The Wolf King's Unwanted Luna

The mud stuck to Ivy Sorensen’s boots like a second skin. Didn’t matter how many times she scraped them against the porch or let them dry by the fire. There was always that gray-brown ring pressed deep into the seams—a reminder she couldn’t shake. She was at the bottom. Not just in the mud, but in life itself. Hollow Creek pack: bottom of the kingdom’s heap, buried at the edge of a world where the ground never quite dried out and no one really believed they’d rise above it.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through the floor, pacing like that.”

Ivy froze mid-step. Her mom stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching like she’d been waiting for Ivy to notice. She always saw right through her.

“I’m not pacing,” Ivy muttered.

“You’ve crossed this kitchen four times in the last minute.”

Busted. Ivy slumped into the chair by the window, where the light struggled in—thin, gray, not quite enough to fight the chill. Outside, the pack grounds were waking up: wolves shifting back into people after the dawn run, kids tearing after each other barefoot through frost, someone’s dog barking at shadows. Just another morning.

Except it wasn’t.

“Today’s the day,” Ivy whispered, more to herself than anyone.

Her mother’s face softened. All the edges smoothed away, replaced with the look she saved for moments when she wished she could take Ivy’s weight for herself. “It is.”

“Every unmated wolf sent to the palace by sundown.” Ivy repeated the message the courier had hollered through Hollow Creek three days back, hoping the words might feel less real if she said them out loud again. “For the King’s Binding.”

“You don’t have to act like you’re going to your own funeral.”

“I don’t have to go at all. If the Sorensen name still counts for anything.”

“It doesn’t,” her mom replied—not harsh, just stating facts, as usual. “Not to the crown. You know that.”

Of course Ivy knew. The law didn’t care about names, or rank, or how deep the mud got under your boots. If you were an unmated wolf, you showed up when the King called a Binding. It was old magic, oldest law around: the Moon Goddess’s way. When the King came of age, every unattached wolf stood before him, in case the magic picked someone unexpected.

It never did. Everyone understood how this worked. The King’s mate always came from a high pack—Ashwood, Cross, Veren—families raised for centuries to be strong enough, beautiful enough, pure enough. Girls like Ivy got counted, not chosen. They stood at the back in their one decent dress, watched the fairy-tale from a distance, and slipped out before the feast even started.

It happened five years ago, when Ivy was barely sixteen. It’d happen tonight.

“I heard the King doesn’t even want a mate,” Toby blurted as he exploded through the doorway—never quiet, never subtle. He dropped onto the bench beside Ivy and reached for the bread. Their mother smacked his hand away.

“Bram said his dad said the King’s been sour for years. Ever since—”

“Toby.” Elena’s warning was sharp.

“—ever since the lady died,” Toby finished anyway, shrugging off her glare. He was like that. “The one he was supposed to marry? Before the bond even started.”

Ivy shoved the thought away. She’d never known the woman—Celeste Something, a noble’s daughter, beautiful and dead before her wedding day, wrapped in secrets the palace never cleared up. The story had been retold so often no one remembered what was fact and what was wishful thinking anymore.

“That’s not our business,” Elena said, in that final tone that meant she’d end this conversation, whether they liked it or not.

Still, Toby had a point. Everyone had heard the same rumors—Ivy included. Damian Ashgrove, the Wolf King, had no interest in a mate. Cold as winter, crowned too young, forced into this Binding because his council demanded an heir. The kingdom needed a Luna, someone the nobles couldn’t push around.

None of that touched Ivy, though. She’d stand in the crowd tonight, feel the magic spark and pass her by, and return to Hollow Creek in the morning. Just like every wolf with nothing but a family name and dirty boots. That’s how it always went.

“Wear the blue dress,” her mother said, already digging in the battered trunk where Ivy’s best things lived. “It brings out—”

“Mom.” Ivy gave her a tired smile. “No one’s gonna be looking at me.”

“I will,” Elena replied, quiet and sure.

That did it—something in those words got under Ivy’s skin more than anything else. She looked away before her mother saw her swallow hard.

As the sun dipped behind the hills, Ivy got shoved onto the palace lawn with a mess of other unmated wolves. Everybody was packed so tight she could actually feel the girl next to her buzzing with nerves—like standing too close to a furnace. And this place? It was ridiculous: endless green lawns stretching out, the palace itself all pale stone and dark wood, banners snapping in the wind, torches flickering along a path that led right up to a massive platform. That’s where the royals would gather and decide everyone’s fate.

