Majesty,” she whispered.
“I have no scent at all.” The hall went utterly silent.
For a long moment, Varen simply stared at her. Then, impossibly, something shifted in his golden eyes.
Not pity. Not disgust. Something that looked almost like recognition.
“I’ll take her,” he said. Chaos erupted. The carriage rattled through the night, carrying Imara away from everything she had ever known.
She sat rigid on the velvet seat, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
Across from her, shrouded in shadow, sat the Alpha King.
He hadn’t spoken since they left the gathering. He simply watched her with those burning golden eyes, his expression unreadable.
Imara’s mind raced. This made no sense. The most powerful Alpha in the realm, a king who could have literally any wolf he wanted, had chosen her.
The scentless one. The empty one. The failure. “You have questions,” Varen said.
It wasn’t a question. Imara swallowed hard. “Why me?” The words came out barely above a whisper.
“Your Majesty, there were dozens of she-wolves at that gathering who would have given anything to be chosen by you.
Beautiful wolves. Powerful wolves. Wolves who could actually give you a proper mate bond.”
“I don’t want a mate bond.” The statement hung in the air between them.
Imara stared at him, trying to understand. “You’re scentless,” Varen continued, his voice flat, factual.
“That means no bond can form between us. No pull.
No complications.” He turned to look out the window at the passing darkness.
“I need a wife who can stand beside me at court functions and produce heirs to continue my line.
I don’t need a mate who will try to crawl inside my head and my heart.”
Something icy settled in Imara’s chest. “You chose me because you’ll never be able to feel anything for me.
I chose you because you’re safe. The words should have stung.
Instead, Imara felt a strange sense of relief. He wasn’t expecting love.
He wasn’t expecting a bond. He was expecting nothing. And nothing was exactly what she had spent her entire life being.
What are your terms? She asked quietly. Varen’s gaze snapped back to her.
For a moment, something passed across his face. Surprise, perhaps, or curiosity.
You’ll have your own chambers, your own staff. You’ll want for nothing materially.
In return, you’ll appear with me at official functions and submit to the requirements of producing an heir.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Beyond that, we will have no relationship.
We will not dine together. We will not spend time together.
You will be queen in name, but in practice, we will be strangers who share a castle.
Imara considered this. A loveless marriage to a king rumored to be going mad.
Chambers of her own where no one would torment her for being scentless.
Safety from her father’s cruelty, his mounting debts, his thinly veiled threats to sell her off to whoever would take her.
And if I refuse? She asked. Not because she intended to, but because she needed to understand her position.
Then I return you to your father and find another.
Varen’s expression didn’t change. There are other scentless wolves in the realm.
You’re simply the first I found. So, she was convenient.
Replaceable. A tool. Not a person. It was more than she had ever been offered before.
I accept your terms, Your Majesty. The words came out steadier than she expected.
Varen studied her for a long moment. You don’t negotiate.
You don’t ask for more. You simply accept. The statement carried an edge of something Imara couldn’t identify.
Most wolves would demand jewels, titles for their families, guarantees of my fidelity.
I’m not most wolves. Imara said quietly. I’m a scentless nobody whose own father views her as a burden.
You’re offering me safety and a roof over my head in exchange for my presence and my body.
That’s more than I ever expected from life. Silence stretched between them.
Outside, the horses’ hooves beat a steady rhythm against the road.
You’re honest. Varen finally said. I didn’t expect that. Would you prefer I lie to you?
I’d prefer nothing from you at all. He turned back to the window.
That’s the entire point. Imara should have felt hurt. Instead, she felt something loosen in her chest.
No expectations. No disappointments. No one pretending to care about her only to use her later.
She could survive this. The carriage crested a hill and suddenly the castle came into view.
Stonehaven, seat of the Valdren kings. It rose from the mountainside like something grown rather than built.
All dark stone and sharp towers and windows that glowed with firelight.
It looked like a place where monsters lived. One more thing.
Varen said as the carriage began its descent toward the gates.
You will never ask about my eyes. You will never ask about the curse.
And if you ever see me losing control, his voice dropped, grew rough.
You will run. You will hide. And you will not come out until someone tells you it is safe.
Imara’s blood chilled. Losing control? Varen turned to look at her.
And for just a moment, the gold in his eyes seemed to swirl, to brighten, to burn.
There’s a beast inside me. He said softly. And some days, it’s all I can do to keep it caged.
The carriage passed through the gates of Stonehaven. Behind her, somewhere in the darkness, Imara could have sworn she heard a wolf howl.
The wedding took place 3 days later. And it was nothing like Imara had imagined.
Not that she had imagined much. As a scentless wolf, she had long ago abandoned any dreams of a proper mating ceremony.
The moonlit rituals, the exchange of marks, and the pack howling their blessing to the sky.
Those things were for real wolves. Not for her. But even by the standards of political marriages, this ceremony was cold.
The great hall of Stonehaven had been decorated in the traditional banners of the Valdren line.
Silver and black. But the guests who filled the pews watched with suspicion rather than joy.
Imara could feel their eyes on her as she walked the aisle alone.
No family to escort her. No pack to support her.
Her father hadn’t even bothered to attend. He’s probably celebrating.
She thought bitterly. One less burden to feed. Varen stood at the altar in formal black.
His expression carved from stone. The officiant, an elderly wolf with trembling hands, rushed through the vows as if he couldn’t wait to be done.
Do you, Varen of Valdren, take this woman as your wife and queen?
I do. Do you, Imara of The officiant hesitated, clearly uncertain of her lineage.
Do you take this man as your husband and king?
I do. Then by the authority vested in me, I declare you bound in marriage.
The officiant closed his book with visible relief. You may proceed as you wish.
No kiss. No mark. No howl of blessing. Just silence.
Heavy and suffocating as Varen took her hand. His skin frigid as winter stone and led her down the aisle as his wife and queen.
The reception was worse. Noble wolves who had ignored Imara her entire life now crowded around her.
Their smiles sharp as knives. They asked about her family, her background, her qualifications to be queen.
All while knowing the answers would humiliate her. Oh, you’re Lord Aldric’s daughter?
