Bloodmark

Seraphine's POV

The SUV's leather seat felt cold against my legs. I caught my reflection in the tinted window—twenty-one, jaw set, eyes too hard for my age. My dark auburn hair was pulled back tight, emphasizing the sharp angles of my face. Too masculine, Mom always said. Good. I needed every advantage today.

My fingers smoothed the collar of my formal jacket, adjusting the silver wolf crest at my throat. The Silverwood emblem. I'd polished it this morning until it gleamed. Everything had to be perfect. Everything had to prove I was worthy.

"Remember, Seraphine." Dad's voice cut through the silence.

Matthias Hale was fifty-two, graying at the temples, face carved from years of Alpha authority. His pale blue eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Today isn't just about negotiation. It's about proving your worth."

Worth. The word sat heavy in my chest. I'd spent my entire life trying to prove something that should've been mine by blood. Every bruise from training. Every sleepless night studying pack law. Every fucking moment trying to be enough.

"She doesn't need to prove anything," Lyralei snapped from the back seat. "Sera's a hundred times better than those meathead heirs who only know how to growl and flex!"

I caught my sister's fierce expression in the rearview mirror. Lyralei Hale had Mom's delicate features—heart-shaped face, wide green eyes, honey-blonde waves. Looked like she belonged in a ballroom, not a war council. But that gentle appearance hid steel.

At least someone believes in me.

"Lyralei." Dad's voice was sharp. "Enough."

My sister crossed her arms but stayed quiet. The tension in the car thickened.

Dad said nothing more. His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. That familiar muscle ticked in his jaw—the one that appeared whenever anyone questioned pack hierarchy. Whenever anyone suggested I could be more than an alliance tool.

The car slowed at Moonlight Valley's entrance. Through the windshield—Ravencrest warriors flanking one side of the clearing, Silverwood on the other. Everyone in formal gear, weapons visible but not drawn. Diplomatic, they called it. Tense as fuck, more like.

I counted at least twenty warriors on each side. Too many for a simple treaty signing.

Something's wrong.

I stepped out first. Autumn air bit my skin, carrying pine and something else. Anxiety masked as protocol. The warriors watched us with predator eyes. Assessing. Calculating.

There. Damien Stone stood three steps behind his father.

Twenty-four, six-foot-three of pure predator. Dark hair fell past his ears, slightly disheveled. Hard lines—strong jaw, high cheekbones, a nose broken at least once. But his eyes. Storm-gray, intense, capable of seeing right through you.

Those eyes found mine for half a second before sliding away. Cold. Distant.

Did I do something? Say something?

"Conrad." Dad's Beta materialized beside him, already scanning the perimeter.

Conrad Thorne was fifty, built like a bull, face like it had met every fist in the territory. Crooked nose, scarred eyebrow, perpetual stubble. But his brown eyes were sharp, missing nothing. His hand never left his blade.

"Too many warriors," Conrad muttered to Dad. "Both sides."

"I noticed." Dad's voice was tight. "Stay alert."

We moved toward the meeting hall. Ancient stone built into the hillside. Neutral ground, supposedly. The building had stood for centuries, hosting treaties and war councils. The walls had seen blood before.

Will they see it again today?

The walk felt too long. Too exposed. I could feel eyes on my back. Judging. Waiting.

Three years ago.

My eighteenth birthday. The day everything shattered.

"You can't be Alpha."

Dad's voice in his study. Matter-of-fact. Final. Like he was discussing the weather.

"What the fuck do you mean—"

"Female wolves don't lead packs, Seraphine. That's how it's always been."

I'd felt my world tilt. Everything I'd trained for. Everything I'd believed. Gone in one sentence.

"Then why?" I'd been shouting by then, my voice cracking. "Why make me believe I could inherit? Why push me so hard?"

He'd looked at me with pity. Worse than anger. Worse than hate.

"To make you strong enough to marry the right Alpha. To bring value through alliance."