Ivy had never seen so much rich splendor crammed into one place. She tried not to gape, but honestly, who wouldn’t stare?

High-pack wolves claimed all the best spots. The Cross family didn’t even look real—like someone had sewn them out of moonlight and fairy tales. One girl stood out with her pale gold hair and a perfect smile so fixed it barely looked real. Everyone whispered about her, Lady Seraphina Cross. Even her name sounded delicate, like a line from a prayer. Rumor was, she was the King’s favorite. If the bond didn’t pick her, the council probably would.

Ivy craned her neck, trying to see over the wall of bodies. Back here, the platform looked almost imaginary, the royal family nothing but blurry shapes in torchlight. She caught a glimpse of dark hair, broad shoulders—the person in the center barely moved. It was like the entire Binding ceremony was something the King had to endure, not something he wanted.

People said he was cold. They said he was ruthless. And that he’d been damaged by something no one dared name.

Ivy had no idea why she couldn’t stop watching that distant figure, but she didn’t try to look away, either.

And then a horn blasted through the night, sharp and deep. Instantly, a hush spread over everyone—like the sound pressed them down.

“Wolves of the kingdom,” a voice called out—not the King, but some official close by. “Tonight, you stand before your sovereign and the Goddess who binds us. Let the old law be honored. Let the bond fall where it will.”

Before Ivy could make sense of anything, warmth started up in her chest—just a flicker at first, like an ember catching in a cold hearth. She told herself it was just nerves. Everyone always said Binding air turned weird, thick with magic nobody could explain.

But the warmth kept growing, spreading through her ribs and up her throat. Her heart started pounding so loud she could almost hear it echo. The girl beside her stopped looking at the dais and stared directly at Ivy, eyes wide as saucers.

“Something’s wrong with you,” she whispered, edging away.

No, Ivy thought frantically, trying to hang on as the warmth grew hotter, fierce—like something reaching inside her and hauling her forward. Something’s happening to me.

Suddenly, the crowd parted, wolves twisting around and staring straight at her, mouths open. She barely registered the sea of stares before her head snapped toward the dais, as if she had no choice.

That’s when she saw him: the King was already locked on her.

Even from all the way over there—in the crazy flicker of torchlight—the moment his eyes hit hers, it was like being punched in the gut. Nothing broke inside her; something shifted. Like a lock clicking when it’s finally found its key, wanted or not.

Damian Ashgrove didn’t soften. If anything, his face darkened—jaw tight, fists balled.

The horn cut through the night again, and the official’s voice echoed, pinning it all down with four words Ivy knew would follow her forever.

“The bond has chosen.”

Behind her, Lady Seraphina’s polished smile cracked.

On the dais, the Wolf King didn’t smile. Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. He just stared at Ivy—the muddy, plain girl from the bottom rung—as if she was the absolute last thing he wanted.

Ivy didn’t move either. Boots weighed down with mud, the crowd shrinking away from her like she’d vanished. Right then, she understood what she’d become: the most unwanted woman in the entire kingdom.

Nobody moved.

Time stretched, like the universe just decided to stop for a second. You could almost hear the palace grounds hold its breath — wolves everywhere stuck in place, mid-gasp, mid-whisper, hanging in disbelief. Everybody was waiting for someone, anyone, to say out loud what they’d just seen, to confirm it was real.

Ivy wanted nothing more than for it to not be.

Then finally, a voice broke through — dry, a little amused, way too loud for this particular moment. “Well, that’s definitely not who I had money on.”

That got a nervous ripple of laughter going, but another voice snapped for order and the sound died. Ivy barely noticed. Her whole body felt out of place. Her chest hurt, something strange pulling inside it, and her eyes just locked onto that dais where the King hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word, hadn’t done much of anything except stare at her like she’d ruined his night.

Maybe I did.

“Step forward.” That was the official, tall and thin in Ashgrove colors, looking like calm cost him more than he could afford. “The Goddess has chosen. Step forward and be recognized.”