One countess said, feigning surprise. I didn’t realize he had another child besides that lovely Brielle.
Half sister. Imara corrected quietly. Different mothers. Ah, yes. Your mother was the one who The countess trailed off meaningfully.
Well, we won’t speak ill of the dead. Imara’s hands clenched at her sides.
Tell me. Another noble cut in. A lord with hungry eyes.
Is it true what they say? That you have no scent at all?
The small crowd went quiet. Eager for her humiliation. It’s true.
Imara said, lifting her chin. I have no scent. How peculiar.
The lord leaned closer, inhaling deeply. You smell like moonflower and cedar to me.
That’s perfume. Someone snickered. Three layers of it if I had to guess.
Another added. To hide what isn’t there. Laughter rippled through the group.
Imara stood frozen, cheeks burning, waiting for the ground to swallow her whole.
Enough. The single word cut through the laughter like a blade.
The nobles scattered as Varen approached. His golden eyes fixed on Imara with an intensity that made her pulse spike.
My wife is tired. He said flatly. She will retire now.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t offer comfort. But the nobles bowed and apologized and melted away like snow in sunlight.
And Imara found herself breathing again. You didn’t have to do that.
She said quietly as he led her away from the crowd.
I’m used to it. You’re the queen now. You shouldn’t have to be used to it.
The words startled her. She looked up at him. Searching for mockery or manipulation.
But his expression revealed nothing. Thank you. She said softly.
That was kind. Varen stopped walking. His jaw tightened. Don’t mistake practicality for kindness.
He said. If I allow my court to disrespect you, they’ll think they can disrespect me.
This has nothing to do with your feelings. The warmth that had begun to bloom in Imara’s chest withered.
Of course. She said. My mistake. They walked in silence through endless corridors until they reached a door guarded by two wolves in Valdren silver.
Your chambers. Varen said. The staff will attend to your needs.
If you require anything, inform the head of household. He turned to leave.
Your Majesty. Imara called out. He paused, but didn’t turn.
When will When I should expect She couldn’t finish the sentence, but they both knew what she meant.
The heir. The consummation. The one duty she was actually required to perform.
For a long moment, Varen said nothing. Then, very quietly.
Not tonight. Perhaps not for some time. His voice was strained.
The beast is restless. It wouldn’t be safe. Before Imara could respond, he was gone.
She entered her chambers alone, finding them beautiful and cold, all silk and velvet and emptiness.
A fire burned in the hearth, but it did little to warm the chill in her bones.
Imara sat on the edge of the massive bed and allowed herself, for the first time in years, to cry.
She cried for her dead mother, for her father’s hatred, for 23 years of being told she was nothing, would never be anything, could never be wanted or loved or even properly seen.
She [snorts] cried until she had nothing left. Then she dried her eyes, straightened her spine, and made herself a promise.
She would survive this. She would be the perfect political wife, silent and compliant and invisible.
She would give Varen his heirs and ask for nothing in return.
And when enough time had passed, when she had fulfilled her duty, perhaps she could carve out some small corner of this cold castle where she could exist in peace.
It wasn’t much of a dream, but it was more than she had ever allowed herself before.
A knock at the door startled her from her thoughts.
One of her new maids entered, an older woman with kind eyes.
“Your Majesty,” the maid said, curtsying, “you have a visitor.
A Lady Brielle claiming to be your sister. She says it’s urgent.”
Imara’s blood ran cold. Brielle, her half sister, the beautiful one, the wanted one, the one their father had always favored, the one who had spent their entire childhood making Imara’s life a living nightmare.
“Send her away,” Imara said quickly. “Tell her I’m not receiving visitors.”
The maid hesitated. “She’s already in the antechamber, Your Majesty, and she says she has a message from your father about your mother’s death.”
Imara’s chest tightened. Her mother had died when Imara was seven.
“A sudden illness,” everyone said, “a tragedy, but these things happen.”
Imara had never believed it. Against every instinct screaming at her to refuse, she heard herself say, “Send her in.”
Brielle swept into the chamber like she owned it. She was beautiful, as always.
Golden hair cascading past her shoulders, blue eyes bright with false warmth, a figure that made men stumble over their own feet.
She wore a traveling gown of deep burgundy that somehow looked more expensive than anything Imara had ever owned.
“Sister,” Brielle said, her voice dripping with sweetness. “Or should I say, Your Majesty?”
Imara rose from the bed, acutely aware of her tear-stained face, her rumpled wedding gown.
She hadn’t even had time to change. “What do you want, Brielle?”
“Is that any way to greet family?” Brielle circled the room, trailing her fingers over the furniture as if appraising its value.
“Especially family who traveled 3 days to bring you important news?
The maid said you have a message from father about mother.”
Brielle’s smile sharpened. “Straight to business. How refreshing.” She settled into a chair by the fire without being invited.
“Father is unwell, Imara. His debts have finally caught up with him, and the stress has weakened his heart.
He’s bedridden most days now, drinking himself into oblivion.” Imara felt nothing.
No grief, no satisfaction, just emptiness. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said flatly, “but I fail to see what it has to do with me or with my mother.”
“Father has been talking, saying things he shouldn’t.” Brielle’s eyes glittered in the firelight.
“Confessing, you might say, about how your mother really died.”
The air left Imara’s lungs. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come now. Surely you’ve wondered.” Brielle leaned forward. “A healthy woman, dead within a week of showing symptoms?
No healer could identify the illness? And it happened so conveniently, just after she started asking questions about your condition.”
Imara’s hands trembled. “You’re lying.” “Am I?” Brielle reached into her traveling bag and withdrew a small leather journal.
“This was your mother’s. Father kept it locked away all these years.
I found it last month while searching for anything valuable to sell.”
She held it out. “Read it yourself.” Imara snatched the journal with shaking hands.
The leather was worn, the pages yellowed with age. Her mother’s handwriting filled the pages, cramped and urgent.
She flipped to the final entries. “Something is wrong with Imara.
She has no scent. The healers say it’s impossible, but I know what I’ve seen.
