Chapter 17

The Golden Daughter

Seraphine arrived at Blackfang fortress wrapped in white fur and expensive perfume like winter itself had personally decided to become insufferable.

Lyra heard her before she saw her.

Laughter echoed through the lower courtyard shortly after noon, bright and effortless in the way only deeply admired people ever sounded. Several northern soldiers turned instinctively toward the entrance hall while servants immediately began whispering among themselves.

Mirelle glanced once toward the window and sighed.

“Oh, no.”

That was never a promising reaction.

Lyra stood from the reading chair slowly.

“What happened?”

“Your sister happened.”

Wonderful.

Absolutely wonderful.

By the time Lyra reached the western entry hall, Seraphine had already transformed the entire space into an audience.

Blackfang guards carried travel trunks toward the guest wing while several nobles hovered nearby pretending not to stare openly at the beautiful southern Alpha daughter standing beneath the chandelier light smiling like she belonged there.

Which, infuriatingly, she did.

Seraphine belonged everywhere.

Her pale gold curls spilled over one shoulder beneath a white winter cloak lined with silver fox fur, and her fitted cream dress looked entirely unsuited for mountain travel in the way rich people’s clothing often did.

She spotted Lyra almost immediately.

And smiled wider.

“There she is.”

The words landed warmly enough that anyone unfamiliar with them might mistake affection for it.

Lyra knew better.

Seraphine crossed the hall gracefully, boots clicking softly against black stone.

“You look tired,” she said pleasantly once close enough. “Northern marriage already draining the life out of you?”

“Hello to you too.”

“Oh, don’t pout.” Seraphine reached up like she intended to adjust Lyra’s hair before stopping midway. “You survived. Father said you probably wouldn’t.”

The sentence slid cleanly beneath Lyra’s ribs exactly the way Seraphine intended.

Old instincts returned immediately around her sister.

Guarded posture.

Measured breathing.

The exhausting habit of preparing emotionally for impact before every conversation.

Lyra hated that part most.

How quickly childhood came back around certain people.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly.

Seraphine’s smile sharpened slightly.

“Diplomatic visit.”

Translation:

curiosity.

Or boredom.

Possibly both.

“Besides,” Seraphine continued while glancing around the fortress hall, “everyone in the south keeps talking about Blackfang lately.”

Her attention drifted briefly toward the northern banners overhead.

“And apparently your terrifying husband nearly strangled a lord over you.”

Nearby servants immediately pretended very hard not to listen.

Lyra folded her arms.

“You traveled across a mountain range for gossip?”

“I traveled because Father wanted reassurance you hadn’t embarrassed the family.”

That sounded much more believable.

Before Lyra could answer, movement near the staircase shifted the atmosphere across the hall.

Kael.

He descended the western stairwell still wearing dark military clothes from training, one glove partially tugged off between his teeth while Fenrir followed several steps behind looking spiritually exhausted already.

Kael’s attention lifted toward the entry hall automatically.

Toward Lyra.

Then stopped when he noticed Seraphine standing beside her.

Seraphine noticed the pause immediately.

Of course she did.

She noticed everything involving attention.

“Well,” she murmured softly beside Lyra, “he’s prettier than the rumors suggested.”

Lyra nearly choked on air.

Kael crossed the hall toward them steadily while Fenrir slowed slightly behind him after taking one look at Seraphine’s expression.

“Oh, this should go badly,” Fenrir muttered mostly to himself.

Seraphine stepped forward before Kael fully reached them, smile softening into something far more deliberate now.

“Alpha Draven,” she said warmly. “I’ve wanted to meet the infamous Black Wolf King for years.”

Kael stopped in front of them.

Tall.

Unreadable.

Still carrying that quiet dangerousness that made rooms unconsciously rearrange themselves around him.

“Lady Seraphine.”

His voice remained polite.

Flatly polite.

Seraphine tilted her head slightly.

“I was beginning to think the stories exaggerated you.”

“And now?”

“Oh, now I think the stories lacked imagination.”

Fenrir physically turned away to hide laughter.

Traitor.

Lyra watched Kael carefully.

Mostly because she suddenly realized something humiliating:

she wanted to know how he reacted to beautiful women flirting with him.

A terrible discovery.

Seraphine moved closer smoothly, all effortless confidence and practiced charm.

“The northern territories suit you,” she continued. “I can see why women lose common sense around warlords.”

Kael looked at her for a second.

Then toward Lyra.

Then back again.

“I wasn’t aware this was a conversation requiring my participation.”

Lyra bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to hurt.

Fenrir coughed suspiciously into his hand again.

Seraphine blinked once.

Only once.

But Lyra caught it.

The tiny fracture in composure.

Most men liked Seraphine immediately.

Many loved her eventually.

Very few ignored her.

Kael, meanwhile, looked more interested in the weather.

“You’re cruel,” Seraphine observed lightly.

“No,” Kael replied. “I’m busy.”

And then—

without another glance toward Seraphine—

he looked directly at Lyra instead.

“We’re late for the council review.”

Lyra stared at him.

“We are?”

“Yes.”

A complete lie.

A very obvious lie.

Fenrir looked moments away from collapsing against the wall laughing.

Kael extended one hand toward Lyra patiently.

Waiting.

The entire hall had gone subtly quiet around them again.

Not enough to draw attention openly.

Enough.

Lyra stepped toward him before fully thinking through the movement.

The moment her hand touched his, Kael’s fingers closed instinctively around hers.

Warm.

Steady.

Possessive in that unconscious way he seemed increasingly unable to control around her.

Seraphine watched the interaction carefully.

And for the first time since arriving—

her expression lost its certainty completely.

Because Kael wasn’t merely protecting Lyra politically anymore.

He was attached.

Kael led Lyra toward the western corridor without looking back once.

Only after they disappeared around the corner did he finally release her hand.

But not immediately.

His thumb brushed absently once across her knuckles first, like the movement happened before thought caught up to it.

“You lied,” Lyra murmured.

Kael glanced toward her.

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know if there’s a council meeting.”

“I know Fenrir will invent one before dinner.”

Fair.

For several steps, neither of them spoke again.

Then quietly:

“She used to make you nervous.”

Lyra looked up sharply.

Kael’s gaze remained forward as they walked.

“I noticed,” he said simply.

Something about being observed that closely should have unsettled her.

Instead, strangely—

it made her feel seen in a way she still hadn’t learned how to survive properly.