Ivy’s feet didn’t want to cooperate. Back in the crowd, someone finally broke the spell — Toby, her little brother. His voice rang out, shaky, proud, scared all at once like only a ten-year-old could pull off. “That’s my sister! That’s Ivy!”

Oh, Toby. Not now—

Too late. Heads turned. Her name floated out, spreading like water through stone cracks. Ivy. Ivy Sorensen. Hollow Creek. The lowest pack in the kingdom. Her? Her?

A hand landed on her shoulder, not gentle, more like a shove. Ivy tried not to stumble as she walked through the crowd, every step feeling like jagged glass, and everybody watching already sure she didn’t belong.

The wolves up front pulled back, not exactly parting, more like recoiling, as if just being near her might be contagious.

She caught a glimpse of Lady Seraphina Cross. Porcelain skin, golden hair — the kind of person who always looks perfect. This time her court smile had vanished, replaced by something colder. A look that promised payback, not tonight, but every day after.

Ivy looked away first.

By the time she got to the base of the dais, her legs felt like they’d give out. She wasn’t sure how she’d survive a bow, much less whatever came next. The palace, up close, was another world — polished stone underfoot, torchlight throwing wild shadows across banners taller than her whole house, everything set up to remind her exactly how tiny she was.

None of it compared to the man at the top of the steps.

Damian Ashgrove was no distant silhouette anymore. He was real. So tall the space seemed to shrink around him, dressed in black and deep grey, not a hint of celebration in sight. His hair swept back, his face sharp and cold enough to hurt, even handsome if it wasn’t so icy. And his eyes — grey, maybe blue, Ivy couldn’t tell for sure — locked onto her. The look wasn’t attraction. It was accusation.

You did this to me, those eyes said, as clearly as if he’d spoken.

I didn’t choose this, Ivy wanted to say, but her voice vanished.

“Your Majesty.” That was the official again, trying to sound formal, sounding mostly strained. “The bond has chosen Ivy Sorensen of Hollow Creek pack as your intended Luna, under the law of the Binding, through the will of the Moon Goddess.”

Total silence.

Ivy peeked at the King’s face and instantly regretted it. Whatever control he had left took everything. His jaw clenched; fists at his sides tightened.

“There is no error to report,” the official added, reading from a script he probably wished didn’t exist. “The bond does not choose incorrectly. Custom dictates—”

“I know what custom dictates,” Damian said.

First time Ivy heard his voice. Low. Flat. Absolutely no warmth. This was the voice of a man used to people obeying him, not being forced to bend, not even by a Goddess.

He never looked away from her.

The next silence felt forever long, though it probably lasted a few seconds. Ivy stood there at the base of the dais, mud around her boots, her mother’s careful work on her dress. She’d never felt smaller. She waited for the King to choose what to do with her.

“She will be brought to the palace,” Damian said finally, every syllable clipped, like he was ordering troops, not accepting a mate. “The formalities will be observed.”

Formalities. Not my Luna. Not even my name.

“And the claiming ceremony, Your Majesty?” the official pressed, suddenly looking nervous. “The court will expect—”

“The court will wait,” Damian replied. “Until I’m ready to give them something worth expecting.”

He turned then, not toward Ivy, not toward the crowd, but away — straight for the palace doors. His cloak snapped behind him, a sharp sound, like a door slamming in her face. No hand offered. No glance back.

He left her standing there, bonded but unclaimed, in front of everyone.

After that, everything blurred. Servants appeared to lead her off the dais, Toby broke through and hugged her waist before someone gently pulled him back, her mother’s face in the crowd, pale and fierce, trying hard not to let fear show.

“I’ll come!” Elena called after her, over a dozen wolves clutching secrets behind raised hands. “Ivy! I’ll come to the palace, I’ll—”

“Family visitation is arranged through the appropriate channels,” said the servant guiding Ivy by the elbow. The woman had kind eyes and an apologetic mouth, as if she hated this as much as Ivy did. “This way, my lady.”

My lady. Ivy almost laughed. Almost cried. Didn’t manage either.

They took her through a side entrance into the palace — corridors dripping with opulence, like another universe. Ceilings soared up, portraits of Ashgrove kings and queens stretched on forever, the floors so shiny Ivy could see her own dazed reflection.

“You’ll have a room in the east wing tonight,” the servant told her, gentle enough. “Tomorrow, when things... settle, you’ll be moved to chambers for your new status.”