I’ve written to the Academy of Wolves, asking if they’ve ever encountered such a condition.
I received a response today. They say it’s not a defect.
It’s a gift. A rare bloodline trait that appears once every few generations.
They say scentless wolves are The entry ended abruptly. The next page was dated 3 days later in a different hand.
“Maeva died this morning. The illness took her quickly. May she rest with the goddess.”
Imara looked up, her vision blurring. “This proves nothing.” She got sick and died before she could finish writing.
“Keep reading,” Brielle said softly. “The last page.” Imara turned to the back of the journal.
There, pressed between the pages, was a dried flower, nightshade, and beneath it, a note in her mother’s hand, clearly written in haste.
“If I die, know that Aldric did it. He cannot let the truth come out.
He cannot let anyone know what Imara really is. Find the Academy’s letter.
Find the truth. Protect my daughter.” The journal fell from Imara’s hands.
“She knew,” Imara whispered. She knew he was going to kill her.
And she was right. Brielle stood, brushing off her skirts.
“Father poisoned her tea with nightshade. He told me himself, just last week.
He was quite proud of it, actually. Said it was necessary to protect the family honor.”
Rage unlike anything Imara had ever felt surged through her veins.
“Why are you telling me this?” Brielle’s smile vanished, replaced by something cold and calculating.
“Because I need money, dear sister. Father’s debts will consume everything we have.
The estate, the title, all of it will be seized.”
She stepped closer. “But you’re queen now. You have access to the royal treasury.
I’m sure you can find a way to help your poor struggling family.”
“You want me to pay you,” Imara said slowly, “for telling me that our father murdered my mother?”
“I want you to pay me for my silence.” Brielle’s voice hardened.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell everyone at court about your condition.
I’ll tell them the new queen is scentless, defective, an embarrassment to the crown.”
She smiled. “How long do you think your cold husband will keep you around once the entire realm knows his wife is broken?”
The door slammed open. Varen stood in the doorway, his golden eyes blazing with fury.
“Get out,” he said quietly. Brielle paled. “Your Majesty, I was merely “I said get out.”
The power in his voice pressed against them both. Brielle stumbled backward, her composure cracking.
Without another word, she fled the chamber, leaving Imara alone with her husband.
Silence stretched between them. “How much did you hear?” Imara asked.
“Enough.” Varen’s jaw was tight. “Your father killed your mother.
Your sister is blackmailing you.” He paused. “And there’s something about your condition that the Academy of Wolves considers a gift, not a defect.”
Imara closed her eyes. “I don’t know what it means.
I never found the Academy’s letter. I didn’t even know my mother had written to them.”
“We’ll find out.” Varen moved into the room, his presence filling the space.
“I’ll send inquiries to the Academy tomorrow.” Imara stared at him.
“Why do you care?” “I don’t.” His voice was flat.
“But you’re my queen. If there’s something about you that could be useful, I need to know.”
“Of course. Always practical. Never personal. Thank you,” Imara said anyway, “for making her leave for” She gestured vaguely at the journal on the floor.
Varen bent and picked it up, holding it out to her.
“Your mother loved you. That much is clear from her words.”
A shadow passed across his face. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to have that.”
Before Imara could respond, a howl split the night. Varen went rigid, his eyes flared brighter, the gold swirling like molten metal.
His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Imara could see his muscles straining beneath his shirt.
Go. He said through gritted teeth. Lock yourself in the bathing chamber.
Don’t come out until morning. What’s happening? The beast. His voice was barely human now, rough and guttural.
It wants out. The anger. It feeds on strong emotion.
He staggered backward. Go. Now. Imara ran. She locked herself in the bathing chamber and pressed her back against the door, her pulse racing.
On the other side, she heard sounds that made her blood run cold.
Growls, snarls, the crash of furniture being destroyed. And beneath it all, a voice that was and wasn’t Varen’s, howling with rage and pain.
She didn’t sleep that night. When dawn finally came and she emerged, her chambers were destroyed.
Claw marks scored the walls. The bed had been torn apart.
And in the center of the destruction, curled on the floor in human form, was Varen.
His clothes were shredded. His skin was covered in scratches, self-inflicted from the look of them.
And his eyes, when they opened, were no longer gold.
They were pure, burning amber. I’m sorry. He whispered. I’m so sorry.
Imara knelt beside him, something cracking open in her chest.
What’s happening to you? She asked. Varen closed his eyes.
I’m dying. He said. And when I die, the beast will be all that’s left.
Three weeks passed before Varen came to her chambers again.
After the beast episode, healers had tended to him for days.
Imara had asked after him constantly, but was told the king needed solitude to regain control.
She understood, even as it ached. So, she waited. In that time, Imara had learned the rhythms of Stonehaven.
She had met with the household staff, familiarize herself with the castle’s layout, and begun the careful work of appearing at court functions as the silent, decorative queen everyone expected her to be.
She had also done research. The castle library was vast, and the elderly wolf who tended it, a male named Corvus, was surprisingly helpful once he realized she wasn’t there to disturb his peace.
Imara had spent hours pouring over texts about the Valdren bloodline, searching for any mention of the curse that plagued its kings.
What she found chilled her to the bone. Every king of Valdren, going back 12 generations, had eventually lost themselves to their beast.
Some lasted longer than others, but the end was always the same.
The human mind eroded. The wolf took over. And when it did, the king had to be put down before he slaughtered everyone around him.
Varen’s father had lasted until 43. His grandfather until 38.
Varen was 31. He doesn’t have much time. Imara thought.
She was in her chambers reading when the knock came, soft, hesitant.
Not the confident rap of a servant. Come in. She said.
Varen entered slowly. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that hadn’t been there before.
But his eyes were gold again, not amber. And he moved with careful control.
I came to apologize. He said stiffly. For what happened.
For frightening you. Imara set down her book. You warned me.
You gave me time to hide. I destroyed your chambers.
I could have destroyed you. But you didn’t. Varen stood just inside the doorway, as if afraid to come closer.
You should be afraid of me. Should I? Imara rose from her chair and walked toward him.
