52: Emma

My hand trembled in Theo's grip as we approached the dining room entrance. The noise from inside—clinking cutlery, murmured conversations, occasional laughter—faded to a distant hum beneath the thundering of my own heartbeat. Two days. It had been only two days since I'd met this man, this Lycan King who now claimed me as his mate, and here I stood, about to face a room full of people who would call me their Queen. I felt Theo's thumb trace a gentle circle against my skin, and through our newly formed bond, I sensed Aeson—his inner Lycan—stirring with protective instinct.

"Ready?" Theo whispered, his breath warm against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and we stepped through the grand archway into The Golden Compass's main dining hall. The room was bathed in morning light streaming through tall crystal windows, illuminating the white marble floors with their inlaid golden compass patterns. The effect was mesmerizing—light dancing across surfaces like sunlight on disturbed water.

Then I noticed the silence.

The conversations had died, the cutlery stilled mid-air. Every eye in the room—Lycan and werewolf alike—turned toward us. And then, as if choreographed, heads bowed in a wave of deference that swept across the room. My breath caught in my throat. This wasn't for me; this was for Theo, their King. But when the first voice spoke—

"My King. My Queen."—I realized with a jolt that they meant me too.

A werewolf woman nearest to us straightened from her bow, her eyes—warm amber—meeting mine with something like wonder before she returned to her breakfast. Others followed suit, the room gradually resuming its morning rhythm, though now punctuated with quiet acknowledgments as we passed.

"My King."

"Your Majesties."

"My Queen."

That last one, directed solely at me by a young Lycan with reverent eyes, made my stomach tighten. The title felt too large, a coat several sizes too big that I was pretending fit perfectly.

"You've got this, my Queen," Theo leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His voice was low, meant only for me, yet carried the weight of absolute certainty.

I turned to him, studying the face I was still learning—the sharp angles of his jaw, the subtle flecks of gold in his amber eyes, the way the corners of his mouth lifted slightly higher on the left when he smiled. I pressed a kiss to his cheek, a small gesture that felt both enormously public and intensely private.

His eyes flashed—pupils expanding and contracting rapidly—as Aeson pushed forward, clearly delighted by this small display of affection. I caught several smirks and soft smiles around us, the rigid formality in the room warming at the sight of their normally composed King so visibly affected by his mate.

"I think Aeson approves," I murmured, feeling a blush heat my cheeks.

"Aeson is making it very difficult to maintain royal dignity," Theo replied with mock severity, though his hand at the small of my back pressed more firmly, possessively.

We approached the buffet table, a magnificent spread of foods laid out on silver platters along a marble counter that ran the length of one wall. Cold cuts arranged in delicate spirals; cheeses in various shapes and colours; fresh-baked bread still steaming slightly, the yeasty scent making my mouth water despite my nerves.

A line had formed, several werewolves and Lycans waiting their turn, but they immediately parted at our approach, creating a path to the front.

"Please," I said, gesturing for them to continue, "you were here first. We'll wait our turn."

The surprise that rippled through the onlookers was palpable. A middle-aged werewolf man at the front of the line blinked rapidly, clearly conflicted.

"My Queen, it's our honour to—"

"And it's my pleasure to wait," I interrupted gently. "You have as much right to this food as we do."

Theo's hand squeezed mine, and through our bond, I felt a surge of pride that wasn't entirely my own. He leaned down, lips brushing my forehead in a gesture that felt like approval.

"As you wish," the werewolf finally said, turning back to fill his plate with visible uncertainty.

We waited our turn, the minutes passing in a strange bubble of formality mixed with whispered conversations around us. I felt eyes on me constantly—some curious, some assessing, some warm with approval. By the time we reached the front of the line, my shoulders had unknotted slightly, the simple act of standing in queue somehow grounding me in normalcy despite everything.