“My new status,” Ivy echoed, empty.

The servant hesitated, glancing at her, maybe feeling bad. “You’re Luna-bound, my lady. Whatever His Majesty said tonight — the bond is the bond. That makes you the future queen, even if the court isn’t ready for it.”

Even if the court isn’t ready. Ivy remembered Lady Seraphina’s cracked mask, the wolves who shrank from her, the King’s face turned to stone, refusing her name.

“And His Majesty?” Ivy asked, barely a whisper. “Is he ready?”

The woman didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

They reached thick wooden doors. The servant pushed them open. Ivy stepped into a room grander than anything she’d ever imagined — a canopy bed, fire flickering in the hearth, windows overlooking gardens that vanished into the night. It should’ve felt magical.

Instead, standing in the middle of all that beauty, still in a patched dress and boots crusted with mud, Ivy had never felt more lost.

She crossed to the window, pressed her palm against the cold glass, and stared out at a kingdom that had just named her its future queen. And a King who had looked at her like she’d wrecked everything important.

The bond has chosen, echoed the official’s voice.

But he hasn’t, Ivy thought, her breath fogging the glass. And he never will.

Somewhere out there, in some distant wing of this strange, enormous palace, Damian Ashgrove was probably thinking the exact same thing about her.

Ivy woke up hurting.

Not the kind of pain you can point at—a cut or a bruise—but something deeper, hollow and gnawing, tucked under her ribs like something important had been stolen while she slept. She just lay there, not moving, watching the unfamiliar canopy overhead and feeling the too-soft mattress beneath her. The fire in the hearth, almost out, wasn’t hers. None of it belonged to her.

And then, right on cue, her memories slammed back into focus. The ceremony. The bond. The King’s frozen, unreadable face, not even saying her name.

Of course.

The ache in her chest sharpened when she pushed herself upright. She clapped a palm to her sternum and tried to breathe. It wasn’t just grief—or not only grief. This pain was raw and physical: a constant tug low in her chest, pulling her toward something unnamed. Back home, old wolves at Hollow Creek used to talk about the mate bond like it was a sweet mystery, soul halves finally made whole. No one had warned her it would feel like being split down the middle.

A knock at the door—soft, hesitant—barely gave her time to answer before the same kind-eyed servant from last night slipped in, balancing a tray and wearing a look that said she already knew how Ivy felt.

“It gets better,” the woman promised, setting the tray on a small table. “The first day is hardest. Oh—my name’s Nadia, by the way. I’ll be looking after you while you’re here.”

While you’re here. Not while you’re Luna. Ivy caught the careful choice of words but let it go, at least for now.

“Ivy,” she said, knowing Nadia already knew. “This feeling—does everyone go through it? The bond?”

Nadia poured tea with all the focus in the world, like it was a complicated spell. “Newly bonded mates usually stay together at first. Being near each other helps. But the pain gets worse with distance. His Majesty’s rooms are clear across the palace.” A short pause. “That’s probably not an accident.”

That stung, even though Nadia kept her voice soft. He’s making sure this hurts. Or he just doesn’t care enough to stop it. Ivy wasn’t sure which would be worse.

“Is he hurting too?” Ivy surprised herself with how badly she wanted to know.

“I couldn’t say, my lady.” But something flickered in Nadia’s expression—a flash of certainty that Ivy saw, even if Nadia pretended otherwise.

Three days passed, and Ivy never saw the King.

She tried to convince herself it didn’t matter. The first day, she wandered the little part of the east wing Nadia let her see, studying grand hallways that all managed to look the same, swallowing down the urge to shrink every time a noble stared like she was dirt on pristine marble. The second day vanished into exhaustion. The ache in her chest made her restless and sleepless and hungry for nothing except maybe relief. She spent hours lying still, angry at herself for counting the minutes.

By day three, the pain shifted. Not gone, just duller—bearable, like an old sprain that aches but doesn’t scream. Ivy told herself this was progress. She was adjusting, maybe. The bond was losing its bite. Or so she tried to believe.

She was wrong.

That evening, Nadia found her curled in the window seat, staring out at gardens she still wasn’t allowed to set foot in.