He tensed, but didn’t retreat. You’ve shown me nothing but control, your majesty.
Even at your worst, you thought of my safety first.
That won’t last. His voice was raw. The beast is getting stronger.
The episodes are more frequent. Eventually, I won’t be able to warn you.
I won’t be able to stop. Imara stopped an arm’s length away.
Up close, she could see the fine tremor in his hands, the way he held himself as if every muscle was coiled to flee.
How long? She asked quietly. A year, perhaps. Maybe less.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. I had hoped to produce an heir before, but I don’t know if that’s possible anymore.
The beast wants out during moments of strong emotion. And intimacy is nothing if not emotional.
Understanding dawned. That was why he’d been avoiding her. Not out of cruelty or indifference, but out of fear.
You’re afraid you’ll hurt me. She said. I’m afraid I’ll kill you.
The words hung between them, stark and terrible. There’s more.
He said quietly. Old texts speak of another layer to the curse.
Something my ancestors stopped writing about generations ago. He paused.
They say the first king wasn’t just cursed with a beast.
He was cursed to never know love. But no one believes that part anymore.
Every king has had wives, children. We assumed that portion was exaggerated.
And if it wasn’t exaggerated? Imara asked. Varen’s jaw tightened.
Then I suppose it is good I chose a wife I could never love.
The words stung more than they should have. Imara reached out and touched his hand.
Varen flinched as if burned, but didn’t pull away. His skin was icy and smooth, and she could feel the tension thrumming through him.
I’ve spent my entire life being invisible. She said softly.
Being nothing. Being safe because no one cared enough to hurt me.
She met his golden gaze. But you chose me. Out of everyone, you chose me.
And I don’t think it was just because I’m scentless.
Varen’s throat worked. It was. Was it? Or was it because you recognized something in me?
She stepped closer. Loneliness, isolation. The feeling of being trapped inside yourself with no way out.
His eyes flared brighter. Don’t. Don’t what? See you? Imara didn’t retreat.
It’s the one thing I can do that no one else can.
I don’t smell your emotions. I don’t feel your beast through some bond.
I just see you. The man. The king. She paused.
The person who’s been fighting alone for far too long.
Something cracked in Varen’s expression. For just a moment, he looked young, vulnerable, afraid.
You don’t know what you’re offering. He whispered. I’m offering to be here.
Nothing more, nothing less. Imara squeezed his frozen hand. You don’t have to face this alone.
Varen stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, he raised his other hand and cupped her cheek.
His touch was feather-light, as if she might shatter. You’re not what I expected.
He said. Neither are you. They stood like that for a heartbeat, two, three.
Then Varen leaned down and kissed her. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the demanding passion she had imagined from such a powerful alpha.
His lips were cool against hers, and she could feel him trembling, fighting to stay in control.
Imara kissed him back. She felt his surprise, his hesitation, and then something loosening in him.
His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head for a better angle.
The kiss deepened slowly, carefully, each of them learning the other.
When they finally broke apart, Varen’s eyes were still gold.
The beast hadn’t emerged. You’re warm. He murmured against her lips.
So warm. And you’re cold. Imara traced her fingers along his jaw.
Is that normal? No. He pressed his forehead against hers.
It’s the curse. As the beast grows stronger, the man grows colder.
Eventually, there won’t be any warmth left to lose. Imara’s heart ached.
Then let me warm you. She said. For as long as we have.
Varen pulled back, searching her face. You would do that?
Knowing what I am? Knowing how this ends? I’ve never had anything worth losing.
Imara said. Maybe it’s time I did. Something broke behind his eyes.
He kissed her again, harder this time, and Imara felt herself being lifted, carried toward the bed that servants had placed after his destruction.
They came together slowly, carefully. Varen touched her like she was precious, like she was breakable.
And every caress left trails of cool sensation against her heated skin.
Tell me if I hurt you. He whispered against her throat.
Tell me and I’ll stop. You won’t hurt me. You can’t know that.
But he didn’t hurt her. Even in the depths of passion, even when his eyes flickered with amber fire, he remained in control.
He worshipped her body with his hands and his mouth, and his frost-touched skin, and Imara felt herself coming apart in ways she hadn’t known were possible.
Afterward, they lay tangled together in the darkness. Varen’s arm was wrapped around her waist, his face buried in her hair.
For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed at peace.
“Stay.” Imara whispered. “Don’t leave tonight.” She felt him tense, felt the war inside him, the fear and the want and the desperate, desperate loneliness.
“If I lose control while I’m sleeping, then I’ll wake you.
I’ll help you fight it.” She turned in his arms, pressing her palm against his chest, feeling the slow, cold beat of his heart.
“Let me help you.” Varen was silent for so long she thought he’d refuse.
Then quietly, “No one has ever wanted to help me before.”
“Then everyone before was a fool.” A sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sob.
He pulled her closer, and his arms around her felt less like restraint and more like refuge.
“One night,” he said, “we’ll try one night.” Imara smiled against his skin.
One night became two. Two became a week. And somewhere in those cold, quiet hours, Imara began to realize that she was no longer pretending.
She was falling. Two months later, everything changed. Imara stood at the window of her chambers, watching snow fall over Stonehaven.
The first winter storm had arrived early, blanketing the castle in white, and the cold that seeped through the glass matched the chill that had settled in her heart.
She was pregnant. The healer had confirmed it that morning, her weathered face creasing with joy as she delivered the news.
An heir for the Valdaren line, a child to carry on the legacy.
Imara should have been happy. This was her purpose, the entire reason Varen had chosen her.
But all she could think about was the counting. Nine months.
The pregnancy would take nine months. Varen had at best a year before the beast consumed him completely, which meant there was a very real possibility he would never meet their child.
“You’re thinking too loudly.” She turned to find Varen in the doorway.
He’d come to her every night for the past eight weeks, staying until dawn, holding her through the dark hours.
The episodes still came, but they’d grown less frequent. He said it was because of her, because her presence, her scent that wasn’t, gave his beast nothing to latch onto.
She wondered if that would change now. “The healer told you.”
