7: Theodore

I watched her fingers wrap around the stem of her wine glass, each movement delicate yet purposeful, like everything else about her. My mate. The thought still sent lightning through my veins, a current of disbelief and wonder that had been coursing through me since that moment when our eyes first locked. The Moon Goddess had finally answered prayers I'd almost stopped uttering. Two hundred years of waiting, and now she stood before me—Emeline Maxwell, with her watchful green eyes and guarded smile. My destined Queen. If only I could convince her to accept what fate had written for us.

She took a measured sip of her wine, her gaze sweeping across the ballroom as if cataloging exits and potential threats. Even in this moment of supposed relaxation, she remained the vigilant gamma. Something twisted in my chest—pride mixed with sorrow. Pride at her strength, sorrow at the circumstances that had forged it.

"Your security detail is remarkably unobtrusive," she observed, bringing her attention back to me. "I've counted fourteen guards, but they blend well. Good training."

I nodded, pleased by her assessment. "A necessary skill when one must protect without creating an atmosphere of paranoia."

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly—not quite a smile, but perhaps its distant cousin. The marble bar counter between us gleamed under chandeliers that spilled golden light across her features, softening the wariness that seemed permanently etched there. We stood at the quieter end of the bar, a small island of relative privacy in the sea of diplomatic posturing that was the summit.

"Tell me about your role as gamma," I said, selecting my words with care. "It's an unusual position for an alpha's sister."

Something flashed in her eyes—caution, perhaps—before she responded. "Blood Moon values capability over convention."

"As should we all," I replied, raising my glass slightly in salute.

She studied me for a moment, as if weighing whether my sentiment was genuine. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because her shoulders relaxed incrementally.

"I oversee security for the entire territory," she explained, her voice taking on a more confident cadence. "Training programs, patrol schedules, threat assessment, emergency response protocols."

"A substantial responsibility."

She nodded. "It suits me. I've implemented a new training system for our younger warriors that combines traditional fighting methods with modern tactical approaches."

"How so?" I asked, genuinely curious. Pack structures had always fascinated me, particularly how they evolved while maintaining their essential character.

As Emma described her training regimen, her entire demeanor transformed. Her hands moved with elegant precision as she outlined combat formations, her eyes brightened as she detailed the progress of her younger charges, and her voice carried an undercurrent of pride when she mentioned how their emergency response times had improved by thirty percent over the past year.

I found myself captivated not just by her words but by this glimpse of the woman beneath the careful exterior. Here was passion, intelligence, and dedication—qualities that would make her not just a suitable mate but an exceptional queen. If only she could see beyond the crown to the man who wore it. If only she could trust that I was nothing like the wolf who had hurt her before.

"You've gone quiet," she observed, those perceptive eyes studying my face. "Did I bore you with administrative details?"

"Quite the opposite," I assured her. "I was admiring your methodical approach. Most pack gammas focus exclusively on physical training, but you've created a comprehensive security system."

A faint blush coloured her cheeks. My wolf stirred at the sight, pleased to have caused this small sign of pleasure.

"What do you do when you're not protecting Blood Moon?" I asked. "In your down time."

She laughed then, a soft sound that seemed to surprise even her. "Sleep, mostly."

I smiled in response. "A luxury in short supply, I understand completely."

"But also..." she hesitated, as if revealing a secret. "I paint."

"Oils? Watercolours?"

"Acrylics, usually. Sometimes mixed media." She swirled her wine gently, watching the burgundy liquid cling to the glass. "Landscapes, primarily. There's a ridge at the eastern edge of our territory that overlooks three valleys. The light there at sunset..."

She trailed off, but I could see it in her expression—a momentary escape to somewhere that brought her peace.

"I'd like to see your work sometime," I said, the words emerging before I could consider their implications.

Her gaze snapped back to mine, surprise evident. "I'm not particularly good."

"That's not why I'd want to see them."

Understanding passed between us—I wanted to know her, to glimpse the world through her eyes. The truth of it hung in the air, unspoken but acknowledged. She took another sip of wine, using the moment to collect herself.

"And you?" she asked. "What does the formidable Lycan King do when he's not ruling a kingdom?"

"Sleep," I echoed her earlier response, gratified when it earned me another small smile. "But truthfully? I read. History, primarily."

"Any particular period?"

"The Migration Era fascinates me. When our kinds first established territories and governance structures." I leaned slightly closer, lowering my voice. "The historical accounts are woefully incomplete. Most official texts suggest a natural separation of species, but primary sources tell a different story."

Her eyebrow lifted. "Political revisionism? I'm shocked."

I laughed at her dry delivery. "Quite. I've been collecting oral histories from both Lycan and werewolf elders. The truth is far more nuanced than what's taught in schools."

"That sounds like dangerous research for a king," she observed, but her tone had warmed, curiosity replacing caution.

"Perhaps. But how can I lead us toward a better future if I don't understand the genuine past?"

She considered this, her head tilting slightly. "Is that why you initiated this summit? To correct historical imbalances?"

"Partially," I admitted. "Though I'd be lying if I claimed such noble motivation alone. The kingdom is stronger united than divided. Self-interest and justice sometimes align."

"Pragmatic idealism," she murmured. "Interesting combination."

"Is that approval I hear, Gamma Maxwell?"

"Let's call it cautious intrigue, Your Majesty."

I reached for the wine bottle to refill her glass, my movement quicker than I'd intended. She flinched—a small, barely perceptible tightening of her shoulders, a momentary widening of her eyes. My hand froze mid-air, my chest constricting at the evidence of her fear.

I continued the motion slowly, deliberately, pouring the wine with measured care before setting the bottle down gently. The moment stretched between us, fragile as spun glass.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, her gaze dropping to her glass. "I'm jumpy. I just..."

"Emma," I interrupted, her name a gentle command that brought her eyes back to mine. "There is no need for you to apologise. Not for this. Not ever."

Something vulnerable flickered across her face—shame, perhaps, or the ghost of old wounds still healing. I wanted to reach for her hand, to offer physical reassurance, but knew such a gesture would only make things worse. Instead, I remained still, offering only my steady gaze and unwavering presence.

"It's been years," she said, frustration edging her voice. "I should be over this by now."

"There is no timeline for healing," I replied. "And certainly no 'should' about it."

Her eyes searched mine, looking for condescension or pity, finding neither.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, the question so quiet I might have missed it if not for my enhanced hearing.

My heart ached at the uncertainty in her voice. "Your caution? No. It bothers me that someone made it necessary."

The tension in her shoulders eased slightly. I smiled, hoping to dispel the heaviness that had settled between us. "Besides, I've been told I move with intimidating purpose even in casual settings. My advisors have suggested I practice appearing more... approachable."

"Difficult for someone your height and build," she observed, a hint of her earlier warmth returning.

"A diplomatic disadvantage," I agreed solemnly. "Perhaps I should conduct all meetings seated."

That earned me a genuine smile, small but real. Victory surged through me, disproportionate to the minor achievement. My wolf preened with satisfaction at having pleased our mate, even momentarily.