Chapter 60

****Authors Note****
***First and foremost, I want to offer a heartfelt apology for my long absence. Pursuing my master’s degree demanded an incredible amount of time and energy, leaving me with very little opportunity to focus on writing. However, I’m excited to share that I officially graduated this summer!***

***Since then, I’ve been working tirelessly behind the scenes, and I’m thrilled to let you know that I’ve completed ten chapters of the story and am currently deep in the editing process. You can expect regular updates every few days, and I’m on track to finish the book very soon. Even more exciting—Book Two will begin shortly after!***

***I’ve decided to take a year off from school to work and refocus, which means I’ll have plenty of time to dedicate to writing and bringing you new content. Your patience, support, and continued interest mean the world to me. To everyone who stuck around through the hiatus—thank you. I am deeply grateful for your understanding and encouragement.***

***Stay tuned, and happy reading!***

I don’t know what scares me more.

The fact I’m acting as bait for those damn rogues… or that I will need to face the Sentinel, regardless of whether this ceremony is some charade. Either way, the outcome is the same: I fight. I bleed. I prove myself.

When I finally face Aiden and win, I’ll walk into death’s shadow and battle before they place a crown on my head. Maybe my parents always saw that moment coming. Maybe they sensed I would defeat my twin—that I had to. That I would need to stand on the battlefield and prove I’m just as capable as any man. No. Even more so.

Celeste and I slip away quietly to meet the seamstress, leaving our mates behind to help my mother with preparations for the ceremony. There’s an electric undercurrent of tension in the air, masked by the illusion of celebration. But the wolves aren’t fools. They know already heard the news.

As we walk through pack town, I feel them watching. Their eyes cling to me like thorns—some filled with awe or curiosity, others with sympathy, doubt, even disgust. Word spreads like wildfire in this town. They’ve heard I’ll be succeeding without facing Aiden. They’ve heard the rumors of rogues. They’re waiting to see if I rise… or fall.

I keep my head held high, spine straight, refusing to let those gazes carve into me. I’ve walked through fire to stand here. I’ve lost too much and clawed my way up from nothing. I won’t crumble under their judgment. Not now.

Beside me, Celeste’s jaw clenches. From the corner of my eye, I catch her scanning the wolves we pass, her stare sharp and unyielding. Her eyes narrow at anyone who dares look at me like I’m already a corpse.

“It’s fine. Just ignore them,” I murmur.

She exhales sharply through her nose. “You shouldn’t have to ignore them.”

I don’t reply. Because she’s right.

We continue on in silence until we reach a small robin’s egg blue house tucked between larger buildings. The paint is chipped in places, and the windows are crammed with bolts of fabric and finished dresses on display. A sign painted in soft script reads: Catherine’s Thread and Fabrics.

We step through the door, a delicate bell chiming above us. The warmth of the shop embraces us instantaneously—rich with the scent of linen, lavender sachets, and a faint whiff of herbal tea.

From behind a tall sketchpad, the shop’s owner peeks around, a measuring tape slung around her neck and a pencil tucked into her bun.

“My two favorite models!” Catherine beams, brushing charcoal off her fingers. “Come in, come in! I’ll be with you ladies in just a second.”

Celeste and I begin browsing the displays, admiring her handiwork. Gowns in every shade and style hang from hooks, each one a testament to her talent. Catherine has been our seamstress since my mother became Luna. She knows our tastes, our quirks—she even remembers our childhood measurements.

I have a rough idea of the dress I want. But surrounded by all this beauty, more ideas begin to swirl in my mind like wind through leaves.

“Your mother called earlier, said you’d be stopping by,” Catherine says, wiping her hands and approaching us with a kind smile. “Did you have any design ideas already, dear?”

I explain what I’m envisioning—an olive green A-line gown, floor-length with a deep V-neck, flowing sleeves, and a sweeping train. I want it to reflect who I am: strength in softness, power rooted in nature.

