Aria scrubbed the grout of the pack house foyer, the smell of lemon and bleach stinging her nose. It was the only way to drown out the scent of them, the other wolves. To them, she smelled like nothing. To her, they smelled like wet earth, pine, and aggression.
"Miss a spot and you'll be sleeping in the shed again, Aria."
Aria didn't look up. She knew the voice. Sarah, the Beta's daughter. She had shifted for the first time three years ago. Aria was twenty-two and still waiting for a voice that would never answer back.
"I heard you," she murmured, dipping the rag into the gray water.
A sharp throb pulsed behind her left eye, sudden and violent. Aria squeezed her eyes shut for a second, fighting off the wave of dizziness that washed over her. It had been happening more frequently lately; these strange, feverish spikes that made her skin feel too tight for her body.
A boot slammed down on her hand.
Aria gasped, jerking back, but Sarah ground the heel into her knuckles. The pain was sharp, immediate, and grounding. It cut through the sudden haze in her head.
"That's 'I heard you, Beta,'" Sarah sneered. "Just because your father is the Pack Alpha doesn't mean you aren't the runt of the litter. You're barely a step above a human pet."
She kicked the bucket over. The gray, soapy water slopped across the floor Aria had just spent an hour drying.
Sarah laughed, a bark-like sound, and sauntered off toward the dining hall where the breakfast service was starting.
Aria sat there for a moment, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest. Her wolf didn't growl. Her eyes didn't flash gold. There was just the silence in her head, vast and empty as a grave.
She was the White Fang Pack's dirty little secret: The Alpha's daughter who never turned.
She cleaned the mess. She always cleaned the mess.
By noon, the throbbing behind her eyes had turned into a sledgehammer.
Aria was in the kitchens, peeling potatoes until her fingers were raw, when the bell tolled. It was the summons. General assembly in the main courtyard.
"Move it, Aria," the head cook grunted, wiping grease on his apron. "And stay in the back. Guests are coming."
Aria kept her head down, slipping out the back door. As she stepped into the sunlight, the world tilted on its axis. A sheen of sweat broke out across her forehead, cold and clammy. She stumbled, gripping the rough brick of the wall to steady herself.
What is wrong with me?
Her skin burned, a phantom fever that felt like it was radiating from her very bones. It wasn't the flu. It felt... natural. Like her body was trying to start an engine that didn't exist.
She skirted the edge of the crowd. The entire pack was there, over two hundred shifters buzzing with an energy that made the hair on her arms stand up. The air was thick with pheromones—excitement, anxiety, lust.
Her father, Alpha Stone, stood on the raised dais. He looked like a king, broad-shouldered and imposing, his salt-and-pepper hair gleaming in the sunlight. Beside him stood her mother, elegant and cold as a statue. They looked perfect.
Aria hid behind a support pillar near the stables, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself to hide the trembling. The noise of the crowd seemed to drill directly into her skull.
"Listen well!" Stone's voice boomed, amplified by his Alpha command. The crowd went instantly silent. "We have received a decree from the Lycan King."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The Lycans were the aristocracy, the ancient bloodlines that ruled over the regional packs. They rarely looked down from their ivory towers unless someone had broken a law.
"Alpha Damien," her father continued, the name landing heavy like a stone, "has announced the decennial Rite of Claiming. It will be held at the Blackspire Keep in two days' time."
The silence shattered. Cheers erupted from the younger wolves. The Rite of Claiming was the event of the decade—a ball where alliances were forged, and fated mates were found.
"Silence!" Stone roared.
The crowd quieted, but the excitement remained vibrating in the air.
"This is not a request," Stone said, his face grim. "Damien has mandated that all unmated females of Alpha bloodlines, regardless of status, must present themselves."
Aria's stomach dropped.
Alpha bloodlines.
That meant her.
She tried to shrink into the shadows, but the dizziness surged again, stronger this time. Black spots danced in her vision. She swayed, her hand slipping from the pillar.
She felt the gaze before she saw it. Her mother was looking directly at the pillar. Her eyes were narrowed, not with concern, but with contempt. She didn't see a daughter; she saw a problem that suddenly required a solution.
The confrontation happened in the Alpha's study an hour later.
Aria stood in front of the massive mahogany desk, her hands clasped behind her back to hide the dirt under her fingernails. The room smelled of old paper and expensive scotch, a scent that made bile rise in her throat.
"I can't go," she said, her voice shaking. "Father, I'm not well. The headache…I feel sick."
"You think I want to send you?" Stone didn't even look up from the paperwork he was signing. "You are an embarrassment, Aria. A failure, wolfless. If I could keep you in the cellar, I would."
The words were familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but they still stung like a fresh slap.
"Then tell them I'm ill," she pleaded, gripping the edge of the desk for support as the room spun slightly. "Tell them I'm contagious. Alpha Damien won't care about one missing wolf-less girl."
"Damien isn't just an Alpha," her mother said, stepping out of the shadows. She was holding a dress—a deep crimson thing that looked like it cost more than Aria's entire existence. "He is the Lycan King. He demands total obedience. If we hide you, he will view it as an insult. He will think we are hoarding a potential mate."
Aria almost laughed. "A mate? Me? I can't shift. I can't run. I'm a defect."
"You still carry the blood," her mother said, shoving the dress into Aria's arms. The silk felt cool and slippery, like spilled blood. "And you are still pretty enough, if you keep your mouth shut and don't draw attention to your... emptiness."
"I smell wrong," Aria whispered, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "The headache… it makes me smell wrong. The other wolves... they'll know."
"We have scent blockers," Stone snapped. "Strong ones. You will take them. You will go to this Rite. You will stand in the back, look presentable, and pray that no one speaks to you."
He finally looked up, his eyes flashing with the gold of his wolf.
"Do not shame this family, Aria. You have already cost us enough just by existing."
Aria clutched the dress to her chest, the fabric bunching in her fists. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the dress at them and run into the woods, to let the cold night air freeze the sickness out of her bones.
But she had nowhere to go. Without the pack, she was just a human in a world of monsters.
"Yes, Alpha," she whispered.
She turned and walked out of the study. As she climbed the stairs to her attic room, the dread settled in her stomach, heavier than the fever.
The Rite of Claiming.
She didn't know much about Lycan society, but she knew about Alpha Damien. They called him the Executioner. A man who prioritized strength and perfection above all else.
And she was walking right into his den.