Chapter 29

As the coronation date drew nearer, I found my thoughts increasingly consumed by the idea of Kieran's marking. For years, I had been vehemently opposed to the tradition—the concept of being forcibly claimed by a mate had always struck me as archaic and demeaning. I'd heard horror stories of unwilling females marked against their consent, bound forever to mates they hadn't chosen.

Yet now, when I caught Kieran looking at me across a room, his amber eyes darkening with barely restrained hunger, I found myself wondering what it would feel like. The thought of his teeth at my neck, claiming me as his, sent unexpected shivers down my spine—not of fear, but of anticipation.

These new feelings confused and frustrated me. I was too stubborn to admit, even to myself, how much my perspective had shifted. How much I was beginning to want him.

The evening after we'd discussed the restaurant plans, I found myself thinking about Mia and her mate, Damon. They had completed their bond three months ago, and the contentment that radiated from my friend was undeniable. Whenever Damon entered a room, Mia's entire being seemed to orient toward him, like a flower turning to the sun. There was an ease between them, a connection that seemed to transcend words.

Was that what awaited me and Kieran, if I allowed the marking?

These thoughts circled in my mind as I entered the living room, where Kieran was sitting on the couch reviewing documents. He looked up as I approached, a small smile touching his lips.

"Done with your restaurant planning for the day?" he asked, setting his papers aside.

I nodded, moving to sit beside him. In a moment of boldness—or perhaps recklessness—I turned sideways and draped my legs across his lap.

Kieran went very still, his eyes dropping to where my bare legs stretched across his thighs. After a heartbeat of hesitation, his hand settled on my ankle, thumb stroking lightly across the delicate bone there.

"Comfortable?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of gravel that hadn't been present moments before.

"Very," I replied, leaning back against the arm of the couch and watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

His hand began a slow, deliberate journey up my calf, fingers tracing patterns that left trails of heat in their wake. The casual touch was clearly affecting him as much as it was affecting me—his breathing had deepened, and a telltale tension had settled in his shoulders.

Feeling emboldened by his response, I shifted slightly, causing my legs to slide further into his lap. His swift intake of breath told me exactly what effect the movement had.

"Are you trying to provoke me, little wolf?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.

"Is it working?" I countered, meeting his gaze with a boldness I didn't entirely feel.

In answer, Kieran moved with supernatural speed, pulling me fully into his lap so that I straddled him, his hands gripping my hips with controlled strength.

"What do you think?" he breathed, his face inches from mine, eyes blazing with hunger.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I placed my hands on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms. Slowly, testing both his reaction and my own courage, I slid my hands up to his shoulders, then to the nape of his neck, threading my fingers through his dark hair.

A tremor ran through him at my touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment. When they opened again, they were darker, wilder—his wolf closer to the surface than I'd ever seen outside of a moment of anger.

"Lena," he growled, his voice barely human. "If you don't stop now..."

Instead of replying, I leaned forward and pressed my lips to the pulse point at his throat, feeling it race beneath my mouth. His entire body shuddered, his hands tightening reflexively on my hips as a sound that was half-groan, half-growl escaped him.

"You're playing with fire," he warned, though he made no move to push me away.

"Maybe I want to be burned," I whispered against his skin.

With another growl, Kieran captured my face between his hands and drew me toward him, his intention clear in the heat of his gaze. My eyes drifted closed in anticipation of his kiss—

"Ahem."

The sound of someone clearing their throat sent us springing apart like guilty teenagers. Kieran deposited me beside him on the couch and rose to his feet in one fluid motion, facing the doorway with a carefully neutral expression that nevertheless couldn't quite hide the flush of color high on his cheekbones.

"Father," he said, his voice remarkably steady considering our compromising position moments before. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow."

I looked toward the doorway, my own face burning with embarrassment. A distinguished-looking man stood there, his silver-streaked dark hair and familiar amber eyes immediately identifying him as Kieran's father. But contrary to the intimidating figure I'd imagined, he appeared surprisingly... gentle. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, and his mouth seemed more accustomed to smiling than scowling.

"Clearly," he replied dryly, though his eyes twinkled with amusement rather than judgment. "I finished my business in the Eastern Territories early and thought I'd come meet my future daughter-in-law."

I scrambled to my feet, mortified at the first impression I must be making. "Sir, I'm so sorry for—"

"For making my son happier than I've seen him in years?" the older man interrupted, his smile warm as he approached. "Nothing to apologize for, my dear."

"Father, this is Lena," Kieran said, his formal tone at odds with the lingering flush on his face. "Lena, this is my father, Damonander Reid, former Alpha King of the Silver Moon Pack."

I straightened my shoulders, trying to project a dignity I certainly wasn't feeling. "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

"Please, call me Damonander," he insisted, taking my offered hand between both of his. "And the honor is mine. I've waited a long time to see my son find his mate."

There was something in his eyes as he looked at me—a warmth, a genuine welcome that caught me off guard. This was not the cruel, ruthless Alpha I had imagined might be responsible for the scars that mapped Kieran's body. In fact, looking at the obvious affection between father and son, I began to doubt my assumptions about the origin of those marks.

"Lena is going to be running the old Blackstone building as a restaurant," Kieran said, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back—a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.

Damonander's eyebrows rose with interest. "A restaurateur! Excellent. This pack could use some culinary innovation." He turned back to Kieran. "I'd love to discuss the border agreements with you before dinner, if you have time."

Kieran nodded, glancing at me. "Would you mind, Lena? It shouldn't take long."

"Of course not," I assured him. "Take your time. I'll check in with Mia about the coronation details."

As they turned to leave, Damonander paused and looked back at me. "I look forward to getting to know you better, Lena. Perhaps we could have breakfast together tomorrow? I'd be happy to tell you all the embarrassing stories about Kieran's childhood that he would rather I keep to myself."

Kieran made a pained sound that drew a chuckle from his father.

"I'd like that very much," I replied, unable to help smiling at their dynamic.

Once they had departed for Kieran's office, I found myself contemplating this unexpected development. Damonander seemed nothing like the monster I had imagined might have inflicted those terrible scars on Kieran. If anything, he seemed to adore his son.

What, then, was the story behind those marks? And why did Kieran refuse to let me touch them, to speak of them?

My curiosity, always a dominant trait, now burned even stronger. Damonander might be the key to understanding the mysteries that surrounded Kieran—the shadows that sometimes darkened his eyes, the nightmares that occasionally caused him to cry out in his sleep.

Tomorrow at breakfast, I decided, I would begin to gently probe for information. If I was to be marked by Kieran, bound to him for life, I needed to understand what demons haunted him. What past traumas might have shaped the man—and the Alpha—he had become.

The thought of the marking sent another shiver through me—one that, despite my stubborn refusal to admit it aloud, had far more to do with desire than with fear.