Chapter 5

(Sanya’s POV) I wake to the feeling of being watched. My eyes fly open and I jerk upright, heart hammering—then freeze. Tyron kneels beside my bed. Not standing over me in threat. Not looming. Kneeling, with his hands positioned beneath where my feet would land if I swung them over the side of the mattress. "What—" My voice comes out strangled. "What are you doing?" His ice-blue eyes meet mine, and for the first time since I met him, there's something soft in them. Almost reverent. "Good morning, wife." His voice is quiet. Gentle, even. "I didn't mean to startle you." "You're kneeling." I state the obvious because nothing makes sense. Last night he raged like a storm. This morning he's kneeling beside my bed like... like... "My wife is a beauty blessed by the Creator," he says, and the words sound practiced. Rehearsed. "She deserves to be treated as such. Your feet shouldn't touch the cold floor." I stare at him. At this man who screamed at servants last night, who accused me of sabotage, who looked at me like I was something he owned. Now he's kneeling at my bedside like I'm something sacred. "I don't understand." "You don't need to." He extends his hands, palms up. An offering. "Just know that I will honor you as my Luna. As my wife." There's something in his eyes as he says it. Something I can't quite read. Testing? Measuring my reaction? But his hands are steady. His voice is calm. And I'm so desperate for kindness that I take what he's offering. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, letting my feet rest in his palms. His skin is warm. His touch careful, like I'm made of glass. He helps me stand, and I realize I'm still wearing the wedding dress. I fell asleep in it, too exhausted and afraid to change. "Did you sleep well?" he asks. "In your separate bed? I trust you found it comfortable, despite the... unfortunate events of last night." "It was fine," I say carefully. "Good." He releases my feet but stays close. Too close. "I've selected appropriate clothing for you. The Luna of Blood Moon Pack has a certain standard to maintain. You'll find I have excellent taste." He gestures to the closet, and I see it's been filled. Dresses, shoes, accessories—all expensive, all perfectly coordinated. All chosen by him. The message is clear: even my clothes aren't my own choice anymore. "Thank you," I say, because what else can I say? "Come." He guides me toward the bathroom. "Let me help you dress." Every instinct screams at me to refuse. But his hand on my back is gentle, not forceful. And maybe—maybe beneath the rage and control, there's someone capable of tenderness. I want to believe it. Creator help me, I want to believe this marriage can work. Because the alternative is unbearable. The dress he's chosen is beautiful. Deep emerald—to match your eyes, he says—with a modest neckline and sleeves that cover my arms. Appropriate for a Luna. Elegant without being flashy. His hands are careful as he fastens the buttons at my back. Each touch deliberate, possessive. Nothing like Aaron's touch. Aaron asked permission. Every time. Even when we'd been together for months, he'd still pause before holding my hand, check my face to make sure I wanted his kiss. Tyron doesn't ask. Just assumes. But he's gentle. That counts for something, doesn't it? My hand drifts to my necklace without thinking—the moon pendant hidden beneath the dress, resting against my skin like a secret. Tyron's fingers still. "What's that?" I freeze. "A necklace. Just jewelry." "Let me see it." His voice changes. Not quite harsh, but sharper. Edged. My hand covers it instinctively. "It's nothing. Just a cheap trinket." In the mirror, I watch his eyes narrow. For a moment, I think he's going to demand I show him. Going to rip it from my neck to see what I'm hiding. But then he steps back, that gentle mask sliding back into place. "As you wish." He smooths the fabric over my shoulders. "There. Perfect. My Luna looks every bit the part." His Luna. His wife. His possession. The words feel like chains. A knock at the door saves me from responding. "Enter," Tyron calls. A young servant girl slips in, eyes downcast, carrying a breakfast tray. She sets it on the small table by the window without a word. "Thank you," I say, because someone should acknowledge her. She glances at me, startled, then quickly away. Tyron crosses to his own room—connected to mine by a door I hadn't noticed last night. "I have pack business to attend to. Eat. My mother will send for you soon to begin your Luna duties." He disappears through the door, leaving it open. A reminder that privacy is an illusion here. The servant girl lingers, adjusting the tray with trembling hands. "Are you alright?" I ask quietly. She looks up, surprised again that I'm speaking to her. "Yes, Luna. I'm fine." "What's your name?" "Sophie, Luna." "You don't have to call me that. Sanya is fine." Her eyes widen. "I couldn't—the Alpha wouldn't—" "He's not here." She glances at the connecting door, fear written across her face. "Be careful, Luna," she whispers, so quiet I almost miss it. "Please. Be careful." "Careful of what?" She's already backing toward the door. "The Alpha is like spring weather. Warm one moment, freezing the next. And when the cold comes..." She doesn't finish. Just glances nervously at the door again, then flees. I stare at the breakfast she left. Fresh fruit, pastries, coffee. All beautifully presented. All tasteless in my mouth. The Alpha is like spring weather. I think of the rage last night. The gentleness this morning. Which one is real? Or are they both real, and that's what makes him dangerous? I force myself to eat. I'll need strength for whatever comes next.