After My Mate Branded Me a Coward, I Became Royalty

The Delta who delivered the assignment couldn't look at me. He stood in my doorway holding the work order like it might burn him, eyes fixed somewhere over my left shoulder.

"Banquet prep," he said. His voice was flat. "All ceremonial crystal. Hand-wash only. Ice water. Report to backstage corridor tomorrow at dawn."

He set the paper on my chair and left before I could acknowledge it.

I picked up the order and read it twice. Hundreds of goblets. Three days of preparation. Ice water mandatory for proper crystal cleaning, per pack tradition. The assignment was allocated specifically to me — Alexandra Wren, Omega — by name.

I pressed my left thumb against my scarred knuckles. The nerve damage in my right hand made cold water a particular kind of torture. Dean knew that. Aubrey definitely knew that.

I tore a strip from the hem of my Omega uniform, folded it carefully, and tucked it into my waistband. Then I lay back on my cot and stared at the ceiling until the single bulb went dark.

Selene stirred faintly in my chest. Not a voice. Just warmth. I pressed my hand over my ribs and breathed.

The backstage corridor smelled like stone and old wood. Crates of crystal goblets lined one wall, stacked six high. A single metal basin sat on a prep table with a bucket of ice beside it.

I filled the basin halfway. Added ice until the water went cloudy-cold. Picked up the first goblet with my left hand.

The glass was delicate, etched with the pack's crest. I submerged it slowly, turning it under the surface. My right hand gripped the basin's edge for balance. The cold bit into my palm immediately.

I counted. Thirty seconds per goblet. Rinse, inspect, set on the drying rack. Repeat.

By the tenth goblet, my right hand was shaking.

By the twentieth, the tremor had spread up my wrist.

By the fortieth, I couldn't feel my fingertips.

I kept washing.

Two hours in, a goblet slipped.

My right hand spasmed mid-grip. The glass caught the basin's edge and my knuckles hit the metal rim. Skin split across two joints. Blood swirled into the wash water, thin ribbons of red curling through the ice.

I set the goblet down carefully. Pulled the torn fabric strip from my waistband. Wrapped my hand tight enough to stop the bleeding but loose enough that I could still move my fingers. The cloth turned pink immediately.

I dumped the bloodied water. Refilled the basin. Washed the goblet again.

Then I kept going.

Three ranked wolves passed through the corridor that afternoon.

The first was a Gamma I didn't know. He walked past the prep table without slowing, his boots loud on the stone floor. He didn't look at me. Didn't look at the basin.

The second was a Beta-ranked she-wolf carrying event schedules. She paused at the doorway, glanced at the drying rack, then left.

The third picked up a goblet I'd just finished. He held it up to the light streaming through the high window, turned it slowly, examining the crystal for spots. He set it back on the rack without a word and walked out.

None of them looked at my hands.

I worked until the light through the window went grey. My right hand was wrapped in cloth that was more red than white now. My left hand ached from gripping goblets for eight hours straight. I'd finished maybe a quarter of the total.

I dumped the final basin of water, stacked the clean crystal carefully, and walked back to my quarters.

The fabric strip came off in the narrow shower stall, stuck to my skin with dried blood. I ran cold water over the cuts until they stopped bleeding, then wrapped my hand in a clean strip torn from my only spare shirt.

Selene's warmth pulsed once in my chest. Faint but steady.

I ate the dried meat and bread I'd been hoarding — rations I'd taken from the kitchen before I stopped touching the communal food — and lay down on my cot.

Through the thin wall, I heard voices again. Aubrey and Marcus Hale, the pack's Healer. Their words were muffled but the rhythm was familiar. Administrative. Transactional.

I pressed my ear against the cold concrete and listened.

The second day, Aubrey came to watch.

I heard her heels first — a precise click-click-click down the backstage corridor. Then her scent rolled into the narrow space: warm amber and pine, thick enough to coat my throat.

I didn't turn. I kept my hands submerged in the ice water, turning a goblet slowly under the surface. My wrapped right hand throbbed. The cuts from yesterday had opened again within the first hour.

Aubrey stopped in the doorway. I felt her presence like pressure against my back.

"The crystal looks... delicate," she said. Not to me. To the Delta escort standing behind her. Her voice carried that pleasant, observational tone she used when she wanted something heard without claiming she'd said it. "I hope the Omega's hands are steady enough. It would be unfortunate if anything broke before the banquet."

The Delta murmured something I couldn't make out.

"Wolfless," Aubrey continued, "and those tremors. I've noticed them. Haven't you?"

Silence.

"Well," Aubrey said lightly, "I suppose we'll see."

Her heels clicked away. The Delta lingered a moment — I felt his hesitation like a weight in the air — then followed.

I set the goblet on the drying rack. My left hand, submerged in ice water, pressed my thumb against my scarred knuckles where no one could see.

Selene surged.

It wasn't warmth this time. It was heat. Sharp and furious, blazing up through my chest like a flare. My wolf — dormant for seven years, chemically locked in silence — was angry.

Not whimpering. Not cowering.

Angry.

I stood very still, hands dripping ice water onto the stone floor. The feeling didn't fade. It sat in my chest like a coal, burning steady.

I didn't know what it meant yet. I didn't know what the wolfsbane withdrawal was building toward, or how long Selene had been waking in the chemical darkness without me realizing it.

But I knew anger when I felt it.

I picked up the next goblet and kept washing.

By the end of the second day, I'd finished half the crystal. My right hand was wrapped in three layers of torn fabric. Blood had soaked through to the outermost layer, a dark stain spreading across my palm.

I walked back to my quarters, stripped the fabric, washed the cuts, and wrapped my hand again.

Selene's heat pulsed steady in my chest.

I pressed my left hand over my ribs and closed my eyes.

One more day until the banquet.