Mother drummed her fingers against her knee. “There is… one possibility.” Her voice barely carried. “But after everything with—after everything you’ve endured… we didn’t want to ask.”
“What is it?” My chest tightened. “Stop treating me like I’m fragile. I’m not.”
Father stood, pacing to the tall window overlooking our moonlit lands. “A mating alliance.”
The words hit like a blow. “What?”
“An arranged bond,” he clarified, turning back. “There are still powerful clans not aligned with the Rageclaw-Wintermoon union. Clans who might stand with us—if given the right… incentive.”
“You want me to bond with one of them?” My throat felt dry. “After what I had just been through?”
“That’s why we hesitated,” Mother said, her voice trembling. “You deserve more than being bartered.”
“But with the right alliance,” Father said firmly, “we could counter their strength. Maybe surpass it.”
I stood, legs unsteady. Years ago, I’d sworn I’d never let the pack decide my life again. But this wasn’t about romance or freedom. This was about survival and the whole pack.
“Who?” I managed.
“Marcellus Ashenfell,” Father said quietly.