Dawn broke over the High Ridge, painting the snow in shades of pale pink and violent orange. Cora stood near the edge of the overhang, staring down at the winding valley below. Her mind was a chaotic storm.
Behind her, the sound of heavy armor clinking filled the quiet air. During the night, they had not been alone. Gideon's vanguard, a dozen elite Lycan guards clad in dark iron and fur, had been camped a mile down the pass, waiting for the sun. They had arrived silently at first light, kneeling in the snow before their king, their presence turning the small campsite into a royal pavilion.
Gideon walked up beside her. He had discarded the heavy, worn leather coat. Underneath, he wore a tunic of dark, heavy silk and a thick fur mantle clasped with silver wolves. The rugged traveler was gone. The monarch remained.
"You're quiet," Gideon said, looking out over the same valley.
"I shared a roasted rabbit with the king, yelled at him, and didn't curtsy," Cora replied, her voice deadpan. "I'm trying to decide if I'm going to be executed before or after breakfast."
Gideon let out a brief, genuine laugh. "I liked the yelling. It was honest. More honest than anything I'll hear in Ashdown."
Cora turned to look at him. "Why are you going to the wedding?"
Gideon's expression hardened. The amusement vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating edge.
"Desmond is ambitious. Too ambitious. Marrying Lyanna unites the two largest packs on my southern border. They control the trade routes, the timber, and a significant portion of my military reserve."
"You think he's planning a rebellion?"
"I think he's testing the waters," Gideon said, turning to face her. "He sent me an invitation. It wasn't a request for my blessing. It was a summons to witness his new power. He wants to show his allied alphas that he can draw the king down from the mountain. He wants to look like my equal."
Cora understood perfectly. It was the exact same tactic Desmond was using on her, just played on a geopolitical scale. Humiliate the weak to elevate the strong.
"And you're going to let him?" she asked.
"I am going to attend," Gideon corrected. "But I have no intention of playing his game. I need to remind Desmond and every alpha in that hall exactly where the power lies. I need to shatter his illusion of control. Disrupt his perfect narrative."
Gideon stepped closer. He was a head taller than her, smelling of ozone, cold iron, and alpha dominance. But he kept his aura reined in, not pressing her down.
"That is where you come in, Cora."
Cora crossed her arms, shivering as a gust of wind hit them. "I don't follow. I'm a nobody. I'm the trash he took out. Showing up with me doesn't make you look powerful. It makes you look like a scavenger."
"You underestimate the symbolism," Gideon said softly. "Desmond discarded you because he deemed you unworthy. He made a public spectacle of your rejection to prove his superior judgment. What happens when the King of all Lycans arrives at his bonding ceremony with his discarded mate on his arm, draped in royal colors?"
Cora's eyes widened as the sheer vindictive brilliance of the plan sank in.
"It tells the world," Gideon continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur, "that Desmond's judgment is flawed. It says that what Desmond threw away, the crown found valuable. It elevates you above him. He will be forced to bow to you, Cora. To welcome you as an honored guest in the home he threw you out of."
Cora's breath hitched. She pictured it. Desmond's face. Lyanna's smug smile faltering. The whispers of the pack council. The absolute, unadulterated humiliation of the man who had broken her heart. The phantom pain in her chest flared, then went entirely numb, replaced by a rush of adrenaline.
"You want to use me as a political weapon," she stated plainly.
"Yes," Gideon answered without hesitation.
He didn't sugarcoat it. He didn't try to wrap it in a fairy tale. He respected her enough to tell the ugly truth.
"I use you to destabilize Desmond. You use me to get your revenge. It is a transaction."
Cora looked down at her muddy boots, then at her calloused, blistered hands. "Look at me, Gideon. I'm a feral woman living in a shack. I don't know how to walk in a royal court. I don't have the dresses, the jewels, the manners. Desmond will just laugh."
Gideon reached out. He didn't touch her face — he wasn't overly familiar — but he placed a large, warm hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding.
"A dress can be tailored. Jewels can be bought. Dirt can be washed off," Gideon said, his amber eyes locking onto hers. "But the fire I saw in you last night, the woman who looked an alpha king in the eye and told him she didn't want his pity — that cannot be bought. That is what I need."
He stepped back, giving her space.
"We have three days until the ceremony. My southern estate is a day's ride from here. We have tailors, tutors, whatever you need. If you agree, you ride with me, you stand by my side, and when this is over, you will have a place in my court, safe from Desmond forever. Or you can walk down this mountain, disappear into the snow, and let him win."
Cora looked back at the trail she had carved through the snow. She thought of her cold cabin. She thought of the heavy red wax seal and the arrogant handwriting.
Your presence is required. It is time you accepted your place.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out the crumpled invitation, and held it up. She looked Gideon in the eye, her jaw set, her cynical heart beating a steady war-drum rhythm.
"I'll need a very expensive dress," Cora said.
Gideon's mouth curved into a sharp, dangerous smile. "You shall have the finest in the kingdom." He turned to his guards. "Saddle the horses. We ride for the winter estate."
As the camp sprang into organized chaos around them, Cora looked down at the invitation one last time. She didn't throw it in the fire. She folded it carefully and put it back in her pocket.
She was going to hand it to Desmond personally.