“He’s been told you haven’t left these rooms since the ceremony,” Nadia said quietly, placing a tray Ivy had no plans to touch on the table. “The council...well, they’re asking questions. Hiding Luna away like this—it gets attention.”

“Questions the King really doesn’t seem eager to answer,” Ivy replied, eyes fixed on the shifting dusk.

Nadia’s reply was careful, her tone unreadable. “He’s asked to see you. Tonight. In the west study.”

Ivy’s heart stuttered—something sharp and complicated, a mess of hope and humiliation. Three days, and it still stung.

“Tell him I’m busy,” she blurted, almost before she realized it.

Nadia’s eyebrows shot straight up. “My lady—”

“I’m joking.” Mostly. “I’ll go.”

She expected cold formality, but the west study was smaller than the rest of the palace—quiet, lined with books, a real person’s room. Damian stood by the window when Ivy came in, holding a drink, shoulders tense. He didn’t turn to look at her; she hesitated just inside the door, hyper-aware of the pain in her chest finally easing. There it was—the bond, doing its work whether she liked it or not.

Not just me, then.

“You could have come sooner,” Damian said, not looking over. “The bond doesn’t care what we want.”

“I didn’t think I was invited.”

“You weren’t restricted. The east wing has gardens. A library. You haven’t touched any of it.”

She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “Sorry if I haven’t felt especially welcome, seeing as the King won’t say my name.”

That finally got him to turn.

Here, in warm firelight instead of the harsh glow of the ceremony, Damian didn’t look so much like a statue. Shadows colored his face; exhaustion pulled at his mouth. Whatever he wanted people to think, she wasn’t the only one suffering.

He said her name—“Ivy”—almost like it hurt to say it. She swallowed and didn’t look away.

“There. Satisfied?” he asked.

“Not a bit.”

If he’d been a different man, it might’ve been a smile. But it vanished as soon as it appeared. “You’re not what I expected.”

“You mean I’m not what you wanted.”

“I don’t know what I wanted.” He put the glass down too hard on the sill. “I know what I didn’t want—and that’s this. A forced bond with a stranger from a forgotten pack, right before I was supposed to announce a real alliance that actually helped the kingdom.”

A real alliance. Ivy thought of Lady Seraphina’s perfect smile cracking, and finally understood what—who—she’d replaced. “You were going to choose her. Lady Cross.”

“The council was going to choose her.” Damian shrugged, but it sounded hollow. “I was going to let them, because it made no difference to me. Anyone could stand beside me, as long as everything stayed stable and no one asked me to feel anything.”

His bluntness hit harder than an insult. “Now the Goddess says you have to feel something, like it or not.”

“No. The Goddess decided nothing,” Damian said quietly, but with a force beneath each syllable. “The bond’s not fate. It’s not magic. It’s biology—just bodies punishing us for each other’s absence. That’s all.”

“You make it sound so bleak.”

“It’s just the truth.” He studied her, eyes searching for something. “I prefer truth over comfort.”

She stared right back, refusing to break first, even as her chest softened and quieted, content just because he was close. The bond didn’t care about their opinions.

“All right,” Ivy said. “Truth, then. You don’t want me. I didn’t ask for any of this. But the bond doesn’t care, and until one of us breaks it—if that’s even possible—we’re stuck.”

Something in Damian’s face shifted—not warmth, not yet, but a careful recalculation. As if he’d expected tears or pleading, not this.

“The council expects a claiming ceremony,” he said at last. “Soon. An unclaimed Luna is a risk—wolves at the borders, nobles here in court. People sense weakness. They push.”

“And if you don’t claim me?”

“Then we see how far the kingdom can bend before it snaps.” He clenched his jaw. “I’d rather not find out.”

It wasn’t love. Wasn’t even kindness. But for the first time, Damian’s words carried a plan, not a wall. Maybe he hated this, but he wasn’t just refusing anymore.

“Guess we’d better figure out how to survive each other,” Ivy said. Careful, trying not to jinx it.

Damian didn’t smile. But he didn’t look away. And for the first time, Ivy let herself consider—really, truly—that maybe unwanted didn’t mean impossible. Maybe, for now, it only meant unfinished.

