Page 9

Chapter 9

Liam

T he gravel crunches beneath my tires as I guide the BMW through the old gates and up the paved curve leading to the estate.

Warm flood lights cast a golden glow across the front of the manor house, throwing exaggerated shadows up onto the broad upper windows and the ornate archway above the main entrance.

Twilight is beginning to drape its navy curtain over Savannah.

To the east, round and arrogant, the full moon is beginning its climb into the sky.

That familiar pull tugs at the base of my spine, a subtle tightening beneath my skin that reminds me tonight isn’t just symbolic.

It’s primal.

Sacred.

And raw.

And still, I hesitate at the edge of the drive.

For one stupid second, I just sit there, engine idling and hands curled too hard around the wheel, watching the diffused glow of candles and low lights in the manor windows like someone standing in front of their own damn house, unsure if they belong.

She’s in there.

In a dress I chose.

With wildflowers stitched across fabric that will cling to her hip the way my hands long to.

She’s angry.

Hurt.

Possibly plotting to stab me with a corkscrew at the reception.

But she’s here.

In less than ninety minutes, Claire Douglass will bear my name, stand beside me as my mate and wife under the moon that braided our fates before either of us were even born.

My wolf paces beneath my skin, restless, eager, satisfied.

Finally, she’ll be mine, the beast inside murmurs.

The words stretch like a promise, sharpening into hunger.

I force my grip to loosen and throw the car into park.

Pack wolves greet me with a few nods near the lantern-lit entrance, their expressions schooled into reverence, flavored with curiosity.

They know what tonight means.

Not just for me, but for the entire pack.

Tradition, security, legacy.

None of those things come lightly.

Inside, the air is warm.

Jasmine-sweet from some floating candles my mother insisted were necessary, mixed with the familiar scents of lemon wood polish and sage.

The manor always smells like power and protection.

Tonight, there’s something solemn woven in too.

Like the house itself is holding its breath.

My mother finds me before I can march upstairs to change.

“Everything’s arranged,” she says.

Her tone is calm, but her eyes don’t release mine.

She’s dressed in steel-blue satin trimmed in black lace, elegance touched by darkness.

Her red-blonde hair is pinned up neatly, though a few strands curl low at her nape, wild and stubborn as ever.

As much as I’ve looked up to my father, my mother has always been my person.

The one person I could run to when life got too hard and I needed somewhere safe and soft to land.

Like the night when I made the choice to reject the young woman who was my goddess-blessed true mate.

“Your watch,” Fiona adds, and lifts her hand.

I let her place it on my wrist, settling the weight like an offering.

It’s my father’s old timepiece, simple and elegant.

Its silver face catches the amber chandelier above our heads.

“How is she?” I ask, quiet but gruff.

She exhales, the sound soft and short.

“Stunning. Angry. Quiet.”

My lips twitch.

“That bad?”

“She and Lizzy haven’t burned anything down.”

“Yet.”

Mama lifts her gaze and pins me with it.

Her eyes are quieter than usual.

Tired, maybe.

Knowing.

“You’ve cornered a fox, Liam. Don’t be surprised if she bares her teeth.” She steps closer and adjusts the collar of my jacket.

“Marriage and power are easy to confuse. But one, my son, is a weapon. The other is a promise.”

“And which do you think I used?”

She studies me for a long second.

“You used your teeth when you should’ve led with your heart. But,” her voice softens, “you love her. That’s been obvious since that day you walked away from her ten years ago. You just don’t know how to love without bleeding.”

A bitter laugh catches in my throat.

“I’ve never been good at anything clean.” Which is why, if I could go back in time, I’d still push Claire away that day when she told me she was in love with me.

Her soul would have been tainted in blood and violence if I’d taken what I wanted, what she so freely fucking offered.

“No O’Reilly man has.”

She rests a palm flat against my shoulder, grounding me.

“Tell her about Seth. She deserves that much. Her parents aren’t here to stop you anymore.”

My throat tightens.

Of course she knows I never told Claire.

Because she’s the one who convinced me not to break when they shut that door in my face.

