Seduce the alpha

Aurora scrubbed the night from her skin.

The water was sharp—too hot, too clean—but that was the point. She didn't want warmth. She wanted *removal.* The silence of Zev's last words still clung to her, and she needed it gone. Needed *him* gone.

Steam curled around her like ghosts in retreat. She ran the cloth down her collarbone with the pressure of erasure, as if she could wipe away every look, every breath, every threat that hadn't drawn blood—but nearly had.

When the bath turned still, she rose.

Dried.

Dressed.

Simple shift. No perfume. No fang at her throat. Just skin and the kind of silence that dared someone to ask why.

She stood by the window as night slipped over the palace, the wind teasing the curtain like a secret looking for a mouth.

Tomorrow was the Ceremony of Accord—the gathering of foreign Alphas, heirs cloaked in symbols and old grudges.

Zev would stand at the High Circle.

And Aurora would stand behind him.

Not as a servant.

Not as a companion.

But as a question they hadn't been told to expect.

The moon climbed higher.

And when sleep finally came to her, it wasn't mercy.

It was strategy, wrapped in wind.

—

The stone doors opened with thunder.

Trumpets did not sound. Bells did not toll. But silence swept the Great Hall like a tide as the **Ceremony of Accord** began.

The foreign Alphas had arrived—each flanked by companions cloaked in frost, fire, or feathers, depending on the pride of their lands. Colors stitched into armor. Greed tucked behind smiles.

They stood in a crescent before the throne, where the King and Queen waited beneath banners that had never known defeat.

The King stepped forward. Robes lined in ash-gray. Crown like sharpened sun.

"Brothers. Rivals. Guests," he said. "You've come to judge and be judged. So let us begin as the wolves of the north always do—with appetite."

He extended his hand toward the long tables—already heavy with roast meats, honeyed wine, and dark fruits bleeding into silver plates.

Then the Queen rose, her voice silk carved into command.

"Feast. Speak as friends. Lie as needed. But remember—every word is watched."

Only then did the music begin—low strings, drums like heartbeat.

The Alphas took their places.

Zev moved to his seat near the King's right hand, expression unreadable as ever. Aurora stepped quietly behind him, as she had been instructed, the hem of her slate-colored robe whispering against polished stone.

She kept her gaze forward.

Until she felt it: a stare. Direct. Lingering.

From across the crescent, one Alpha had paused mid-step.

Tall. Burnished gold across his armor. Cold eyes, narrowed beneath a sun-etched crest.

He didn't speak.

He didn't smirk.

He just looked at Aurora.

Too long.

And Zev, without turning his head, slowly lifted his goblet.

And drank.

The message, if one was being sent, was not loud.

But it landed like a blade in silk.

Alpha Damiar lounged across the table from Zev, golden pauldrons glinting under torchlight. His goblet was empty—but his eyes weren't.

They settled on Aurora.

Deliberate. Measured.

He lifted his goblet—just slightly—and smiled.

"Aurora, is it? Would you be so kind as to pour for me? Your jug looks far more generous than mine."

The room stilled—not entirely, but enough that ears pivoted inward.

Aurora hesitated, then stepped forward, careful, composed. The wine in her vessel barely rippled.

She reached for his goblet—

"She won't," Zev said smoothly, without raising his voice.

Aurora froze mid-motion.

Zev's hand rested lightly on his own goblet now, eyes forward.

"She serves no Alpha but me."

The room tensed, and Damiar's brows arched—not with offense, but amusement edged in challenge.

"My apologies," Damiar said softly. "I hadn't realized her title had changed from companion to possession."

Zev smiled. But it was the kind that made skin crawl.

"Not possession. Territory."

Aurora didn't move. She didn't need to.

Because now, they were speaking *around* her—but every word was shaped by her presence.

Damiar turned his gaze to her again, slow.

"You must be worth quite a war."

Zev replied, still without looking at him.

"Try starting one. See what you're worth."

No raised voices.

No snarls.

—

The ceremony had ended. The maids moved swiftly through the hall, clearing goblets and half-torn bread, scrubbing away the residue of politics and performance.

Aurora turned to leave, her hands still tingling from holding silence behind Zev all evening.

But before she could take a full step, **Zev's hand closed around her wrist.**

It wasn't harsh—but it wasn't soft either.

She looked up.

He said nothing.

Just walked, dragging her in his wake like a storm that had finally chosen its target.

They reached his chamber. The door closed behind them with a **clang of finality**, and before she could speak—

**He pinned her.**

Her back met stone. One hand locked above her head. The other braced near her hip.

Her gasp caught in her throat.

"Alpha Zev," she said softly—surprised, breathless, unsure if it was plea or warning.

His voice came low, not loud—but *burning*.

"You don't stare at another Alpha. Not when you belong to me. Am I clear?"

She nodded, once. Small.

The pressure eased.

He stepped back, face unreadable. Walked to a chair and sat—slow, calculated.

"You made my feet sore," he said quietly. "Do you know how hard I had to press my heel into the floor to keep from ruining a treaty?"

Aurora said nothing.

Zev tilted his chin toward his boots.

"Take them off."

She hesitated—but knelt.

Fingers moved over the laces.

He said nothing. Just watched.

When she looked up, he was already leaning forward—two fingers under her chin, lifting her gaze to his.

Then, softer than before:

"Next time you test me like that…" His thumb brushed against the corner of her mouth. "It won't just be my feet that need attention."