The council chamber is reeked of polished wood and old resentments. Ivy hadn’t exactly gotten an invitation—Nadia just showed up at her door that morning, dignified as ever, silk dress and a gentle lilt to her words. She told Ivy that His Majesty wanted her present at council, which—let’s be real—meant there was no saying no. So here Ivy was, standing in front of six of the kingdom’s most powerful nobles, wondering why she’d ever thought a claiming ceremony in front of the council was a smart idea.

“…a claiming ceremony can’t wait forever, Your Majesty. The border packs are already—”

“I know about the border packs, Lord Veren.” Damian’s voice interrupted, calm but sharp. He cut off the first lord with that practiced confidence of someone who’s been through these council meetings a hundred times. He sat perched at the table’s end, body tight with something unreadable. “You don’t need to quiz me on my own kingdom’s geography.”

“Maybe a reminder about the kingdom’s precedence, then?” a woman called from the table’s far end. Ivy had to look at her to figure out who was speaking. Silver in her hair, sharp eyes, and the colors of Ashgrove House—Lady Ashgrove, whose family ruled this region before Ivy was born. “A bond not claimed in good faith leaves room for challenge, Your Majesty. The rogue packs at the border are already testing us, and the families here aren’t immune to fighting, either. There’s already been trouble with Lady Cross’s family, claiming the bond was—”

“Was what?” Damian’s question froze Lady Ashgrove mid-sentence, turning her attention to Ivy for the first time, like she was just noticing she existed.

“Was illegitimate,” Lady Ashgrove finished coolly. “Some at court believe the bond wasn’t made in good faith. The girl bewitched the ceremony, or you, or—who knows—the council…”

“That’s ridiculous, Lady Ashgrove.” Damian was on his feet now, looking pale. “You all know the Goddess’s bond can’t be undone that easily.”

“I know that,” Lady Ashgrove shot back. “But the court’s never cared what I know, have they?”

Ivy felt anger flare up in her chest. She'd braced for coldness, maybe even rudeness—but this?

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Ivy blurted out before she could stop herself, “I didn’t ask for this bond any more than you did. If someone wants to accuse me of enchanting a council chamber, I’d at least like to know how a thirteen-year-old girl could outmaneuver a bunch of wolves twice her age.”

The silence that followed felt solid, heavy. Six pairs of wolf eyes locked onto her—not with malice or even shock, but something bordering on respect. Ivy realized she’d probably just earned more enemies, not that she really cared at the moment.

Damian’s eyes met hers across the table. There was something in his expression—almost a smile, though not quite.

“Lady Sorensen makes a fair point,” he said after a second. “The bond stands. Whatever rumors are floating around, they end here, or they answer to me.” He turned back to the council, voice colder than before. “We’ve discussed this. There’s nothing more to say.”

Lady Ashgrove bowed her head, just enough to show some version of agreement, though her face said she’d let the court interpret it however they wanted. “As you wish, Your Majesty. But the ceremony is still unresolved. We can’t let gossip spread about an unclaimed bond.”

“How soon is soon enough to keep both tradition and the border packs satisfied?” Damian asked.

“A fortnight,” answered an older lord—one Ivy barely recognized from prior council business. “The border packs will be watching. If we take too long, they’ll see it as weakness.”

“A fortnight,” Damian repeated, jaw clenched. “Fine.”

The council rolled on to its usual business after that—state scraps needing a vote here and there. Ivy couldn’t help noticing that nobody bothered to ask if a fortnight sounded convenient for her. She wasn’t about to waste energy complaining.

“You could have objected,” Damian said later, after everyone else had left and the sun cast long shadows across the floor. He studied her with more openness than usual, arms folded loosely, his careful mask slipping. “About the timing, or really, about any of it.”

“To what?” She arched an eyebrow. “To the two-week deadline, or to being discussed like I was a chair?”

“Either.” He watched her, waiting.

“Would it have mattered?” Ivy turned away, looking out the window into the garden she’d finally been allowed to visit yesterday—her first actual taste of freedom in a while.

“Probably not,” he said, moving to stand beside her. Somehow his presence made the knot in her chest loosen just a bit. “Most people speak up just on principle, but I like honesty more than politeness.”

“I’m not most people,” she managed a faint smile. “I’ve spent my whole life being told what to do by people with way more influence than I’ll ever have. A council talking at me isn’t much of a change.” It came out light and a little self-mocking, not accusatory, and she caught a tiny shift in Damian’s expression, almost gentle.

