Seduce the alpha

The echo of Zev's word—*"Gorgeous"*—hadn't even faded before the whispering began.

Aurora didn't move. Couldn't. All she felt were eyes. Dozens. Hundreds. Burning.

She stepped forward slowly, not because she wanted to—but because she refused to be dragged.

Zev didn't offer her his hand. He didn't need to.

His command had already delivered her.

She walked to him.

Head high. Pulse erratic.

Zev's brothers watched with expressions ranging from curious to murderous.

Luna Felicia smiled—but it wasn't kind.

"So that's your pick?" she said with a wine-sweet edge. "The girl who stares like she doesn't know she's prey?"

Zev turned his head—casually.

"No. The girl who stares like she's deciding if *you* are."

A low ripple passed through the Alphas.

Aurora's throat tightened.

She wasn't trained for this.

She wasn't bred for crowns or claims.

But still—Zev reached out. Took her wrist. Just lightly.

Not possessive. Not tender.

Just enough for the room to see it.

She stood beside him, barely breathing.

Then came the Queen's voice.

Clear. Icy. Slowed enough that everyone strained to catch every syllable.

"And what does she do, this one?" she asked, gaze glinting beneath her veil. "Besides catch your eye?"

Zev sipped his wine. Then replied,

"She *listens.*"

A beat.

"And she keeps silent. Until she knows when not to."

The Queen didn't smile.

But she nodded—once.

And all around them, courtiers began calculating.

The Queen rose, cloaked in black silk trimmed with blood-gold embroidery. Her presence cut through the noise of the celebration like a blade through silk.

A hush fell across the hall.

Zev remained seated, but Aurora—positioned just behind his left shoulder—lowered her gaze in deference. Not from fear. From strategy.

The Queen lifted her goblet, voice cool and crystalline.

"Today, we honor the future. My sister's son has brought forth an Alpha. Born strong, lungs loud, spirit fierce. A true heir to the bloodline that rules."

Polite toasts rippled through the chamber.

But the Queen was not finished.

Her eyes drifted, slow and sharp, until they landed directly on *Aurora*.

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"Let us not forget—heirs are not born from luck. They are *delivered by obedience.* By duty. By women who know what legacy demands."

A pause. A sip.

"May the girls chosen to serve royal blood understand: *pretty things are forgettable. Legacy is not.*"

Aurora felt her pulse spike.

The Queen did not blink.

And in that moment, beneath the gilded arches and flickering chandeliers, it was clear: **this was not a toast to a newborn.**

It was a warning.

**Do what I placed you there to do. Seduce him. Bear me an heir. Or vanish.**

The music resumed.

But Aurora stood very, very still.

Zev, beside her, said nothing.

Yet somehow... she knew he'd heard every word.

—

**The girls moved like threads in a ritual tapestry—seven pairs of hands clearing platters and pouring final sips of rose-colored wine.**

They didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

Each step was rehearsed. Each gesture silent. It was an honor, yes. But it was also a reminder—to serve, to obey, to be *visible* only when commanded.

Aurora kept her movements smooth. Delicate. Controlled.

She sensed eyes on her—not just Zev's, though his presence hung beside her like storm pressure. But others too. Watchers. Judges. Daughters and wives hiding sharpened smiles behind jeweled goblets.

As she collected a half-drained goblet from Alpha Maren's table, she felt it—that flicker of fingers grazing hers as he deliberately took too long to let go.

Her spine remained straight.

Her eyes did not lift.

But she knew Zev had seen it.

Because one second later, across the room, the goblet cracked in Maren's grip—wine spilling like blood over his knuckles.

Aurora turned from the table and walked on.

The Queen's words still clung to her skin like perfume: *legacy outlasts pretty things.*

And tonight? Aurora felt both.

But soon?

She'd have to choose.

******

The celebration had ended without him.

Zev hadn't shown.

No word. No explanation. Just… silence.

Aurora had stood through the Queen's toast, the flickering glances, the ceremonial wine, and the ritual clearing of silver plates—all without her Alpha beside her. Some whispered he was displeased. Others guessed it was strategy.

But for Aurora, it meant one thing: exposure.

After hours of post-ceremony lecture with the royal etiquette mistress—a brittle woman with a voice like snapping twigs—Aurora slipped through the quieter passageways, muscles sore from training, mind tight with unfinished questions.

She turned a corner—

—and collided with heat.

Warm, bare skin. Unmistakably male.

She blinked and stepped back fast, heart stuttering.

"Alpha Zev?"

But the chuckle wasn't his.

Alpha Maren stood before her, bare-chested, hair damp, a towel slung low across his hips. His smile was all amusement and mischief sharpened into danger.

"Wrong Alpha," he said, eyes sweeping her like he had a right. "But cute that his name's the first thing you say."

Aurora lowered her gaze, emotion locked beneath etiquette.

She stepped sideways—measured, respectful—ready to move past him.

But Maren shifted with her, shoulder to wall, cutting her path like a lazy predator testing his claws.

"You like what you see, little slave?" he murmured. "Or are you just trained to stare at collars and pretend?"

Aurora didn't answer. Her fingers curled slightly.

