Chapter 1 The Arrangement

(Thalia's POV)

"You're going to marry Casimir Dragomir."

My mother's words hang in the air of our London penthouse like a death sentence. Outside, the Thames glitters in the September sunset, beautiful and indifferent to the fact that my life just ended.

"I'm sorry, what?" I set down my teacup with shaking hands, the delicate china chattering against the saucer.

"You heard me, Thalia." Mother doesn't look up from the documents she's signing, her fountain pen scratching across expensive paper. "The contracts are already drawn up. The ceremony is in six weeks."

"I'm nineteen years old. You can't just…"

"I can, and I have." Now she does look up, her ice-blue eyes meeting mine with that familiar expression of cold calculation. "The Thornewood bloodline needs this alliance. The Dragomir pack controls Eastern Europe. Together, we'll be unstoppable."

Pack. The word makes my stomach turn.

I've spent my entire life in the human world, attending human schools, making human friends. Mother said it was safer this way, that my "condition" would be easier to manage if I wasn't surrounded by others like us. Now I understand—she was keeping me isolated. Controllable.

"What if I refuse?"

"Then the Dragomir pack will consider it an insult." Mother stands, smoothing her Chanel suit with practiced elegance. "They'll retaliate. Hundreds will die in the war that follows. Is that what you want, Thalia? All those deaths on your conscience because you're too selfish to do your duty?"

The manipulation is so transparent it should be laughable. But Mother's been playing these games for decades, and she's very, very good at them.

"I don't even know him," I whisper.

"You'll meet him. Casimir is flying in from Prague to finalize the arrangements." She gathers her papers, preparing to leave for another one of her endless meetings. "I suggest you make yourself presentable. First impressions matter."

"Does he know?" The question bursts out before I can stop it. "About me? About what I am?"

Mother pauses at the door, and for just a moment, something almost like sympathy crosses her face. Almost.

"He knows you're a Thornewood. That's all that matters."

She leaves, and I'm alone with the terrible knowledge that in six weeks, I'll be shackled to a stranger for the rest of my immortal life.

I don't sleep that night. Instead, I stand at my window watching the city lights and trying to remember the last time I made a choice that was actually mine.

The answer: never.

By morning, I've made a decision. If I only have six weeks of freedom left, I'm going to use them. No more hiding in the penthouse, no more pretending I'm content with the cage Mother's built around me.

I'm going to live.

"Where are you going?" My mother's assistant, Petra, intercepts me as I head for the door in jeans and a leather jacket—neither of which Mother would approve of.

"Out."

"Your mother said…"

"I don't care what my mother said." The words feel dangerous and thrilling. "I'll be back before dinner."

I'm out the door before she can argue, taking the stairs instead of the elevator because I need to move, to burn off the restless energy coursing through my veins.

The September air is crisp and cool against my face as I hit the street. I have no destination in mind, just the desperate need to be anywhere that isn't that suffocating penthouse.

I end up in Camden Market, lost in the crowd of tourists and locals, the smell of street food and incense washing over me. For the first time in days, I can breathe.

That's when I see him.

He's standing outside a vintage record shop, arguing with someone on his phone in a language I don't recognize. Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of face that makes strangers stop and stare—sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes so dark they're almost black.

And when those eyes land on me, the world stops.

It's not attraction, though God knows he's beautiful enough to make my mouth go dry. It's something deeper, more fundamental. Like every cell in my body suddenly recognizes him, has been waiting for him, needs him with an intensity that steals my breath.

The phone drops from his hand.

We stare at each other across the crowded market, and I can see my own shock reflected in his face. He takes a step toward me, then another, moving like he's being pulled by invisible strings.

I should run. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to run.

Instead, I move toward him.

We meet in the middle of the crowd, close enough that I can smell him, sandalwood and something wild, like forests after rain. My wolf, the part of me I've learned to suppress and ignore, surges to the surface with a force that makes me gasp.

"You," he breathes, his accent thick... Russian, I realize. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know." My voice doesn't sound like my own. "I don't understand what's happening."

"You're my…" He stops, switching to English with obvious effort. "This shouldn't be possible. You're supposed to be... You're supposed to be dead."

The words hit me like ice water. "What?"

"Thalia Thornewood." He says my full name like a curse. "Daughter of Morrigan Thornewood, heir to the British packs. You are supposed to be dead."

"I'm very much alive," I say slowly, my mind racing. "Who are you?"

"Lucien." Something dangerous flashes across his face. "Lucien Voss."

The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it suggests it should. "Am I supposed to know who you are?"

"You really don't know." It's not a question. He laughs, and the sound is bitter enough to hurt. "Of course you don't. Why would Morrigan tell you the truth about anything?"

"What truth? What are you talking about?"

He steps closer, and my treacherous body responds with a rush of heat that has nothing to do with fear. "The Voss and the Dragomir have been enemies for generations. Blood feuds, territorial wars, centuries of hatred." His hand rises like he wants to touch my face, then drops. "And you, moya dusha, are engaged to marry Casimir Dragomir."

The world tilts sideways. "How do you know that?"

"Because Casimir is my cousin." His smile is sharp enough to draw blood. "And I'm supposed to kill you."

I run.

This time, my instincts win and I bolt through the crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind me, I hear him calling my name, but I don't stop, can't stop, not when my entire world just shattered into pieces I can't begin to reassemble.

Mate. That's what he is. What we are to each other. I don't need anyone to explain it, the bond between us is so obvious, so overwhelming, that denying it would be like denying gravity.

And he's supposed to kill me.

I don't stop running until I'm back at the penthouse, gasping for breath and shaking so hard I can barely stand. Petra takes one look at my face and immediately calls for my mother.

"What happened?" Mother demands the moment she sweeps into the room. "Thalia, what's wrong?"

I should tell her. Should explain about Lucien, about the impossible bond, about his threat.

But something stops me. Maybe it's the way she's already reaching for her phone, ready to mobilize her security forces. Maybe it's the memory of Lucien's face when he realized I didn't know who he was, the mixture of anger and something that looked heartbreakingly like pain.

"Nothing," I lie. "I just... ran into some photographers. They startled me."

She studies my face for a long moment, and I force myself to meet her gaze without flinching.

"The press is going to be relentless once the engagement is announced," she says finally. "You need to get used to attention."

"I know."

"Good. Casimir arrives soon. I expect you to be on your best behavior."

She leaves, and I collapse onto my bed, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle the scream building in my throat.

Soon, I meet my arranged fiancé.

Today I met my fated mate.

And he wants me dead.