“I know,” he said quietly. “And for what it’s worth, the two-week limit wasn’t my choice either. I would’ve drawn it out if I could.”

“Longer to accept it, or longer to find a way out?” She looked up at him, searching.

He took a long time to answer, his silence heavy. “Honestly, I don’t know,” he admitted. It was probably the plainest thing he’d ever said to her. “I just know I don’t want you hurt by any of this, whatever the council decides. I realize the bond doesn’t give either of us much say.”

“That’s not much comfort.”

“I told you—I’d rather be honest.” There was almost a laugh somewhere under his words, like he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to smile. “Tell me about her, then.”

His words caught her off guard, and she hesitated. The look in his eyes warned her not to answer too quickly. “Not today,” he said, his fingers drumming restlessly on the windowsill. “You never asked when. You just asked if you’d ever trust me enough to talk about her.”

Damian’s hands curled tighter around the windowsill. Ivy saw the same tension he’d shown at the council table, at the end of the ceremony. “Someday,” he said simply. “Not today.”

It wasn’t a real answer, not really. But maybe it was the start of one.

Late that night, Ivy sat by the fading fire, hours after Nadia had helped her out of the council dress. She kept replaying every moment in her mind. Two weeks. The girl who’d be forced into a claiming ceremony was practically shaking just thinking about it, and the so-called woman who’d claimed the bond barely even understood what the ritual meant. It was too much, really, but Ivy had never been the type to whine about fate. The kingdom wanted her crowned Luna. The council wanted her gone. The king—well, he didn’t seem to want either, really, which almost hurt more.

She’d never felt so out of place, so boxed in. Tied to a man who hadn’t chosen her, and with no real way out.

A knock sounded. Ivy tensed, but she already knew who it’d be. Damian stood outside her door, still in his council clothes. It was clear from the set of his shoulders he’d spent a while deciding whether to come. Or maybe dreading it.

He hesitated before talking, then said, “Whatever happens in two weeks, whatever the council decides, you deserve more than being talked about like some border dispute. I know that’s not much of an apology, and I’m pretty bad at apologies to begin with.”

He looked at her for a long second, this stiff, buttoned-up king, and for a flicker of a moment Ivy thought she saw something genuine in his eyes, something that had nothing to do with the bond’s strange pull. “It’s a start,” she answered quietly.

He nodded, as though saving her response for later, and turned away. After a few steps, he looked back. “Goodnight, Ivy.”

Her name—simple, unforced, not a command. “Goodnight, Damian,” she said. This time, she was glad to be left alone with her thoughts.

"Do You know you’re doing it wrong, right?"

Ivy looked up, to cheeks warm, needle paused over a snarl of gold thread that definitely wasn’t a rose. Nadia stood in the doorway, balancing a tray of tea, her face caught somewhere between amusement and pity.

"I know," Ivy sighed, raising her mess for inspection. "In my defense, nobody in Hollow Creek cares about embroidery. We were too busy patching leaky roofs to worry about tiny flowers."

Nadia set the tea down and came over, plucking the hoop from Ivy’s hands. She moved like someone who’d fixed a lot of messes before—probably had. "You’re pulling too tight. That’s why it puckers. Loosen up. Here—watch me."

Her hands worked fast and sure, undoing Ivy’s knotty disaster in minutes. Ivy watched her, feeling something unfamiliar and warm blooming in her chest. It wasn’t because of the bond they kept talking about—that was for sure.

It had only been four days since the council meeting. Four days packed with lessons Ivy never asked for—etiquette, pack law, which titles to use for which nobles. The tutors came and went like repairmen sizing up a house with bad bones. Nadia was the only one who didn’t act nervous around Ivy, or look quietly disappointed. Ivy found herself looking forward to these afternoons together, even though she tried not to.

"How long have you worked here?" Ivy asked, half-mesmerized by Nadia’s speedy repair work.

"Six years. I’m from Ashford pack. Not exactly glamorous—mid-rank. My mother served the last Luna before she died, then I took over her spot. Started at fourteen—ran errands, tried not to annoy anyone."

"And now?"

Nadia shot her a look, one eyebrow raised. "Now I’m assigned to the girl everyone thinks bewitched their king. Guess that’s a sort of promotion."

