The rest of the feast was an exercise in agonizing, drawn-out suffocation for the Alpha of Ashdown.
Cora did not say another word to Desmond. She didn't have to. The damage was absolute. The allied alphas, the very men Desmond had invited to witness his ascension, were seasoned political animals. They smelled the blood in the water. They saw a newly minted alpha humiliated at his own table, unable to defend his territory against a verbal slaughter because he was terrified of the king sitting quietly beside the executioner.
The conversations in the hall shifted. The alphas stopped addressing Desmond directly. Instead, their eyes kept darting to the center of the table. A territorial lord from the eastern crags leaned forward and asked Gideon about the snowpack in the high passes. An older alpha from the iron mines raised his glass in a silent, respectful toast to Cora.
They were pivoting. Desmond was no longer the center of gravity in his own fortress.
Lyanna tried desperately to claw back the narrative. She ordered the musicians to play louder. She signaled for more wine to be poured. She laughed a little too sharply, her voice shrill over the heavy strings of the cellos. It was useless. She was a beautiful bride sitting next to a neutered wolf.
Through it all, Cora sat still. Her back ached from the rigid whalebone. The heavy velvet skirt felt like a lead weight dragging her down, but she kept her chin elevated, her hands relaxed on her lap. She felt Gideon's presence beside her, a massive radiating furnace of heat and quiet, terrifying calm. He didn't gloat. He simply occupied space, letting his sheer existence dismantle Desmond's authority.
When the final course of heavy spiced pastries was cleared, Gideon stood. The entire hall fell silent again.
"Alpha Desmond," Gideon said, his voice echoing off the vaulted timber ceiling. "Your hospitality is noted. We will retire for the evening. See that my guards are quartered warmly."
He didn't wait for Desmond's frantic, stammering reply. He offered his arm to Cora. She took it, rising smoothly, ignoring the vicious cramp in her left thigh.
They walked down the center aisle of the great hall. The crowds parted for them instantly, heads bowing, eyes averted. They walked through the heavy oak doors and out into the freezing stone corridors of the guest wing.
The moment the doors shut solidly behind them, cutting off the noise of the hall, Cora stopped. She let go of Gideon's arm and leaned her back against the cold granite wall.
The adrenaline, which had been burning hot and fast in her veins for the last hour, crashed. Her knees buckled slightly. Her hands began to shake with violent, uncontrollable tremors.
Gideon didn't crowd her. He took a step back, giving her air. He reached inside his heavy fur cloak and produced a flat silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and held it out.
Cora took it with both hands to steady it. She drank. It wasn't wine. It was high-proof mountain whiskey, tasting of peat and fire. It burned all the way down to her stomach, chasing away the immediate chill of the corridor. She coughed, handing the flask back.
"Thank you."
"You are shaking," Gideon observed, his amber eyes studying her in the dim light of the corridor torches.
"It's the cold," Cora lied.
"It is the crash," Gideon corrected mildly, taking a swig from the flask himself before capping it. "Violence takes a toll on the body, and what you just did in there was pure, unadulterated violence."
Cora let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
"He looked so small, Gideon. I spent six months thinking he was a monster, thinking he was this massive, immovable force that crushed me. But looking at him tonight, he just looked desperate."
"Tyrants usually are," Gideon said. He leaned his shoulder against the wall opposite her, watching her carefully. "He built his entire self-worth on the submission of others. You stripped that away. You exposed the scaffolding. It is a terrifying thing for a man like him to realize he only has power because people agree to give it to him. And tonight, the room stopped agreeing."
Cora lowered her hands. The makeup Martha had painstakingly applied was flawless, but her eyes were tired.
"Did I ruin his alliances?"
"You planted the seed of doubt," Gideon answered pragmatically. "The eastern lords rely on strength. They saw none tonight. They saw a man who cannot control his own past, let alone the future of the northern borders. By tomorrow, half of them will be sending ravens to my winter estate, looking to renegotiate their trade treaties directly with the crown."
"So your trip was a success."
"Our trip," Gideon corrected softly. "I provided the stage. You swung the axe."
He stepped away from the wall. The rough, pragmatic king was back. "Rest, Cora. Tomorrow is the bonding ceremony. The spectacle requires an audience for the final act."
He escorted her to the door of her assigned chambers. He didn't linger. He gave her a short, respectful nod and walked down the hall to his own quarters, his heavy boots making no sound on the stone floor.
Cora went inside. The room was grand, far larger than her entire cabin, with a roaring fire already built in the hearth. Two of Gideon's royal guards stood outside her door in the hallway.
She stripped off the heavy velvet dress, dropping it onto a chair. She unclasped the silver choker and set it on the vanity. She looked at her reflection in the glass. The pale, jagged scar at her throat was visible again.
She touched it. For the first time in six months, it didn't throb. The phantom pain was gone. In its place was just a scar. Dead tissue. Completely numb.
Desmond had cut her open, but she had finally cauterized the wound.