37: Emma

I walked through the ballroom with Theo at my side, the weight of a hundred stares pressing against my skin like phantom hands. The air felt different now—charged with speculation, curiosity, and in some corners, unmistakable hostility. Word had spread through the gathering like wildfire: the Lycan King's mate was a werewolf. Not just any werewolf, but one who had rejected her first mate bond. The whispers followed us like trailing smoke, but Theo's steady presence beside me kept me anchored against the rising tide of political implications neither of us had fully considered when he'd declared me his mate before Benjamin.

"Your Majesty," a voice called from our left, smooth as aged whiskey. "Might I have a moment?"

A tall Lycan with silver-streaked hair approached, his midnight blue formal wear marked with the insignia of the royal council. His eyes—sharp green like cut emeralds—assessed me with undisguised curiosity before offering Theo a respectful nod.

"Minister Halloway," Theo acknowledged, his voice carrying that natural authority that seemed as much a part of him as his amber eyes. "May I present Emeline Maxwell of the Blood Moon Pack."

"Your reputation precedes you, Gamma Maxwell," the minister said, extending his hand toward me rather than bowing—a gesture of equality that wasn't lost on me. "Your pack's security protocols have become something of a benchmark in the eastern territories."

I accepted his handshake, noting the measured strength in his grip—firm without being dominant, a carefully calibrated gesture. "You're familiar with our systems?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"I make it my business to recognize excellence, regardless of its source." His smile held a hint of mischief. "The crown's security council has been studying your patrol rotation models for possible implementation in mixed-species border regions."

Theo's hand brushed against mine, so slightly it might have seemed accidental to observers, but the contact sent that now-familiar spark racing up my arm. "Minister Halloway oversees internal security," he explained. "When he's not trying to poach innovative ideas from the packs."

The minister's laugh was surprisingly genuine. "Borrowing with due credit, Your Majesty. Always with due credit."

Before I could respond, another figure materialized beside us—a female Lycan with steel-gray hair swept into an elabourate updo that seemed to defy gravity. Her eyes, a pale blue that reminded me of winter ice, fixed on me with clinical assessment.

"Minister Krea," Theo said, and something in his voice shifted subtly—a thread of caution beneath the formal greeting. "This is Emeline Maxwell."

The female Lycan inclined her head fractionally—the barest acknowledgment possible while still maintaining protocol. "So I've heard." Her gaze raked over me from head to toe. "The Minister of Education cannot help but wonder what... educational background... qualifies one for such an unexpected elevation."

The insult was so thinly veiled it was practically transparent. Artemis snarled within me, hackles raised at the dismissive tone. I felt Theo tense beside me, but before he could intervene, I met the minister's gaze directly.

"My formal education includes tactical training at the Northern Academy and diplomatic certification from the Western Alliance," I replied, keeping my voice level despite Artemis's growls. "But I've found experience to be the most thorough teacher. Managing security for one of the largest werewolf territories provides quite an extensive curriculum."

Minister Halloway coughed, poorly disguising what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Minister Krea's lips thinned to a bloodless line, her posture stiffening further.

"Indeed," she said finally. "How... resourceful."

She moved away without another word, her rigid spine broadcasting her disapproval with every step. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.

"I apologise for Minister Krea," Theo murmured, his voice pitched for my ears alone. "She represents the more... traditional faction of the council."

"You mean the faction that believes werewolves should know their place?" I asked, unable to entirely keep the edge from my voice.

His mouth curved in a rueful smile. "That would be the diplomatic phrasing, yes."

"There's a substantial difference between knowing our place and accepting the place others have designated for us," I replied, the words emerging with more heat than I'd intended.

Theo's eyes met mine, something fierce and approving flickering in their amber depths. "A distinction I hope to make abundantly clear during my reign."

Before we could continue, three more ministers approached in quick succession—each with varying degrees of genuine interest or barely concealed assessment. The Minister of Agriculture, a broad-shouldered Lycan with sun-weathered skin, asked thoughtful questions about Blood Moon's territory management. The Minister of Health inquired about pack medical practices with professional curiosity. The Minister of Commerce, a sharp-featured female with calculating eyes, seemed most interested in how our trade relationships might now benefit from my connection to the crown.

Through it all, I maintained the diplomatic poise I'd cultivated as gamma, answering questions with measured precision while watching for the political currents beneath the social niceties. What struck me most wasn't their interest in me as a person, but rather how quickly my value had shifted in their eyes—from werewolf outsider to potential royal mate, a route to the king's ear.

‘They see us differently now,’ Artemis observed, her mental voice smug despite my misgivings. ‘They have to respect us.’

‘They have to acknowledge us,’ I corrected silently. ‘Respect is something else entirely.’

Across the ballroom, I caught sight of Benjamin—his rigid posture and cold eyes fixed on us like a predator tracking wounded prey. The sight of him still triggered a visceral response, my heart rate quickening with remembered fear. But something had changed. The power he once held over me had diminished, not gone but lessened in the face of what I'd found with Theo.

As if sensing my momentary discomfort, Theo's hand found the small of my back—a gesture both protective and grounding. His touch was light, barely there, yet it anchored me in the present moment. The warmth of his palm seeped through the fabric of my dress, and Artemis leaned into the sensation with shameless pleasure.

‘Mate,’ she purred. ‘Our mate protects us.’