That actually made Ivy laugh—her first real laugh since she’d arrived, and she was a little surprised by the sound of it. "I’m sorry. Sounds like a nightmare."

"It could be worse," Nadia said, eyes turning serious for a second. "I could be assigned to Lady Cross. I hear her last three handmaidens begged for transfers in less than a month."

"It’s that bad?"

Nadia shrugged. "She thinks thread should be counted a certain way, and she doesn’t forgive anybody who gets it wrong." Nadia handed the hoop back, her repairs obvious. "You apologize when you mess up. Most nobles won’t even bother with that."

Ivy flipped the hoop over, staring at the crooked little rose Nadia had rescued from the tangle. Something in her chest loosened up. "Thanks. For being nice when you didn’t have to."

"Actually, I do," Nadia replied plainly. "My job’s attending the Luna-bound, whoever she is. But if I had a choice, I’d still be kind. You’re not what they expected. I like that."

The afternoon slipped by with Nadia teaching, Ivy fumbling, both of them trading stories as they stitched. Ivy found out Nadia had a sister back in Ashford, never wanted palace life but took the job for her mother. She didn’t bother hiding her opinion about the nobles: "They’re mostly decorative, and not much else."

Ivy ended up talking more about Hollow Creek than she had since arriving—the chaos of her little brother, her mother’s stubborn pride, the never-ending mud that followed everyone home no matter what.

"You miss them," Nadia said gently.

"Every day." Ivy set her hoop aside, watching the golden light in the room fade a little. "They haven’t let me visit. They won’t even let me send a letter—Nadia, is that normal? I mean, do other Lunas get cut off like this?"

Nadia’s face clouded for a second before smoothing itself out. "Sometimes. ‘Security reasons,’ they say. They like to keep the future Luna close before the claiming ceremony, especially—" she hesitated "—especially with... well, your situation."

"You mean all the rumors about the bond?"

"Yeah. And other things." Nadia paused, thread and needle stilled. "Listen—someone ought to give you the truth. Celeste Moreau’s family got the same treatment before she died. Security everywhere, visits limited. The explanations? Pretty much exactly what you’re hearing now."

Ivy stiffened. "What happened to her? Nobody will tell me anything real—just ‘tragedy’ or ‘betrayal’ in whispers."

"I never got the whole story," Nadia said quietly. "I was young. Most details got buried. She died before the wedding. Official story was an accident—a fall. But there were always rumors. After that, the king changed. People say he used to laugh. I’ve never heard it—not once."

Ivy pictured Damian, younger and softer, before whatever happened with Celeste. She remembered the flash of humor he’d shared last night—here, then gone, like he didn’t know how to hold onto it anymore.

"Do you think it really was an accident?" Ivy asked.

Nadia didn’t answer right away. "I think you need to be careful. The court never settled what happened to Lady Celeste, or why. Now there’s a new Luna, facing all the same restrictions."

All that warmth in Ivy’s chest turned to ice. "You think I’m in danger."

"I think someone likes things exactly the way they are—a king without a claimed Luna. And I’ve already seen signs they’d rather you not survive long enough to become one." Nadia’s mouth tightened. "That rumor at council? If I had to bet, it’s just the start. Court drama doesn’t go away once it wakes up."

Ivy stared at her messy little rose, feeling suddenly like the world of embroidery was a lot smaller than the one she was in now. "I guess I better learn to defend myself—properly. Not just with a needle."

Nadia looked pleased, just for a moment. "Corwin Blackthorn runs palace security. He’s the king’s Gamma, and more useful than any noble you’ll get stuck curtsying for. Ask him for training—he won’t refuse if he knows you mean it."

"You’d help me set it up?"

"Absolutely." Nadia went back to her stitching, hands steady. "Better to have a Luna who stands her ground than one who waits for a king too lost in his grief to protect her in time."

Ivy stared. "You think he’d really do that? Burn the place down for me?"

"I think," Nadia said, her tone dry and as certain as a woman who’d seen it all, "His Majesty visited your room last night. He hasn’t done that for anyone, not in three years. Take that however you want."

A flush crept up Ivy’s neck. She kept her eyes fixed on the little uneven rose she’d stitched. Funny—the mess wasn’t nearly as distracting as the hope starting to bloom inside her, quiet and shaky, something she couldn’t quite bear to look at head-on.