Imara said. “She told me.” Varen crossed the room and stood beside her at the window.
“You’re carrying my heir.” “Our child.” Imara corrected softly. Something flickered in his golden eyes.
“Our child.” They stood in silence, watching the snow. Varen’s hand found hers, icy fingers intertwining with warm.
“You should be happy.” Imara said finally. “This is what you wanted.
An heir to continue your line.” “It is.” “Then why do you look like someone just died?”
Varen’s jaw tightened. “Because I’ve been doing calculations in my head.
Time I have left versus time it takes to bring a child into the world.”
He turned to face her, and his expression was raw with pain.
“I wanted an heir so badly that I never stopped to think about what happens after, about leaving a widow and an orphan behind, about cursing my own child with this bloodline.”
Imara’s chest constricted. “The curse passes to children?” “To sons.
Every male of my line carries it.” His voice was hollow.
“If our child is a boy, he’ll face the same fate I do, the same beast, the same slow erosion of everything human.”
He laughed bitterly. “I wanted a legacy. Instead, I may have just condemned another innocent soul to my personal hell.”
Imara grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her.
“Then we find a cure.” “There is no cure. Don’t you think I’ve looked?”
“I don’t care.” Her voice was fierce now. “I don’t care if every healer in the realm has failed.
I don’t care if it’s impossible. We have nine months.
That’s nine months to find something, anything that can help you.”
Varen stared at her, something shifting behind his eyes. “Why do you care so much?”
He asked quietly. “This was supposed to be a transaction, politics and heirs and nothing more.”
The question hung between them. Imara could lie. She could retreat behind the walls she’d built over a lifetime of rejection and pain.
She could protect herself from the devastation she knew was coming.
But she was so tired of hiding. “Because I love you.”
She said. The words fell into the silence like stones into still water.
Varen went utterly still. “I know you don’t feel the same.”
Imara continued, her voice trembling but steady. “I know that wasn’t part of our arrangement, but I’m carrying your child, and I refuse to spend the next nine months pretending that you’re nothing to me when you’re everything.”
Varen’s breath caught. “Imara.” “You don’t have to say it back.
I’m not asking for anything.” She released his face and stepped back.
“I just needed you to know. Whatever happens, whatever time we have left, I wanted you to know that someone loved you, that someone saw past the beast and the curse and the crown and loved the man underneath.”
Silence stretched between them. Then Varen moved. He crossed the distance in a single stride and pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest.
His body was shaking, trembling with something she couldn’t name, and when he spoke, his voice cracked.
“You fool.” He whispered. “You beautiful, impossible fool.” “Varen.” “I’ve spent 31 years building walls.”
His grip tightened. “31 years keeping everyone at arm’s length because I knew what I was, what I would become.
I told myself it was kindness, that letting anyone close would only cause them pain when the end came.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and Imara’s heart stopped.
His eyes were glowing, not gold, not amber, silver. Pure, blazing silver, like moonlight made manifest.
“But you.” He continued, his voice breaking. “You walked through every wall like they weren’t even there.
You saw me. You stayed. And somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting it.”
Tears streamed down Imara’s cheeks. “Fighting what?” “This.” He cupped her face in his hands.
“You. Us.” His thumbs brushed away her tears. “I love you, Imara.
Goddess help me. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my miserable life.”
Joy erupted in her chest, bright and overwhelming and wrong.
Something was wrong. Varen’s hands on her face had gone from cold to freezing.
His skin was turning pale, then gray. The silver in his eyes was spreading, consuming the whites, and his expression twisted from love to agony.
“Varen.” He staggered backward, clutching his chest. A sound tore from his throat, half scream and half howl, and Imara watched in horror as frost began spreading across his skin.
“No.” He gasped. “No. No. No.” “Varen.” He collapsed. Imara caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him as gently as she could.
His body was convulsing, his skin ice cold, and the silver in his eyes was pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Help.” Imara screamed. “Someone help.” Guards burst through the door.
Servants came running. The healer, who had just that morning confirmed Imara’s pregnancy, pushed through the crowd and dropped to her knees beside the king.
“What happened?” The healer demanded. “I don’t know. We were talking, and then his eyes changed, and he just” Imara couldn’t breathe.
“Is it the beast? Is he transforming?” The healer pressed her hands against Varen’s chest, then recoiled as if burned.
“This isn’t the beast.” She said, her face draining of color.
“This is the other part of the curse, the part everyone thought was legend.”
She looked up at Imara with something like horror. “The old texts were right.
Kings of this line cannot love. If they do, their hearts freeze.”
Imara stared at her, unable to process the words. “What?”
“Your majesty, what did you say to him? Right before this happened?”
“I told him I loved him.” Imara’s voice broke. “And he said”
“He said he loved me, too.” The healer closed her eyes.
“Then the goddess help us all.” She whispered. Because the curse has been triggered and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Varen convulsed one more time then went still. His breathing was shallow, his skin gray, and frost crawling across his body like a living thing.
Imara clutched his frozen hand and screamed. Three days. For three days Varen lay frozen in his chambers while healers came and went, each one more useless than the last.
The frost had spread across his entire body now, coating his skin in a thin layer of ice that couldn’t be melted by any fire.
His heart still beat, slow and faint, but the healer said it was weakening by the hour.
He’s dying, Imara said flatly to the council that had assembled in the war room, and none of you have any idea how to save him.
The councilors exchanged uncomfortable glances. Lord Mormont, the eldest among them, cleared his throat.
Your majesty, the curse on the Valdron line has existed for 12 generations.
No one has ever survived its full activation. He spread his hands helplessly.
Perhaps it would be best to begin preparing for the succession.
The child you carry The child I carry will have a father.
Imara’s voice was ice. I don’t care about succession. I care about saving my husband.
With respect, your majesty, that may not be possible. Imara slammed her hands on the table.
Then we make it possible. Send for every healer in the realm, every witch, every scholar who has ever studied curses.
She leaned forward. I want answers and I want them now.
The council scattered to obey. Alone in the war room, Imara pressed her hands against her stomach, feeling the tiny life growing inside her.
