Chapter 5 Chapter 5: The Bitter Taste of Silver
The first time I felt the nausea, I blamed it on the silver.
It was exactly one week since the wedding—seven days of playing the part of Elena, seven days of wearing gowns that felt like cages, and seven days of sharing a suite with a man who felt more like a thunderstorm than a husband. I was sitting at the vanity in our private chambers, staring at the breakfast tray the maids had left behind.
The smell of the smoked venison, usually savory and rich, hit my nose like a physical blow. It smelled... rotten. Copper-sweet and heavy.
I barely made it to the washbasin before my stomach turned completely inside out.
I leaned over the porcelain bowl, gasping for air, my heart hammering against my ribs. My wolf-less body had always been frail, prone to colds and fatigue that my sister never suffered from, but this was different. This wasn't a sickness. It was an invasion.
A shadow fell over me, and I didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The air in the room always seemed to tighten when Fenris entered, as if the very molecules were standing at attention.
"You're pale," he said. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of the theatrical cruelty he used in front of the court. "The maids said you haven't touched your food for three mornings."
I wiped my mouth with a silk cloth, forcing myself to stand upright. My legs felt like they were made of water. "It's the palace air," I lied, my voice sounding thin. "It’s too heavy. I’m used to the open forests of Blackwood, not stone and dampness."
Fenris didn't move. He stood by the window, the morning light catching the silver of his eyes. He was dressed for the training grounds, his chest bare under a leather harness, his skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He looked like a god of war, and I felt like a crumbling ruin.
"Or perhaps it's the brand," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the jagged red mark on my neck. It had begun to scab over, a constant, stinging reminder of who I belonged to. "Silver-poisoning can affect the weak. Even a small amount of the metal in the blade can sicken a wolf-less girl for weeks."
"Then why use it?" I snapped, the nausea making me irritable. "If you knew it would sicken me, why mark me with silver instead of a bite?"
Fenris stepped toward me, his movements so silent they were unnatural for a man of his size. He reached out, his large, calloused hand cupping my jaw. He forced me to look up at him, and for a second, the predatory mask slipped.
"Because a bite is permanent, Nina," he whispered. "A bite binds souls. And I’m not sure yet if your soul is worth the tether. The silver is just a label. It tells the world you are mine, without me having to give you a piece of myself."
He let go of me, and the coldness rushed back in. "Get dressed. The North-Territory delegates arrive today. Lady Isadora will be leading them. She was Elena’s closest friend at the Academy, and she has the nose of a bloodhound. If your scent is off—if you smell like sickness instead of a Queen—she will tear you apart before I can even draw my sword."
He turned and left without another word, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of cedar and the rising bile in my throat.
Elena’s closest friend.
The words were a death sentence. Elena had spent three years at the Lunar Academy, a place I was never allowed to visit. She had shared secrets, beds, and blood-oaths with the daughters of the elite. If Isadora knew Elena, she would know the way she laughed, the way she tilted her head, and the exact shade of her vanity.
I spent the next hour in a state of controlled panic. I forced myself to eat a piece of dry bread, washing it down with bitter tea to settle my stomach. I let the maids lace me into a gown of ice-blue silk, the fabric so stiff I could barely sit. They piled my hair high, using heavy silver pins to anchor a veil that draped over my shoulders, partially obscuring the brand.
By the time I reached the Receiving Hall, the nausea had settled into a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen.
The hall was filled with the elite of the Lycan world. The air was a cacophony of scents—musk, pine, expensive oils, and the underlying pheromones of Alphas asserting their dominance. I felt like a sheep walking into a den of lions, but I kept my head high. I walked to the throne beside Fenris and sat down, my hands folded primly in my lap.
"Smile, Nina," Fenris muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the massive doors at the end of the hall. "You look like you’re waiting for the guillotine."
"I am," I whispered back.
The doors swung open.
A woman marched in, and even I had to admit she was breathtaking. Lady Isadora didn't wear silk; she wore armor-grade leather that hugged a body honed for battle. Her hair was a shock of fiery red, and her eyes were a piercing, predatory gold. She didn't bow as she approached the thrones; she merely inclined her head, her gaze locking onto Fenris with a familiarity that made my chest tighten with an unexpected spark of jealousy.
"Fenris," she said, her voice like velvet over gravel. "You look as grim as ever. I heard you married the Blackwood doll. I came to see if she had finally learned how to grow a spine."
Isadora turned her gaze to me. It wasn't a look of greeting; it was a scan. She was looking for flaws. She was looking for the lie.
"Elena," she said, her voice dripping with mock-affection. She stepped onto the dais, ignoring the guards' protests, and leaned in close to me.
I held my breath, praying my foundation covered the paleness of my skin.
"You look... different," Isadora murmured. She leaned in closer, her nostrils flaring as she took a deep, lingering sniff of the air around my neck.
I felt Fenris stiffen beside me, his hand gripping the arm of his throne until the wood creaked.
Isadora’s eyes narrowed. She didn't pull back. Instead, she leaned in until her lips were right next to my ear. "You smell like your sister's perfume," she whispered, "but underneath that... you smell like a storm. And you smell like... iron."
She pulled back, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across her face. She looked at Fenris, then back at me.
"Tell me, Elena," Isadora said loudly, her voice carrying through the silent hall. "How is the pregnancy treating you? Because you have the scent of a woman whose blood is changing."
The room went so quiet I could hear the flickering of the torches.
My heart stopped. Pregnancy? It had only been a week. It was impossible. Even for a Lycan, it was too soon to tell.
Fenris stood up, his aura exploding outward like a shockwave. "Isadora, you overstep. My wife’s health is not a matter for public gossip."
"Is it gossip, Fenris?" Isadora asked, her gold eyes gleaming with malice. "Or is it a miracle? Because the Elena I knew was barren. The healers at the Academy confirmed it. So, if this girl is carrying an heir... she either isn't Elena, or you’ve performed a feat that defies the Moon herself."
Isadora stepped back, her eyes fixed on my stomach. "Which is it, King? Is she a liar, or a goddess?"
I looked at Fenris, desperate for him to say something, to do something. But he wasn't looking at Isadora. He was looking at me.
His silver eyes were wide, fixed on my midsection with a mixture of horror and a dawning, terrifying realization. He didn't defend me. He didn't deny it. He just stared at me as if I were a ghost.
The nausea returned then, stronger than ever. But this time, it wasn't just the smell of meat or the silver in my blood. It was the realization that my body had betrayed me before I even knew the rules of the game.
I looked at the hall full of Alphas, all of them waiting for my blood. I looked at my "husband," who looked like he wanted to kill me. And then, the world began to tilt.
The last thing I felt before I hit the floor was the cold stone against my cheek, and the sound of my own wolf—the wolf that wasn't supposed to exist—letting out a low, mournful howl deep inside my soul.