Chapter Two – A Cage of Silk and Teeth
The sound of knocking pulled Eira from sleep.
Soft. Then sharper.
She blinked into the morning light filtering through the tall arched windows. As always, her body felt heavy—dulled by the syrupy warmth that clung to her limbs. Every morning it was the same. Before she was fully awake, Miren would press a crystal vial to her lips and murmur that it was for her beauty, for her radiance, for the sacred Luna she was to become. Eira had swallowed it dutifully for as long as she could remember, never questioning the soft bitterness or the fog that seemed to follow it. Her limbs felt heavy, her dreams sticky and tangled. The image of the man in the clearing still clung to her, even as her chamber door creaked open.
“Lady Eira,” came the familiar voice of Miren, her handmaid, “you must rise. The Alpha’s son is arriving shortly.”
Eira sat up slowly, the sheet falling from her bare shoulders. Her muscles ached from tension she didn’t remember holding. Miren bustled in with a tray of warm tea and pale fruit, her gaze carefully avoiding Eira’s disheveled state.
“The council has requested your presence for the midday procession,” she added. “You’ll walk beside Alder through the temple gardens.”
Of course she would.
Eira let Miren dress her in layers of silk and lace, her golden hair braided and threaded with pearls. Every piece of her appearance had been curated since birth. There was no room for blemishes, no space for wildness. Even her scent was masked beneath the soft perfume of wildflowers and sage.
When she stepped into the corridor, the guards bowed. Servants lowered their eyes. She didn’t belong to herself—she belonged to the image they had built of her. Luna. Blessed. Sacred.
She moved like a queen, though she felt like a prisoner.
The temple steps were already lined with pack members and elders. At the top stood Alder.
Golden. Polished. Perfect.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Eira,” he greeted, offering his arm.
She took it because she had to.
Their walk through the gardens was silent at first. The priestesses watched from the shadows of the arched walkways, their judgment palpable.
“You’ve been difficult to find lately,” Alder finally said. His tone was casual, but there was an edge beneath it. “Is everything alright?”
“I enjoy the forest,” Eira said softly.
He looked at her for a long moment. “It’s dangerous near the borders.”
There was no affection in his warning—only possession.
She said nothing.
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of pine and something older.
She exhaled slowly.
She was being paraded. Prepared. Promised.
But part of her still lingered in the trees.
And something in the trees was beginning to stir in her too.
Later, when the formalities ended and the sun began to set, Eira was escorted to one of the inner courtyards where Alder waited beneath a canopy of red-gold leaves. The space was quiet—too quiet. The air between them stretched taut.
"You looked radiant today," he said, stepping closer, brushing his fingers lightly down her arm where others might see. "They adore you. As they should."
She offered him a gracious nod, though her spine stiffened under his touch.
When no one else was near, his tone shifted.
"But you need to stop disappearing," he said, voice low and tight. "You’re not some wandering pup, Eira. You’re mine. Act like it."
He gripped her wrist—not hard enough to bruise, but with a possessive pressure that made her pulse quicken for the wrong reasons.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His eyes scanned her face, searching for rebellion. “Don’t make me remind you who you belong to.”
Then, as quickly as it came, his touch softened. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, tender for any wandering eyes.
To the world, he was the doting future Alpha.
Behind closed doors, his sweetness frayed at the edges.
And Eira began to wonder if the cage she was kept in wasn’t made of silk and pearl... but of teeth and claws.
Alder parted from her soon after, offering one last chaste smile for the priestesses watching from the colonnade. As he turned and strode down the stone path, the warmth drained from his face like it had never been there.
He didn’t return to the guest quarters reserved for visiting dignitaries. Instead, he took a narrow staircase to the east wing of the manor—where no one questioned his presence.
By the time he opened the door to the chamber at the far end, she was already waiting for him.
Clara.
The Beta’s daughter. Young, lithe, eager. She reclined on his bed with her bodice already loosened, chest rising and falling with breathless anticipation.
"You took your time," she pouted, sitting up on her knees.
Alder didn’t answer. He simply crossed the room, grabbed her by the back of the neck, and pulled her into a kiss so bruising it stole her breath. She moaned into it, clawed at his shirt, guided his hand beneath her skirts.
As he pushed her down onto the bed, she laughed breathily, arching under him.
"Did the little princess bore you again?"
He didn’t answer, but his grip tightened.
Clara’s voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
"She looks delicate, but I’ve seen rabbits with more heat. All silk and no spine."
Alder thrust harder.
"She won’t be enough for you. She never will be."
He said nothing, because deep down, he feared it might be true. But that didn’t stop him. He flipped her over roughly, forcing her face into the pillows as he drove into her with punishing pace. The bed groaned beneath them, and Clara’s cries weren’t soft—they were filthy and cruel.
“Harder,” she hissed. “Do it like you hate her.”
He did.
He grunted, hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Her laughter spilled into the sheets, sharp and venomous.
“Poor little Eira,” she sneered between moans. “So sweet. So pure. So... boring. I bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”
Alder snarled, slamming into her deeper. He wanted to shut her up, but he wanted to hear her, too. Wanted the ugliness out where no one else could see it.
“She flinches when you touch her, doesn’t she?” Clara gasped. “Doesn’t she?”
He didn’t reply.
“You need someone real. Someone who doesn’t pretend to be made of glass.”
She screamed as he came, buried deep inside her, jaw clenched, face twisted with something closer to self-disgust than satisfaction.
When it was over, he stood, wiping himself off without a word.
Clara stretched, shameless, her body on display like an open invitation.
“She’s not a Luna,” she said smugly, watching him dress. “She’s a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.”
Alder didn’t correct her.
Because part of him—an ugly, rotting part—agreed.