She couldn't touch him. Not without permission.

And he knew it.

"What now?" he asked, grin widening. "Cry out? Maybe say his name again like a charm?"

He leaned in—

And then stopped.

Because the air changed.

Thickened.

Chilled.

A presence entered the hall behind her, not with sound—but with force.

Zev.

Silent, fully dressed, black coat buttoned sharp. His eyes locked on Maren, unreadable but *merciless.*

Maren's smile faltered—only slightly—before a voice sliced through the corridor like a drawn blade.

"You touch what belongs to me?"

Low. Lethal.

Aurora didn't have to turn.

She *felt* him.

Zev.

He emerged from the far end of the corridor, shadowed in black. Not rushing. Not shouting. Just walking with that deliberate grace that made silence feel like a warning.

Maren stepped back a hair. But not enough.

Zev's eyes didn't blink.

"If your bloodline needs attention that bad, ask your mother to breed again," he said, calm as death. "Don't reach for things you don't have rank to survive."

Maren laughed once—forced.

"It was a joke."

Zev stopped a few paces away.

"Say it again."

"…What?"

"The joke. Say it."

Maren hesitated.

Zev's stare sharpened.

"Didn't think so."

Then his voice dropped—bone-deep and cold.

"Next time I catch you in her path, you'll wake up unable to use your hands. And I won't need a blade to do it."

Maren backed off—finally.

Zev didn't look at Aurora. Not yet. He just watched the other Alpha go.

Then, after a beat, his voice cut without warmth:

"If you're going to walk like prey, little rabbit, pick quieter halls."

Only then did he move past her.

Not touching.

Not waiting.

Just leaving the air colder behind him.

---

Zev sat in the low-backed chair, firelight stroking sharp shadows across his jaw. His coat lay discarded. His boots were still on. But his posture had melted into something unguarded—legs stretched out, fingers loose around an untouched glass.

The room smelled of him.

And of the alcohol.

Heavy. Sharp. Concentrated.

Aurora entered quietly, robe brushing her ankles as she carried the jug. A deeper brown than her skin, the silk clung to her like warmth made visible. She poured the tea exactly as she'd been taught—slow, graceful, deliberate.

"Knock next time," he muttered, eyes half-lidded but tracking every movement.

She nodded once, wordless, as the liquid swirled into the cup between them.

"I'm not drinking that."

His voice was bored, but behind it—*the edge frayed.*

She caught the scent now. Rich and intoxicating. He was drunk.

Dizzy-drunk.

His body held still, but his eyes drifted, unfocused. Too quiet. Too sharp in the wrong ways.

"Alpha Zev," she said gently, kneeling before him. She lifted the cup. "This will help."

He didn't look at the tea.

He looked at *her.*

Then he gripped her wrist—not tight. Just enough to hold her still in the moment.

"I said I'm fine."

His breath skimmed her cheek. She smelled the burn of liquor in every exhale.

And then—her robe shifted.

The neckline slipped slightly with the movement, just enough to reveal the dip of her collarbone. His gaze dropped, and the air between them thickened into something hotter than the fire beside them.

His smile curved—slow, amused, dangerous.

Then his hand lifted—not down, not daring, but up. From her wrist to her elbow. Then to her throat. And finally, her jaw.

He gripped her chin—not roughly, but with purpose. His fingers were warm and unsteady, his gaze locked on the way her pulse fluttered just beneath the skin.

"You always wear things that dare me," he said, voice thick with wine and want.

Aurora held his gaze, even as her breath caught.

"You're drunk."

He smirked lazily.

"I'm Alpha."

Her throat tightened.

"You'll regret this in the morning."

There was a beat of silence.

Then his expression shifted—just slightly.

"Or you will," he said, voice lower. "If you remember me at all."

And then—he kissed her.

His mouth was warm. Slow. Intentional.

No force. No frenzy. Just a man letting something break loose inside him quietly, piece by piece. She tasted alcohol and heat, the weight of a thousand unsaid things pressing against her lips.

But as he pulled back, just barely—

She knew.

This wasn't him.

Not fully.

This wouldn't count.

Zev might rule the world by morning, but right now he couldn't even keep his eyes open.

He blinked once.

Twice.

And then—his head dropped against her shoulder, heavy with sleep.

"Zev?" she whispered.

No answer.

He had passed out on top of her.

She sighed. Frustrated. Flushed. Torn in too many directions. It took strength and careful maneuvering to get his arm off her, to brace his weight and half-lift, half-drag him toward the bed.

He collapsed onto it without a fight, muttering something slurred and unintelligible.

She pulled the covers over him, tucking the edges just enough to keep him warm. He turned in his sleep, his face pressing deeper into the pillow.

Even now—he looked like danger and ruin. But quieter.

She padded softly to the far edge of the bed. The side he'd once told her to stick to. The side meant for a guest. Or a girl he hadn't yet chosen.

She laid down, pulling the blanket just to her waist, and watched him until her breathing settled.

"You won't remember this," she whispered into the dark. "And maybe that's the mercy."

But her heartbeat had already memorized it all.

And that—*that* was the problem.