Varen’s child. Their child. A baby who might never know its father.
I won’t let that happen, she whispered. I swear it.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Corvus, the elderly librarian, poked his head in.
Your majesty, I found something. Something about your condition. Imara was at his side in an instant.
Show me. Corvus led her through the castle to the deepest level of the library, a dusty archive that clearly hadn’t been touched in decades.
He gestured to a massive tome spread open on a reading stand.
I’ve been searching since you first asked me about sentless wolves, he said.
Most texts simply note that they exist, rare anomalies with no apparent purpose.
But this book He tapped the page. This book is different.
Imara read the ancient script, her heart pounding harder with each word.
The void wolves, called sentless by those who do not understand, are not defective.
They are the opposite. Where other wolves broadcast their essence through scent, void wolves absorb.
They are nullifiers, dampeners, living vessels capable of drawing magical energy into themselves and extinguishing it.
She looked up at Corvus, barely daring to breathe. Draw magical energy into themselves?
Keep reading, your majesty. In ancient times, void wolves were revered as curse breakers.
When a pack faced magical affliction, the void wolf would absorb the curse into their own body, neutralizing it.
The practice fell out of use when it was discovered that absorbing powerful curses could be fatal to the void wolf.
Many died attempting to save their packs. Eventually, void wolves were hidden, their abilities suppressed, their bloodline scattered to prevent them from being used as sacrificial tools.
The words blurred as tears filled Imara’s eyes. I can break the curse, she whispered.
My condition isn’t a defect. It’s the key to saving him.
Your majesty, you must read the rest. I don’t care about the rest.
Imara was already moving toward the door. I have to try.
Even if it kills me, I have to try. The child, Corvus called after her.
Your majesty, think of the child. Imara stopped. Her hand went to her stomach.
The child. Varen’s heir. The baby she already loved, even though it was barely more than a flutter of cells inside her.
If she died trying to break the curse, the baby would die, too.
But if she did nothing, Varen would die. And even if the baby survived, it would be born into a world without its father.
A world where the curse would one day claim it, too, if it was a boy.
Is there any other way? She asked quietly. Any way to break the curse without risking the child?
Corvus’s silence was answer enough. A thought struck her. The pregnancy, she said suddenly.
Could carrying a child affect my abilities? Corvus frowned, flipping through the text.
There’s a passage here. Void wolves who carry young of powerful bloodlines may find their abilities temporarily enhanced.
The child’s magical essence can amplify the mother’s void, creating a stronger nullification effect.
He looked up. Your child is of the Valdron line, one of the most magically potent bloodlines in existence.
Imara’s hand went to her stomach. Then the baby might help me save its father.
Or the strain might destroy you both. Corvus’s voice was gentle but firm.
The text doesn’t say which is more likely. Imara closed her eyes, made her choice.
Then I need to know exactly how to do this.
Every detail, every risk. She turned back to face him.
And I need to find the academy’s letter, the one my mother received before she died.
The Academy of Wolves? Corvus frowned. Why? Because my mother wrote to them asking about my condition.
They responded. And whatever they told her was important enough that my father killed her to keep it secret.
Corvus’s eyes widened. Your father killed your mother? Yes. The word was flat, emotionless.
And I intend to make him pay for it. But first, I need to know what she learned.
The letter might contain information about how to safely absorb a curse.
I’ll help you search, Corvus said immediately. But your majesty, if your father has kept this letter hidden for 16 years, it could be anywhere.
Not anywhere. Imara’s jaw set. He kept my mother’s journal.
He’s sentimental about his crimes. Her hands clenched into fists.
The letter is at my father’s estate and I’m going to get it.
She was halfway to the stables when a voice stopped her cold.
Going somewhere, sister? Brielle stepped out of the shadows, her beautiful face twisted with something ugly.
I heard about the king, Brielle continued. Such a tragedy.
The curse finally claiming him just like all the others.
She smiled. And here you are, running off somewhere. Perhaps to find a way to save him?
Get out of my way, Brielle. I don’t think so.
Brielle blocked her path. See, I’ve been thinking. If the king dies, you become regent until your child comes of age.
That’s a lot of power for a sentless nobody. Her eyes glittered.
But if something were to happen to you, too, well, the council would need to find another solution.
Perhaps a marriage between a council member and a woman of noble birth who just happens to have connections to the royal family through her late sister.
Imara stared at her. You would kill me for power?
I would kill Brielle’s mask finally dropped, revealing the seething resentment beneath.
You were supposed to be nothing, the sentless shame of our family.
But instead, you became queen. And I’m left scrabbling for scraps while father’s debts devour everything.
Father killed my mother, Imara said quietly. He murdered her because she discovered the truth about what I am.
Did you know that? Brielle’s smile faltered. What? He poisoned her tea with nightshade.
She knew it was coming. She wrote a warning in her journal.
Imara stepped closer. All these years you’ve blamed me for being different, for being less than.
But the truth is, I’m something rare, something powerful. And father was so terrified of that power that he killed my mother to keep it hidden.
You’re lying. Am I? Imara pulled her mother’s journal from her pocket and thrust it at Brielle.
Read it yourself. Every word. And then ask yourself which of us is really the monster.
Brielle snatched the journal with trembling hands. Her eyes moved across the pages and Imara watched the color drain from her face.
No, Brielle whispered. No, he wouldn’t. He loved her. He He killed her.
And he let me take the blame for being different my entire life.
Imara’s voice broke. He destroyed both of us, Brielle. You just didn’t see it because you were his favorite.
The journal fell from Brielle’s hands. For a long moment, neither sister spoke.
Brielle’s hands were shaking. Her perfect composure had cracked completely.
And beneath it, Imara saw something she had never expected to see in her sister’s eyes.
Grief. Raw, unprocessed grief for a mother she had thought died naturally.
For a childhood built on lies. “I hated you.” Brielle whispered.
“I hated you because father told me to. Because it was easier than asking questions.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m a fool.” “We were both his victims.”
Imara said quietly. “He just used different weapons on each of us.”
Brielle wiped her face roughly, then straightened. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier.
