Chapter 3: The Bitter Dregs

The heavy wooden door of the preparation chamber clicked shut, cutting off the raucous laughter and clinking goblets of the Grand Council Hall. The sudden silence in the smaller room felt violent, thick with an anticipation that made the hairs on Eva’s arms stand on end.

Eva stood rigidly in the center of the room, her vision still clouded by the thick white lace of the bridal veil. She didn't dare lift it, even though her breath was catching in the heavy material. She could hear the rustle of silk and velvet behind her—Silas and Victoria had followed her in, their shared aura of malice settling over the small room like a suffocating blanket.

"Take off the veil, Evangeline," Silas commanded. His voice had lost the booming, theatrical warmth he had used to sway the council. Now, it was flat, cold, and entirely lethal.

With trembling hands, Eva reached up and pulled the heavy lace back over her hair. The bright torchlight of the preparation chamber stung her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to clear them.

The room was elegantly furnished, a stark contrast to her damp cellar. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing long, dancing shadows across a mahogany table. Sitting on that table was a delicate porcelain teacup, steam rising from it in slow, lazy spirals. The scent hit Eva’s nose instantly—a cloying, sickeningly sweet aroma of wild honey and dried winterberries.

It was the "blessing tea."

"You look absurd in that dress," Victoria remarked casually, gliding over to a long mirror on the wall. She smoothed down the front of her own crimson gown, admiring her reflection. "It completely swallows what little shape you have. Though I suppose that’s for the best. We wouldn't want Alpha Torin thinking the proud firstborn of Ironwood is an alluring siren. Let him think I am modest and severe. It suits the lie."

Eva didn't look at her step-sister. Her eyes were locked onto the steaming teacup. A strange, instinctual knot tightened in her stomach. For years, she had swallowed this brew without a single thought, trusting her father’s word that it was a tonic meant to keep her fragile, wolfless body from succumbing to the harsh winter sicknesses of the north. But after the revelation in the cellar, the sweet smell now made her throat tighten with pure dread.

Silas walked over to the table, his heavy hand closing around the delicate handle of the teacup. He turned to face her, his eyes dark and entirely devoid of paternal warmth.

"Drink," he said, holding the cup out toward her. "The carriage is being loaded. The journey to the neutral summit grounds will take three hours, and I want the tonic fully settled in your blood before we arrive."

Eva swallowed hard, her hands clasping tightly behind her back to hide their shaking. "Father... if Alpha Torin is an apex predator, as you say... what if the tea isn't enough? What if he smells the deception the moment I step out of the carriage?" She was stalling, desperate to keep the liquid away from her lips. "Perhaps it is safer if I don't drink it. If I smell entirely human, he might simply think I am a weak wolf, rather than sensing something synthetic."

Silas’s jaw clenched. The air in the room instantly grew heavy, the crushing weight of his Alpha pressure dropping onto Eva’s shoulders like a physical blow. Her knees buckled slightly, her breath hitching in her chest as the sheer dominance of his wolf forced her body to want to submit, to drop to the floor and beg for mercy.

"Are you questioning my strategy, girl?" Silas stepped forward, his boots heavy against the floorboards. "You will drink what I give you, just as you have your entire life. Do you think I would risk the survival of my pack on your uneducated theories? This tea keeps your scent neutral. It ensures you remain exactly what you are—docile, compliant, and completely invisible to a true Alpha’s senses."

"It’s funny, really," Victoria mused, turning away from the mirror with a cruel, satisfied smirk. "She actually thinks she has a choice. Drink up, Evangeline. It’s a gift from your loving father. You should be grateful he’s ensuring you don't get your throat ripped out within the first five minutes of meeting your new master."

Eva looked down at the pale amber liquid. Beneath the heavy cloaking scents of honey and berries, there was a faint, metallic undertone—a sharp, stinging note that smelled faintly of burnt copper and old graves. It was a scent her human nose could barely register, but every instinct in her soul was screaming at her to knock the cup out of his hand.

"I... I don't want to drink it," Eva whispered, the confession slipping from her lips before she could stop it. She took a step back, her spine hitting the cold stone wall of the chamber. "Please. It makes me feel so tired. Every time I drink it, my chest feels like it's full of lead, and I can barely hear my own thoughts. Please, Father, let me go without it just this once."

Silas’s expression transformed into something purely demonic. In a flash of terrifying, Alpha speed, he closed the distance between them. His massive hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her jaw with a bruising, agonizing grip. He slammed her head back against the stone wall, causing a sharp burst of white pain to explode behind her eyes.

"You ungrateful, pathetic little wretch," Silas hissed, his face inches from hers. His breath smelled of stale wine and violence. "You think because I put a veil on your head and a silk dress on your back that you suddenly have a voice in this pack? You are a tool. A piece of leverage. You will do exactly as you are told, or I will hand you over to the pack executioner before the sun sets."

Eva whimpered, tears of pain pricking her eyes as his fingernails dug deep into the soft flesh of her cheeks. She couldn't move; she could barely breathe.

Silas raised the teacup to her lips, tilting it aggressively. "Open your mouth," he commanded, his Alpha voice vibrating through her bones, overriding her physical ability to resist.

Her jaw forced itself open against her will. Silas poured the scalding, sweet liquid down her throat. Eva gagged, the hot fluid burning her esophagus as she was forced to swallow. It tasted wretched—sickeningly sweet, cloying, and leaving a heavy, paralyzing numbness in its wake.

He didn't stop until the cup was entirely empty, a few stray drops of the amber liquid trickling down her chin and staining the high collar of her oversized traveling dress.

Silas shoved her away, letting her collapse onto her hands and knees. Eva clutched her stomach, coughing violently as the fluid hit her empty belly. Almost instantly, a familiar, terrifying sensation began to spread through her veins. It felt like liquid ice, creeping from her chest out into her limbs, heavy and deadening. The faint, distant warmth she occasionally felt deep within her chest—a tiny, flickering ember she had always hoped might one day be her wolf—was instantly smothered, buried beneath a thick, dark layer of suffocating frost. Her senses, which had been sharp and panicked just moments before, became dull and clouded.

"There," Silas said, tossing the empty porcelain cup onto the mahogany table, where it shattered into a dozen clean pieces. He wiped his hands on his trousers as if he had just touched something filthy. "Now you are ready."

Victoria walked over, looking down at Eva’s shivering, compromised form with absolute delight. She reached down, roughly grabbing the heavy white lace veil and flipping it back over Eva’s face, plunging her back into a world of shadowed, distorted light.

"Don't smudge your face, sister," Victoria laughed, patting Eva’s veiled cheek with a mock tenderness that felt like a slap. "We have a wedding to attend. Try to look alive, even if you feel dead inside."

Silas grabbed Eva by the upper arm, dragging her callously to her feet. Her legs felt heavy, like columns of stone, the silver-root poison already doing its silent, malicious work, ensuring she would be perfectly weak, perfectly quiet, and perfectly compliant for the monsters waiting for her in the north.

"Move," Silas barked, pushing her toward the heavy wooden door. "The carriage is waiting."