Today was the day of reckoning and Lauretta knew she might not survive it.
“Lauretta!” Her mother’s sharp voice cut through the small servants cottage.
Lauretta set down the half-mended shirt and rose, one hand pressed low against her abdomen.
The cramps had started before dawn—deep, grinding waves that made every step feel heavier than the last.
Her mother stood with arms crossed, eyes hard.
“Stop dragging your feet.
The ceremony starts soon.
Fix your hair and put on the better dress.
We can’t afford to look any poorer than we already are.” “Yes, Ma.” Experience had taught her that even a spark of tone was treated as attitude—the only thing her mother hated more than the mention of her late father’s name.
Her mother raked her gaze from head to toe and scowled.
“You’re pale.
Drink some water.
Don’t you dare collapse in front of everyone.
This new regime rewards even the slightest defiance with death.” A visible shudder passed through Lauretta at the reminder.
“The cramps are worse than usual,” she said quietly, moving toward the ragged rocking chair by the door.
“Just a minute—” “Get up,”Can’t you endure anything?
Why do you always have to make everything harder?” The words still stung, but for a second Lauretta thought she heard the same terror that had lived in their house since the war ended.
“Don’t keep Lennox waiting.
You know what he’s already risked for us.” Lauretta nodded and stood, muscles protesting.
She hadn’t slept properly in two nights.
The PCOS flare left her swollen and unsteady; all she wanted was to lie down and sleep.
Outside, Lennox waited with his arms folded and jaw tight.
When he saw her, the irritation in his face softened for half a breath—just long enough for her to notice—before it hardened again.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I’ve spent months kissing the new regime’s boots.
Don’t ruin it today.
Kneel, show the mark, and keep your mouth shut.
If your condition makes a scene again…” He trailed off, then added more quietly, “Just don’t.
Please.” “I won’t,” she muttered.
He noddded, walking some strides away from her, he didn’t like being seen in public closely with her.
The walk to the arena was silent and tense.
Lauretta kept her eyes on the ground, breathing through the deep, twisting pressure in her pelvis.
Other wolves their age watched her pass.
She caught the low whisper—”Poor thing, she looks even skinnier than the last time I saw her”—and swallowed it the way she had swallowed every similar remark since her father died in the final stand against Malachi Blackfur’s army three years ago.
The Grand Submission Ceremony was meant to prove she still belonged.
Every twenty-year-old wolf in the conquered Silverfang territory had to bare their wrist under the new Alpha’s gaze and show the Kneel Mark—proof they had shifted, proof they were fit to live under the conquerors’ rigid law.
Those without were beheaded, No exceptions.
Lauretta already knew this night would not go as planned.
Another brutal cramp tore through her as they reached the edge of the packed arena.
The air reeked of roasted meat and iron.
Crimson-and-gold banners of the new regime snapped overhead making lauretta shudder, her body resisted anything that had to do with blood.
On the raised platform sat Malachi Blackfur himself—tall, broad-shouldered, grey eyes sharp as blades.
She had never seen his face before.
He ruled from the distant capital.
All she knew were the stories: ruthless, powerful, unforgiving.
The man who had ordered the charge that killed her father.
One by one, wolves her age stepped forward.
Their Kneel Marks glowed soft blue under the Supreme Alpha’s gaze, forcing them into perfect submission.
Her turn came too fast.
“Next.” Lennox shot her a final look—part warning, part something that might once have been concern—and stepped back, already putting distance between them.
Lauretta forced her legs to move.
The moment she reached the center of the platform another wave of pain ripped through her lower back and belly.
Her vision blurred.
Cold sweat broke across her forehead.
A small gasp escaped before she could stop it.
“Kneel and present your wrist.” She tried.
God, she tried.
But her knees buckled hard.
Instead of a clean kneel she collapsed onto the cold stone, palms scraping, a humiliating sound slipping from her throat.
Whispers exploded around the arena.
“Can’t even kneel properly.” “What a weak wolf.” “She’s going to bring shame on her dead father.” Lennox’s face flushed deep red.
He wouldn’t look at her.
Lauretta pushed herself up on shaking arms and lifted her wrist toward the platform.
Nothing happened.
No glow.
No burning pull of submission.
Nothing.
The entire arena fell into deathly silence.
Malachi Blackfur leaned forward.
Those sharp grey eyes locked onto her face.
Recognition flashed across his features.
Lauretta’s stomach dropped.
She had seen those eyes only last night—in the shadowed corridor of the palace, when Lennox dragged her along on what he called a “simple supply run.” They had locked gazes for one terrifying second while they fled with the stolen necklace.
She had never known who he was.
Until now.
This was him.
This was Malachi Blackfur—the man her boyfriend had stolen from.
And he knew exactly who she was.