“The letter. The one from the academy. Father keeps it in his study.
Behind the portrait of mother.” [clears throat] Imara’s heart lurched.
“How do you know?” “Because I saw him reading it once, years ago.
He was crying.” Brielle looked up. Her eyes haunted. “I thought he was grieving.
Now I realize he was gloating.” Something shifted between them.
Not forgiveness, not yet. But understanding. “Come with me.” Imara said.
“Help me confront him. Help me get that letter.” Brielle hesitated.
Then, slowly, she nodded. “For mother.” She said quietly. “Not for you.”
“For mother.” Imara agreed. They rode through the night. The Crane estate looked smaller than Imara remembered.
Growing up, it had seemed like a fortress. A place of shadows and fear where she was never safe.
But now, seeing it through adult eyes, it was just a crumbling manor house.
Its grandeur faded. And its walls stained with age and neglect.
“Father’s debts.” Brielle said quietly. “The servants started leaving months ago.
There’s barely anyone left.” They dismounted and approached the main entrance.
No guards stopped them. No servants appeared. The door was unlocked.
Inside, the manor was silent as a tomb. “He’s in his study.”
Brielle said. “He barely leaves it anymore.” They climbed the stairs together.
Two sisters united for the first time in their lives.
When they reached the study door, Imara didn’t bother knocking.
Lord Aldric sat behind his desk, a glass of wine in his hand, staring at nothing.
He looked old. Diminished. The powerful man who had terrorized Imara’s childhood was now just a frail old wolf waiting to die.
“Daughters.” He said without looking up. “Come to watch me rot?”
“We came for the truth.” Imara said. “And for the letter.”
Aldric’s hand tightened on his glass. “What letter?” “The one from the Academy of Wolves.
The one mother received before you killed her.” Silence. Then Aldric laughed, a dry, bitter sound.
“So you finally figured it out.” He took a long drink of wine.
“I always knew you would. Eventually. You’re too clever by half, just like she was.”
“You admit it?” Brielle’s voice cracked. “You admit you murdered our mother?”
“I admit I did what was necessary.” Aldric’s eyes, when they finally rose to meet theirs, were cold.
“Your mother was going to expose everything. She was going to tell the world what Imara really was.
And that would have destroyed us all.” “What am I?”
Imara demanded. “What was so terrible that you had to kill her to keep it secret?”
Aldric studied her for a long moment. Then he rose, walked to the portrait of Maeva that hung behind his desk, and removed it from the wall.
Behind it was a small safe. He opened it and withdrew a yellowed envelope.
“Read it yourself.” He said, tossing it to her. “And then, tell me I was wrong to be afraid.”
Imara tore open the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was a letter bearing the seal of the Academy of Wolves.
Lady Maeva, thank you for your daughter’s inquiry regarding your daughter’s condition.
After consulting our archives, we can confirm that your daughter is a void wolf.
One of fewer than a dozen known to exist in the world today.
Void wolves possess the ability to absorb and nullify magical energy.
In ancient times, they were revered as curse breakers and healers of magical affliction.
However, their power made them targets. Many were kidnapped and forced to absorb curses that killed them.
Others were murdered by those who feared their ability to neutralize protective magics.
Your daughter’s gift is incredibly rare and incredibly dangerous. We strongly recommend that you bring her to the academy, where she can be trained to control her abilities in safety.
Untrained void wolves can accidentally absorb magic from those around them, potentially causing harm.
We must warn you, there are those who would kill to possess a void wolf, and those who would kill to destroy one.
Trust no one with this information. With urgent regards, Headmaster Oren Thane, Academy of Wolves.
Imara looked up, her mind reeling. “You knew.” She said.
“You knew what I was this whole time. You knew I wasn’t defective.
You knew I was powerful.” “Powerful and dangerous.” Aldric spat.
“Do you know what would have happened if anyone discovered what you are?
We would have been hunted. Nobles seeking to use you.
Enemies seeking to destroy you. Our entire family would have been caught in the crossfire.”
“So you killed mother. You suppressed my abilities. You made me believe I was worthless.”
Imara’s voice rose. “You destroyed my life to protect yourself.”
“I protected this family.” “You protected your pride!” Brielle shouted, stepping forward.
“You couldn’t stand that your own daughter was more powerful than you.
That she had magic you could never understand or control.
So you broke her. You broke us. You killed the only person who ever truly loved either of us.”
Aldric’s face twisted with rage. “You ungrateful!” “We’re done here.”
Imara folded the letter and tucked it into her cloak.
“I have what I came for. The king’s guards will be here by morning to arrest you for the murder of Maeva Crane.”
“You can’t prove anything.” “I have mother’s journal. I have your confession.
Witnessed by Brielle.” Imara’s smile was cold. “Enjoy your last night of freedom, father.
You’ve earned what’s coming.” She turned and walked out. Behind her, she heard Aldric screaming, heard the crash of glass, and heard Brielle’s footsteps following her own.
She didn’t look back. There was nothing left for her there.
The ride back to Stonehaven was a blur. Imara burst through the castle doors and ran straight to Varen’s chambers.
He was worse. The frost had thickened, and his lips had turned blue.
The healer sitting vigil shook her head sadly. “He doesn’t have much time, your majesty.
Hours at most.” Imara knelt beside the bed and took Varen’s frozen hand in her own.
“I know what I am now.” She whispered. “I know what I can do.
And I’m going to save you. Even if it kills me.”
“Your majesty, no!” The healer grabbed her arm. “If you absorb a curse this powerful, it could destroy you.
The child.” “The child will have a father.” Imara closed her eyes and reached deep inside herself, searching for the power she had never known existed.
“Help me, or get out of my way.” The healer hesitated.
Then released her arm. Imara pressed both hands against Varen’s chest and opened herself.
The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. Cold rushed into her.
A freezing torrent of magical energy that burned like fire.
She could feel the curse now. Ancient and vengeful, wrapped around Varen’s heart like chains of ice.
Nay, no king of this line shall ever know love.
A voice whispered in her mind. This is the price of betrayal.
This is the cost of broken promises. “I don’t care about your vengeance.”
