The Alpha Dinner preparations

The Alpha Dinner preparations
Chapter 17

The Alpha Dinner Preparations

The mansion never felt so alive — and yet, beneath it all the chaos and commotion, something dark vibrated softly, as a heartbeat that no one wanted to be heard.

Morning to evening, the halls were filled with the clomping of footsteps, rushed whisperings, and the faint ringing of silver trays. Each of the servants completed their work with resolve, polishing, arranging, and readjusting until the area gleamed like armor ready for royalty. But there was no joy in it, no laughter, no smile. Only tension.

Because everyone is aware of what the Alpha Dinner represents.

It was not a gathering.
It was judgment day in disguise.".

The night the packs met, strength was not only measured — but in secrets.

Ronan stood beside the window of his study, morning light shining upon half his face, darkening the other. There were papers on his desk, thrown about. He had sat there for hours, staring out over the courtyard below, as servants made ready, as guards marched by, as his world tightened around him like a rope.

The Alpha Dinner.

It came every two years, a gathering of the strongest leaders, the ones who led the packs across the land. His grandparents explained to him about it proudly — calling it a tradition, a sacred show of unity. For Ronan, however, this year, it was a battlefield from which he could not turn back.

He could already sense the whispers beginning again. The kind that traveled faster than wind — of the strange girl in the mansion, the one who never ventured outside by day, the one whom a few referred to as the cursed one.

Lyra.

Her name was rarely spoken, but her shadow followed him wherever he went.

That was done by Ronan's grandmother.

Since the days of conflict, she had not uttered a word to him directly. But in silence, she was more venomous than any word. She strode through the corridors deliberately, speaking to the head servants, the decorators, the advisors — her every step intertwinng control into her age-wrinkled but unyielding hands.

She was plotting.
And Ronan knew it.

He saw the signs — the subtle signals to the servants, the hovering by dining room doors, the lowering of brows with the elders who came to "assist." The Alpha Dinner was not just a lavish night out. It was a trap, waiting to happen.

And he had a pretty good idea who the bait was.

He sat back in his chair, exhaling slowly. His knuckles raked the edge of the desk — and he had realized he'd been holding on so hard his skin had gone white.

He couldn't let them see her.
He couldn't let them touch her.

For how long, though, could he continue to keep it all a secret that everyone assumed already?

There were too many eyes now, too many whispers. The lie he'd fabricated — that Lyra was merely a servant — had started to break under the weight of interest and gossip. Every time he walked through the hallways, he heard the whispers.

"They say she's a witch."
"Cursed blood. That's why the Alpha won't let her go."
"He's bewitched — can't you see it in his eyes?"

Each word was a knife he couldn't suppress.

The lie had been to protect her, and now it killed both of them.

He spun harshly around towards the door as a soft tap came.

It was his grandmother.

She entered without permission — as she always did — her step slow and confident.

"The staff are behind schedule," she said bluntly, eyes sweeping the room before settling on him. "And the council is counting on you to make a good impression this year. Don't shame this family."

Ronan said nothing.

Her mouth compressed. "Have you chosen your dinner guest?"

His face darkened. "There will be no guest."

A flare of irritation passed over her face. "Not the way this is done, Ronan. Alphas all arrive with someone in tow — a Luna, a mate, or at least one of his people. Arrive alone, and they will think you are unstable. Weak."

He gazed at her, his tone low but unyielding. "Then let them."

Her smile was a knife. "You confuse strength with arrogance. They will devour you if you enter that hall alone." 

He understood what she meant. She didn't want him to stand in Lyra's place. She wanted him to pick someone else — anyone else — to do what Lyra never had the chance.

And maybe, at the bottom of it, she was correct.

He couldn't protect Lyra if she was known. As soon as one of the elders overheard her name, her family, or her curse… it would be over.

His silence was sufficient, however, for his grandmother.

She breathed out — not in despair, but in calculation. "Very well. But remember, appearances determine respect. And respect determines survival."

As she turned to leave, her eyes lingered on the pieces of paper scattered on his desk. "You can't keep hiding, Ronan. Secrets rot faster than dead bodies in this house."

The door creaked shut softly.

Her words struck home.

He stayed there long after she had vanished, gazing out the window again. The courtyard below was idyllic — gorgeous, gleaming, peaceful — but to him it looked like a set being built for a storm.

He had no concept of how long he could keep this balance — protecting Lyra at the expense of lying to everyone who had ever been familiar with him. Every choice seemed to lead them deeper into something that simply could not have a positive end.

The sun was low when the manor grew more subdued, but there was an underlying tension hanging like smoke. The servants moved more slowly now, protected under the elders' scrutiny.

Ronan dismissed them early, requiring a few minutes of solitude. He poured a glass of black wine and sat in front of the fire, letting it mist the edges of his mind.

He thought of Lyra.
Her still courage. Her look at him — questioning, afraid, but still so vitally alive.

He thought about her words to him, that evening, echoing in his mind like a curse:

> “If you’re going to lie about me… stop pretending to care.”

He closed his eyes.

He didn’t know what hurt more — the truth in her voice or the pain in her silence.

But he did care. That was the problem. Caring for her was the one thing that could destroy them both.

Hours passed. The fire burned low.

And then came the knock.

It was late — too late for anyone to be phoning. The sound was quiet but deliberate, ringing once in the silence of the study.

Ronan came upright, scowling. He crossed to the door and flung it open.

There was nobody there.

But a letter.

A single envelope, heavy paper sealed with deep red wax — and the unmistakable mark impressed upon it: a serpent coiled around a crescent moon.

Kade's mark.

Ronan's chest tightened. He hadn't laid eyes on that sigil in years.

He did it slowly, taking the letter and opening the seal. The wax cracked sharply under his thumb. The letter inside was short — one sentence in neat, careful script.

> "If you can't keep her safe… I will."

The words burned through him like fire.

The parchment trembled ever so slightly in his hand as he reread them.

Kade.

He was here.

And he knew Lyra.

Ronan's gaze swept to the window, where the moon hung high and pale and vigilant. He did not move, did not breathe, for a space of time.

The mansion was still — but the danger had been there all along.

And Ronan realized that dinner could be more than an Alphas' meet.

It could be war's beginning.