Chapter 181
Elena’s POV
The reception hall where Keegan’s wedding to Elara was held was obviously designed to impress the second anyone laid their eyes on it, from the gold frame floral are up front, the silk linens, and up to the crystal chandeliers with diamonds on them, bringing a bright glow around the room that mimics the glint of an ocean.
It was grand, alright.
And yet, when Deacon and I entered the venue, just one step on that shiny marble floor, the tightness of the air almost suffocated us.
While the ceremony had been a rigid formality, the reception was where the true social politics of the werewolf world came into play. The hierarchy was painfully clear.
“Prince Deacon! Princess Elena!”
The greeting to us echoed, silencing the room as heads turned our way instead of paying attention to the newlywed couple.
Deacon’s arm tightened around my waist, bringing warmth and a sense of protection.
“They’re staring,” he murmured, sounding more amused than concerned. “Like sharks scenting blood.”
“Let them stare,” I replied steadily, and joked, “We’re just here for the cake, right?”
Deacon chuckled darkly. “If it isn’t poisoned.”
We walked through the crowd, guests parting for us with even Alphas bowing our way and kicking our asses at every opportunity
they could get.
I was drowning in attention, the opposite of the scrutiny I once had.
We took our seats at the VIP table, strategically placed to the right of the head table. From here, I had a front–row view of the newlyweds.
The tension between them was vivid. Elara sat with impeccable posture, sipping her wine with mechanical precision, as if she were a robot following commands and rules. She spoke to approaching guests but rarely looked at Bryson as if he were nothing.
It’s evident that this wasn’t a wedding, but a business deal.
And Bryson… Bryson was drowning.
He was drinking heavily, his glass refilled thrice in twenty minutes. His laughter, the tone of his voice, everything sounded forced.
He looked like a man trying to play the happy groom but had forgotten his lines. And every few minutes, his gaze would drift toward our table, settling first on Deacon and then on me.
And what I saw in his eyes wasn’t just regret, but desperation.
It’s almost like he’s asking to be rescued from the sea he jumped into and had been drowning in.
“I need to speak with the Council representatives from the Southern borders,” Deacon said softly, leaning in close to kiss my cheek. “They’ve been signalling me. Will you be alright for a moment?”
I scanned the room. The guards Deacon had brought were stationed discreetly. “I’ll be fine. I might step out to the terrace for some fresh air. The smell here is giving me a headache.”
“Stay in sight of the guards,” Deacon ordered gently, his golden eyes possessive. “I won’t be long.”
As Deacon walked away, the dynamic in the room shifted. Without the Prince’s imposing presence, the energy became less
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fearful and more gossipy. I stood up, smoothing my skirts, and made my way toward the French doors leading to the terrace.
The night air was crisp, a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of the hall. I walked to the stone balustrade, looking out over the pack lands I had once thought would be my home. It was strange how small it all felt now.
“Elena.”
The voice was rough, familiar, and laced with a slur of scotch.
I didn’t jump. I had heard his footsteps the moment the glass doors clicked shut behind him. I turned slowly, resting my elbows on the stone railing.
Bryson stood there, illuminated by the pale moonlight. He had loosened his tic, and his hair was dishevelled. He looked worse than he had at the altar. His eyes were red–rimmed, and he reeked of alcohol and misery.
“Alpha Bryson,” I said, my tone cool and formal. “Shouldn’t you be inside dancing with your wife?”
He winced at the title. “Don’t call me that. Not like that. Please.”
He took a step toward me, swaying slightly. “You look… goddess, Elena, you look breathtaking. That blue… It’s the colour you wore on our first date. Do you remember?”
“I remember,” I said flatly. “I also remember you telling me I wasn’t enough. That I wasn’t Luna material.”
“I was wrong,” he blurted out, the words rushing out of him. He moved closer, invading my personal space, his desperation rolling off him. “I was so stupid, Elena. I listened to Glenda and thought it was true love, and what I needed was her.”
He gestured toward the hall. “Elara… She’s cold, like a statue. But when I look at you….” He reached out, trembling. “Seeing you today made me realise I lost everything for a handful of stars that don’t even shine.”
I felt detached as he unravelled. Before, this would have shattered me, but now it felt like watching a stranger.
“You didn’t just make a mistake, Bryson. You chose to humiliate me and cast me aside, thinking Glenda was your prize.”
“I know!” he choked out, tears in his eyes. “I hate my life, this pack, this marriage. Is there any part of you that still cares? If I end this–”
“Stop,” I cut him off, my voice sharp.
I pushed off the railing and stood to my full height.
“Bryson, look at me.”
He met my gaze, hope flickering in his eyes… a pathetic, dying flame.
“I don’t hate you,” I said, and he relaxed slightly. But I wasn’t finished. “Hate implies passion. Hate implies that you still have the power to hurt me. But you don’t.”
I took a step closer, ensuring he heard every syllable. “I feel nothing. When I look at you, I don’t see my mate. I don’t see the man I loved. I see a sad, pathetic man who broke his own heart. You are nothing to me now, Bryson. You are just a memory, and a fading one at that.”
The colour drained from his face.
“Nothing?” he whispered.
“Completely,” I confirmed. “You made your bed with your ambition and your lust. Now, you have to lie in it with Lady Elara. Do not disrespect your wife by chasing a ghost. I am not yours. I never will be again.”
Bryson looked as if I had physically struck him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He simply stared, the crushing weight of his reality finally settling on his shoulders.
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“Is he bothering you?”
The voice was lethal. Low, dark, and terrifying
Deacon stepped out of the shadows, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the space. His golden eyes were glowing, his wolf bubbling just beneath the surface. He was staring at Bryson with the intent to kill.
Bryson stumbled back, fear replacing the sorrow in his scent. “Your Highness… I–I was just paying my respects.”
“You have a strange way of showing respect,” Deacon growled, stepping to my side and wrapping a possessive arm around me. ” Cornering my mate in the dark? On your wedding day?”
“It’s fine, Deacon,” I said softly, placing a hand on his chest to ground him. I looked at Bryson one last time, my expression bored. “We were just finishing up. Alpha Bryson was just leaving to cut the cake.”
Deacon’s gaze lingered on Bryson for a long, agonising second before he turned his attention to me, his expression softening instantly. “Are you ready to go back inside? Or shall we leave? I think you’ve graced them with enough of your presence.”
“Let’s stay a little longer,” I said, turning my back on Bryson completely. “I want to see the cake–cutting ceremony. I hear Lady Elara chose the flavour.”
As Deacon led me back toward the warmth of the hall, I didn’t look back. I could feel Bryson standing there in the cold, alone in a way he had never been before.
But as we stepped back into the light and noise of the party, the unease i had felt earlier returned. The hair on my arms stood up.
Glenda was still missing.
Bryson was a broken man, handled and dismissed. But Glenda? She was a wild card. And the silence coming from her end of the playing field was deafening.
“Deacon,” I whispered, clutching his hand tighter. “Be ready.”
He squeezed my hand back. “I am.”
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