Because it was her hand that steadied me when I ached to wrap my arms around Claire at a funeral I could never attend.

There’s little my mother doesn’t carry for me, whether I ask her to or not.

“She’ll never forgive me.”

“If you ever want to truly win her heart, you need to try.”

I nod because I can’t reply.

A few seconds pass.

Then my mother reaches into her blazer, withdrawing a small black velvet pouch tied with a bit of crimson thread.

She cradles it gently before pressing it into my hand as if it’s something fragile.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice rough with questions I don’t voice.

“A piece of your legacy,” she murmurs, brushing a hand along the edge of the pouch as I untie it.

Inside, resting against soft black velvet, is a ring.

Not a wedding band, but a signet notched with a marking older than our family crest.

The iron set stone is rough-cut, a piece of obsidian etched with a wolf’s head surrounded by an unbroken circle.

“Your ancestral mark,” she says.

“It passed through six generations of Alphas before your father. Always from father to eldest child on the night of their mating mark, if the match was recognized as fate-bound by the pack.”

I blink down at it.

I’d only glimpsed it once, buried in a dusty portrait that hung in the hallway of my grandfather’s old study.

A relic of the old world.

“How’s Da feeling?”

“He’s resting. He’ll rally for the ceremony, though,” she says softly.

She taps the ring with a manicured nail.

“He made a choice not to pass this to you the night your wolf recognized Claire. He didn’t want to cause you any more pain.”

I stare at the ring, heavy in my palm like a ghost finally demanding its reckoning.

She lifts her chin a fraction.

My mother lowers her voice to just above a whisper.

“If you’re going to walk through that arch and give her your name, then do it like an O’Reilly.” She leans in then, a glint of iron pride in her gaze.

“Not just as a man hungry for redemption, but as a future Alpha who remembers what it means to serve before you lead.”

She squeezes my hand once, dusts her fingers against her skirt, and turns on her heel with a finality I’ve learned never to chase.

I watch her climb the stairs, measured and proud, disappearing one step at a time.

My guts are still twisted around the obsidian weight in my palm as I climb the stairs to my room.

After changing into my wedding tuxedo, I look down at the ring in my hand.

The cold bite of the metal grounds something restless in my chest.

Then I slide it onto the smallest finger on my right hand to carry it with me through the estate and then the back double doors as I step into the open-air courtyard behind the manor.

The garden courtyard has been transformed.

Strings of golden light wind between wrought iron lamp posts and branches.

Wildflowers line the simple aisle in asymmetrical clusters, lavender, bluebells, poppies, ripped from the pages of her favorite memories.

Low music curls through the dusk air.

At the altar, draped in linen and green vines braided in silver thread, I wait.

It’s not a grand stage, not gilded or overly ornate.

Every detail is deliberate.

I scrolled through every wedding inspiration board Claire ever made, even hacking her private ones, saved every color palette and floral arrangement, every candid post she liked from a wedding blogger seven years ago.

I memorized the blues she lingered on, the candlelit courtyard settings that made her comment, the wildflower bouquets she reposted without irony.

This ceremony isn’t mine.

It’s hers.

Or as close as I could build to the one she might’ve dreamed.

The full moon is higher now, bold and watching, a solemn witness painted across the dark sky.

Shadows stretch across the yard, long and flickering.

Higher members of the pack are assembled, seated in the front.

Behind them, each pack member who matters stands witness.

Even Ronan fucking Lynch.

The sound of murmurs fades like wind through tall grass as music gently shifts.

I look up, and Claire appears at the far end of the path.

My pulse slams into my ears.

Everything and everyone else falls away.

She’s framed by lanterns and honeysuckle, moving with a poise that makes the world tighten around her like a held breath.

She is absolutely unreal.

That dress wraps over her in ways that swallow the air from my lungs.

The pale ivory glows under the moonlight.

Wildflowers stitched across the hem flirt with her steps.

Her hair is swept partially up, exposing her neck, the very place I ache to put my mark.

She doesn’t look like a glowing bride.

She looks like she’s choosing to walk to the stake and be burned with her dignity intact.

And still, she’s the most powerful thing I’ve ever seen.

