Firstborn. Heir. Alpha wolf. Alpha abilities. Chosen by the Alpha.
Guinevere checked exactly zero of those boxes. Not even a partial. She was batting a perfect fucking zero on every requirement.
She was second born. Her wolf was not an Alpha wolf. She was a princess who had stolen a token from her brother's chambers, borrowed his cape, and run eight hundred miles on the assumption that showing up was the hard part.
She was wrong. Her chest tightened.
"The rite predates every Alpha and pack in this room," Nicholas continued. "If the blood is deemed unworthy or is false, the territory will not answer. The one who offered it will forfeit their seat and the right to remain in this chamber."
He stole a glance at her for the first time since he began speaking.
It lasted less than a second. A flicker of something moved behind his eyes that looked uncomfortably close to pain. The kind of expression a man makes when he already knows the outcome and doesn't want to watch it happen.