"Value?" The word tasted like poison. "I'm fucking trading stock?"

He hadn't denied it. Just looked away. And that silence confirmed everything.

I'm not his heir. I'm his bargaining chip.

I shook off the memory as we entered the hall. The heavy doors groaned shut behind us. Dozens of candles cast dancing shadows on stone walls. The air was thick with incense and tension.

Mom and Lyralei sat in the side section. Where women always sat during important meetings. Observers, not participants. Decoration.

Evangeline Hale had perfect posture, silver-blonde hair elegantly styled. Forty-eight and still beautiful in that cold, untouchable way. She'd taught me that look—how to smile while feeling nothing. How to appear composed when you wanted to scream. She caught my eye and gave the tiniest nod.

She knows what today means.

Malachar Stone dominated the far end of the room. Mid-fifties, broad-shouldered, iron-gray hair pulled back in a warrior's knot. Weathered face, scarred. The face of someone who'd killed often and slept fine. His amber eyes missed nothing, calculating every person, every position.

His warriors were scattered throughout the seating, mixing with ours. Unity between packs, supposedly. But something felt off. The positioning was too strategic. Too deliberate.

So why does every instinct scream danger?

Damien took his position behind his father. His gaze kept drifting to me. Something flickered in his expression—regret? Guilt? Gone before I could read it. His jaw was tight, shoulders tense. His hands flexed at his sides.

What the hell is wrong with you? What do you know?

"Brothers and sisters of the North." Elder Silas's voice rang out, ancient and formal.

The old man stood at the center, bent with age, white beard reaching his chest. His milky eyes saw more than most. He'd overseen pack treaties for sixty years. Seen alliances born and broken.

"We gather under the old laws to strengthen bonds between Silverwood and Ravencrest. May the moon witness our words and bless our union."

The formal words echoed in the stone chamber. Dad stepped forward with the proposal I'd spent three months perfecting. Every clause carefully crafted. Every boundary precisely drawn. His movements were confident, practiced.

"Malachar." Dad's voice was steady, commanding. "I present terms that honor both our packs. Fair distribution, mutual protection, prosperity for all."

I held my breath. This was it. My work. My design.

Malachar studied the documents with those calculating amber eyes. Each line scanned slowly, methodically. The silence stretched. Then he smiled.

"Matthias. Your daughter's work is impressive."

He knows I designed this.

Pride flared hot in my chest. Dad glanced at me with something like approval. For one second, I was eight years old again, desperate for recognition.

Pathetic.

"The terms are acceptable." Malachar's voice was smooth as silk. "More than acceptable. Truly equitable. Your daughter has a strategic mind."

The negotiations dragged on. Hours of discussing boundaries, hunting rights, resource allocation. But Malachar agreed to almost everything. Too easily. Too smoothly. His cooperation felt rehearsed. Practiced.

The elders murmured approval. Conrad's shoulders relaxed slightly. Even Dad seemed pleased, that tension in his jaw easing.

Too easy. This is too fucking easy.

I watched Damien. His face remained stone, but I caught the tell-tale signs. Eyes darting to his father. Jaw clenching when Malachar spoke. The subtle tension in his frame.

He knows something. Something bad.

Finally, the treaty lay complete on aged parchment. Ink still wet from the scribes' careful work. The moment everyone had been waiting for. Two Alphas, one future. Peace between Silverwood and Ravencrest.

Dad signed first. His signature was bold, decisive, confident. He actually smiled—a rare expression that softened his harsh features—as he passed the quill to Malachar. "For our packs' future."

Malachar took the quill between his fingers. His large, scarred hands held it delicately. Almost reverently. He stared at the document, and something shifted in his expression. Something cold and cruel sliding across his features like a mask being removed.

The hall went silent. Not the comfortable silence of anticipation. The terrible silence before violence.

Then Malachar snapped the quill in half.

The crack echoed like a gunshot.

"I refuse." His voice was silk over steel. "The North doesn't need your treaty, Matthias. It needs new order."