Ava’s gaze flicked toward Damon.
They had a contract.
Not a love story.
Did an arrangement like theirs even warrant a ceremony?
Damon met her eyes, his expression unreadable.
“We’re planning for next summer.
The venue and coordination team are already under review.”
Ava blinked.
He was already planning it?
She’d assumed an arrangement like theirs wouldn’t include anything so… public.
So permanent.
Margaret gave a satisfied nod.
“The Royal Pack doesn’t need political marriages to secure power.
But we won’t skimp on tradition.
A proper ceremony shows respect—to the pack, and to your mate.”
She studied Ava again.
“You’re lovely, I’ll give you that.
Well-mannered, too.” Then, to Damon: “Since you chose her, treat her well.”
“I intend to,” Damon said simply.
Margaret’s lips curved into the faintest smile.
She leaned back in her chair, and the tension in the room eased with her.
“Come visit me more often, Ava.
Damon’s always buried in pack business.
I’d appreciate the company.”
“I’d be honored, Queen Mother,” Ava replied softly.
They stayed a while longer, trading polite conversation until Margaret’s energy visibly waned.
Damon rose smoothly and offered his hand to help Ava up.
“We’ll take our leave, Mother.”
Margaret waved them off, tired but content.
Ava didn’t fully exhale until they were back in the car, the pack house shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Her shoulders—locked in perfect posture for the past hour—finally dropped.
She let her head tip back against the seat and closed her eyes.
“Scared?” Damon asked, his tone lighter now that they were alone.
Ava shook her head.
“No.
The Queen Mother was… more reasonable than I expected.” A pause.
“But she clearly adores Victor.”
Damon’s jaw tightened.
Just barely.
“Victor was raised by her.
Of course she’s partial to him.” His voice cooled.
“Don’t let her comments pressure you.
Anything to do with Victor is not your burden to carry.”
“Understood.”
Ava wanted to ask more.
Why had Victor become Damon’s son?
Why did Margaret dote on him so fiercely?
What was the real story buried under all of it?
But Damon’s clipped tone made it clear the subject was closed.
So she swallowed her questions and turned to the window instead.
Back at the estate.
The butler saw the Alpha King and Luna Queen off with a respectful bow, then returned to the sitting room.
Margaret hadn’t moved from her chair.
“Queen Mother, they’ve departed.” He stepped forward to refill her tea.
“What do you make of the girl?”
“Mm.” Margaret hummed.
“What do you think of her?”
The butler chose his words with care.
“The Luna Queen carries herself with grace.
She’s… measured.”
Margaret’s expression turned complicated.
“Her bloodline isn’t ideal.
Low-ranking pack.
No political connections.” She sighed.
“But Damon agreeing to marry anyone is a miracle in itself.”
The butler smiled gently.
“If I may, Queen Mother.
Does the Royal Pack truly need a political alliance?
Under the Alpha King, we’re stronger than we’ve ever been.
Every pack on the continent would line up for a chance to bond with us.
We’ve no need of strategic marriages.”
“Exactly.” Margaret’s shoulders relaxed.
“So if Damon wants to marry someone he chose himself, I won’t stand in his way.”
The butler inclined his head.
“The Alpha King has been alone a long time.
This is a blessing.”
Margaret didn’t answer right away.
Her mind drifted back.
Years back.
To a boy of barely eighteen, newly Named as Alpha King, forced to claim another man’s son as his own.
The cold fury in Damon’s eyes that day still haunted her.
She knew she’d wronged him.
But the circumstances had left her no choice.
Victor couldn’t be acknowledged for what he truly was—so she’d had Damon take the boy in, where he’d at least have a name.
Status.
Protection.
A future.
For the sake of her dead elder son, she’d sacrificed the younger one.
The guilt had never left.
But Damon had finally moved on.
Finally agreed to take a mate.
Let him have this, she thought.
Let him choose for himself.
Just this once.
Half an hour later.
Victor arrived at the estate, arms loaded with expensive supplements and gift boxes.
He breezed through the door with his usual charm, flashing a wide grin.
“Grandma!
I came to see you.
How are you feeling?”
Margaret had been tending the orchids in the sunroom.
She looked up, and her stern expression melted into a warm smile.
“Look who finally remembered his grandmother exists.”
Victor hurried over and gently took her arm.
“I’ve been swamped with work.
Trying to make you proud, that’s all.
But I’m here now, aren’t I?”
They settled in the sitting room, and Victor set about brewing tea with practiced ease.
“Grandma… actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He hesitated, weighing each word.
“Stella and I have been engaged a while now.
We’d like to set a date.”
Margaret’s smile faded.
Victor’s stomach dropped.
“Grandma, you’ve always been in my corner.
You will be this time too.
Right?”
Margaret shook her head slowly.
“That Moore girl?
I don’t approve.”
Victor’s jaw tightened.
“Why not?
Stella’s from a good pack—”
“It’s not about her bloodline.” Margaret’s tone went firm.
“It’s about her temperament.
She’s impulsive.
Reckless.
She lets her feelings run the show.”
“Grandma—”
“I’ve watched how she behaves, Victor.
She doesn’t think before she speaks.” Her gaze hardened.
“And you want to bind yourself to that?
Make her your Luna?”
Victor’s hands curled into fists on his knees.
“I’ve already decided.
I’m marrying Stella.”
Margaret sighed and rubbed her temples.
All at once she looked older.
Wearier.
“I won’t force you,” she said quietly.
“But I won’t bless it either.
If you’re so determined—go talk to your father.
If he approves, I won’t interfere.”
Victor’s face went pale.
“Dad?”
The very thought of asking Damon for permission made his wolf recoil.
But Stella was waiting for him.
Counting on him.
“Fine,” Victor gritted out.
“I’ll talk to him.”
From his post by the door, the butler cleared his throat.
“Alpha Victor.
I’m afraid you’ve just missed the Alpha King.
He and the Luna Queen left not long ago.
Had you come a little earlier, you might have crossed paths.”
Victor froze.
His eyes dropped to the tea tray—and the third cup sitting there, still warm.
And all at once he placed the scent he’d caught the moment he walked in.
Faint.
Familiar.
Impossibly familiar.
“Luna Queen?” he repeated, slow, his mind scrambling to catch up.
“What Luna Queen?
Since when—”
Damon got married?