She listens intently, jotting quick notes with shorthand grace. Then, within minutes, she sketches a design that makes my breath catch.

“That’s it,” I whisper. “That’s exactly what I was imagining. How do you do that?”

“I’m just that good,” Catherine winks, and starts taking my measurements to ensure nothing has changed.

When she finishes, she turns to Celeste.

“And what about you, dear? She may be the Alpha, but you’ll be recognized as her Beta. You deserve a dress that reflects that.”

Celeste smiles, cheeks a little flushed. “Thank you, Catherine. Yes—I’d like that very much. I was thinking of something red, but not too bold. I don’t want to outshine her.”

Catherine whirls away and returns with a massive binder, flipping expertly to a page filled with shades of crimson, burgundy, and wine. The fabric samples spill out like rubies.

“If you’re looking for something that won’t clash, I’d recommend a deep wine red. Or maroon. Classy, dignified, and elegant. You’ll stand out—but respectfully.”

“Oh, I adore that wine red,” Celeste says, eyes glowing. “Let’s go with that.”

She describes a simpler design—off-shoulder sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, also A-line, made of soft chiffon like mine. A perfect complement.

Catherine beams and takes more notes. “Perfect. I already have bases for both of these designs in my archives, so alterations should be quick. Your mother said to put them on her account, so you can pick them up as soon as I give you a call.”

“Thank you, Catherine,” I say, meaning it deeply.

We leave the shop feeling a little lighter, comforted by the feeling of something tangible coming together amidst the chaos.

When we return to the packhouse, it’s a frenzy of motion. Omegas dart through the halls, carrying linens, platters, and decorations. The air is thick with the scents of food and the buzz of magic. The house vibrates like a living creature on the verge of something big.

We find my mother and Chione whispering near the stairwell, brows furrowed. In the next room, I hear raised voices. The alphas are arguing. No doubt about the upcoming ceremony. Politics masked as principle.

After a while, the arguing ceases. The first to emerge are Alpha Orion and Darius.

Orion spots me immediately. His gaze is sharp, glinting with disdain. Darius, on the other hand, looks at me with quiet approval—warm and proud.

My mother and Chione bristle at Orion’s presence. Their eyes track him like predators. Without needing to speak, we all begin moving—Celeste and I shadowing them closely.

“Alpha Orion,” my mother calls, voice smooth but hard. “May we have a word?”

He doesn’t stop. “I would, Luna, but I have business to attend to.”

“I must assist,” she says flatly.

He halts, turns, and raises a brow. His posture is arrogant, shoulders loose with mockery. “Fine,” he mutters. He gestures toward an open door—a nearby conference room—and we all file in.

The door clicks shut behind us.

My mother wastes no time. “What is this business, hmm? A meeting with the rebels, perhaps?” she asks in a honeyed voice.

Orion shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s drop the act. We know you’ve been working closely with them. So determined to stop my daughter from becoming Alpha that you’ve committed treason.”

She clicks her tongue in mock disappointment. “I’m sure you’re not alone. But I doubt your conspirators want to go to war with the strongest pack in the United States. Yours is powerful… but not that powerful.”

His neck flushes red. Anger—or fear. Maybe both.

“What is it you want, Luna?” he sneers, drawing out her title like an insult.

Chione growls low in her throat. The air vibrates with the threat. My mother raises a hand, silencing her.

“Careful, Orion,” she says, voice like velvet over steel. “You’re only in power because my friend Garrick—your brother—is dead. I’d hate to open an investigation into that so-called ‘accident.’ So many... holes in the story.”

His face pales. The arrogance falters.

Gotcha.

“Now, let’s discuss how you will help us handle our rogue and rebellion problem. Unless, of course, you’d like your parents and your pack to learn the truth about Garrick’s death.”

He’s sweating now, jaw clenched.

“What do you want me to do?” he finally croaks, bowing his head.

And for the next hour, we lay the trap. We give him his script. His part to play in our illusion of unity.

He’ll lure them in.

And we’ll be waiting.