Imara said through gritted teeth. “He’s mine, and you can’t have him.”
She pulled. The curse fought her. It clawed at her insides, trying to freeze her from within.
She felt ice forming in her veins, felt her heartbeat slowing, felt the baby inside her flutter with distress.
“Imara, stop.” Varen’s voice, weak but conscious. His eyes were open, the silver fading back to gold.
“You’ll die. The baby.” “I’d rather die saving you than live without you.”
She pulled harder. The curse screamed. 12 generations of frozen hearts.
12 kings who had died for daring to love. All of that suffering and rage poured into her.
She absorbed it. She contained it. She refused to let go.
And then, just when she thought she couldn’t bear another second, something else rose up inside her.
A flutter. Then a pulse. Then a warmth so fierce it burned through the ice in her veins.
The baby. She could feel it reaching out. Not with hands, but with something deeper.
Its essence, pure and untainted, carrying the strength of the Valdren bloodline, but uncorrupted by the curse.
It was fighting alongside her, lending its light to her void.
Together, she thought, we do this together. Together, mother and child pulled the curse free.
Imara screamed as the final tendrils ripped loose from Varen’s heart.
The magical energy exploded through her, burning bright and then fading, consumed by the void that was her birthright.
Then there was silence. Imara collapsed beside the bed, gasping for breath.
Every muscle ached. Every nerve burned. But she was alive.
The baby was alive. She could feel it, still fluttering, still fighting.
Imara. Varen’s voice was rough, but strong, warm. She looked up.
His skin had color again. The frost was gone, and his eyes, when they met hers, were pure gold, clear and bright, and filled with something she had never seen before.
Love. Unguarded, unafraid, love. You saved me, he whispered. We saved you.
Imara pressed her hand against her stomach. Our child helped.
I felt it. Varen’s eyes went wide. He reached out, his hand trembling, and covered hers.
Our child, he repeated. Imara, the curse. Is it truly broken?
For you. She smiled weakly. For our children. For every generation that comes after.
It’s gone. All of it. Varen pulled her into his arms and held her like she was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
I love you, he said against her hair. I love you.
I love you. I love you. And for the first time, the words didn’t bring death.
They brought life. Six months later, spring had come to Stonehaven.
Imara stood in the gardens, watching flowers bloom where snow had once fallen.
Her belly was round now. The baby growing strong inside her.
The healers said it would be a boy. A boy who would never know the curse.
A boy who would grow up with a father’s love.
There you are. Varen appeared beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her close.
He was warm now, truly warm. His skin heated by the heart that beat freely in his chest.
The council meeting ran long, he said, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Something about trade negotiations with the Eastern packs. Anything interesting?
Nothing that can’t wait. He turned her to face him, his golden eyes soft.
How are you feeling? Enormous, exhausted, happy. Imara smiled. Mostly happy.
Just mostly? My feet hurt. Varen laughed, a sound she never tired of hearing.
Before the curse broke, he had rarely laughed. Now he did it often, as if making up for 31 years of suppressed joy.
I have news, he said. Your father’s trial concluded this morning.
He’s been sentenced to imprisonment for the murder of your mother.
Varen paused. The healers say his heart is failing. He likely won’t survive the year.
Imara nodded slowly. There was a strange justice in that.
He would die in a cell, alone, stripped of everything he had valued.
His title, his legacy, his pride. Good, she said quietly.
Let him rot. And Brielle? She’s been cleared of any involvement.
She’s asked to remain at court. Varen studied her face.
I told her it was your decision. Imara thought of her sister, of the years of cruelty, the jealousy, the hatred.
But also of the moment Brielle had handed over the letter’s location, of the way she had stood beside Imara in their father’s study, of the tears on her face as she finally understood the truth.
She can stay, Imara said finally. We have a lot of years to make up for.
I don’t know if we’ll ever be close, but she’s still my sister.
Varen nodded, accepting her decision without question. That was one of the things she loved most about him.
He trusted her judgment, valued her opinions, and treated her as an equal in every way.
Oh, I almost forgot. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small velvet box.
I had this made for you. Imara opened it and gasped.
Inside was a pendant, a silver moon cradling a golden sun, set with a single amber stone that seemed to glow from within.
The moon for you, Varen said softly. The sun for me, and the amber for our child.
He took the pendant from the box and fastened it around her neck.
A reminder that we are bound together. Not by curse or contract, but by choice.
By love. Tears spilled down Imara’s cheeks. I love you, she whispered.
I know. He kissed her gently. I love you, too.
More than I ever thought possible. They stood together in the garden, the queen who had been invisible, and the king who had been frozen.
Two broken souls who had somehow made each other whole.
Behind them, Stonehaven rose against the spring sky, no longer a place of darkness and fear, but a home, a future, a beginning.
The mate selection was where wolves went when no one wanted them.
And as Imara stood among the desperate she-wolves who had been overlooked or abandoned, she knew she was the most unwanted of all.
Not because of her face, not because of her bloodline, because she had no scent.
In a world where wolves knew their mates by scent alone, Imara was invisible, empty, a ghost among the living.
Heavy perfume clung to her skin, masking what wasn’t there.
She kept her head bowed, praying no one would notice her, praying the night would end and she could disappear into obscurity.
Then the Alpha King arrived. Varen of Valdren. Cold. Brutal.
Whispered to be half-mad from a curse that had claimed every king before him.
He walked through the hall like death itself, past beautiful she-wolves who preened and posed, past nobility who offered daughters wrapped in silk and promises.
He stopped directly in front of Imara. You have no mate, he said, his voice cutting through the silence.
Why? Every eye Every breath held. The truth would damn her.
The lie would damn her faster. So Imara lifted her chin and whispered the words that would change everything.
The entire pack went silent. Varen’s golden eyes flickered with something unreadable.
Then, against all reason, against all logic, he spoke. I’ll take her.
He offered her protection, a crown, a place at his side.
He swore he would never truly claim her, never mark her, never make her his in the way that mattered, because he didn’t want a mate.
He wanted a shield. Neither of them understood how impossible that vow would be.