I hold her eyes as she reaches the altar, ignoring the tremor in her breath, the slight stiffness in her shoulders.

She stands beside me with her jaw tight and eyes blazing, but something in her softness flickers when my fingers sift gently over hers.

She doesn’t pull away.

Words are spoken.

Rituals I’ve known since I could crawl: lineage and loyalty repeated in cadence around us.

But I barely hear them.

My vows are quiet but firm when the moment comes.

“You cannot own me, for I belong to no one but the wild and the gods. Yet while the fates will it, I give to you all that is mine to offer. My claws, my teeth, my blood, my soul. I shall serve you in your needs and defend you in every danger. I vow to stand before every threat, a shield at your back and a blade at your side. From this day forward, it shall be your name I howl into the night, and your eyes I seek each dawn.

“You will have the first bite of my meat, the first drink from my cup, the warmth of my fire, and the strength of my hunt.

What is mine will feed and shelter you.

What is yours will be honored and protected as sacred, by myself and my pack.

I vow to you my living and my dying, the fury of my rage and the depth of my mercy, both bound in your care.

“This bond is not made by man nor law, but by claw and heart, breath and bone, hallowed beneath the full moon’s eye. This is my vow to you, my mate, my equal, my home.

“Let the gods mark this promise.

Let the pack remember this oath.

Let the wild know: we are one.

”

Her lips part.

Her stare stabs me like something sacred.

Then she repeats a version, stripped and hesitant, eyes steady.

No embellishment.

Just survival cloaked in grace.

The air thickens.

The hush that descends over the pack seals something.

Our bond isn’t complete yet, not until my wolf sinks his teeth into her skin, but as she accepts the diamond eternity ring I slide onto her finger, the pack bows its head as one.

Respect, even if with gritted teeth.

Claire O’Reilly.

It lands heavier in my chest than I thought it would.

Afterwards, there’s applause.

A few men howl, a scattering of claps and exclamations beneath the vaulted sky.

Reception unfolds in controlled chaos.

Music swells in the lower level of the house.

Tables of food and whisky are devoured.

Claire and I are ushered forward, sitting at the long table reserved for us before we leave for the final part of the night.

She grips her champagne like a blade.

Across the room, Ronan stands near one of the ornate columns, his suit dark as bruised pride.

His gaze meets mine once.

He lifts his glass.

I nod once, all ice.

The wedding cake is cut.

A small round tiered thing with violets and white chocolate layers.

I didn’t pick it, but I made sure the bakery was local, one Claire once tagged on a social media story five years ago.

Her smile is reserved but sincere when I pass her a piece without asking.

Small victories.

Later, after my brief toast about pack loyalty and sacrifices and a new era rising, I lift Claire’s hand and press a kiss to her knuckles under the flicker of gold lights and a dozen eyes.

“To my wife and mate,” I say softly enough that only she hears.

“By blackmail,” she mutters back.

But she doesn’t pull her hand away.

The crowd howls as we retreat.

The primal tide of voices rises into the night as we leave the ballroom behind.

I pull her gently toward a winding path behind the manor, where the lights thin and the trees spill into sloping meadows and wild space uninterrupted.

She walks beside me, her body tight but quiet, her fingers curling ever so slightly inside mine.

“Your mother said you picked out my dress?” she finally murmurs.

“Yes?”

“You remember the cornflowers.”

I nod.

“I remember everything about you, Claire.”

“Tell me,” she says, voice low and firm, “what happened the night Seth died. Why did you abandon me when I needed you the most?”

My gut clenches.

I’ve stared death down more times than I can count and I’ve never felt terror like this.

We’re on the edge of a truth I’ve feared since the night I killed my best friend.

“Tell me what happened that night, Liam.”

She takes a single step back, putting just enough space between us that I feel it like a bruise.

“Because if you don’t?” Her voice sharpens, each word laced with heat.

“I swear, I will do everything in my power to reject your mark under this moon you think binds us so tightly. And being your wife won’t stop me from making your life hell until the day one of us dies.”

Her eyes blaze, no longer just demanding but daring me to deny her.