Chapter 110
DEREK
The drumbeat stopped.
There was a moment of eerie silence, broken only by the creak of a torch swaying in the breeze.
Elena and I stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the staging area, staring at the enormous painted sign: WELCOME, LAST PLACE TEAM.
I could hear snickering from behind us. I didn’t need to turn to know that most of the Moonstone pack—and probably half the Council guests—were already gathering to witness our impending doom.
Elena turned her head slowly toward me. “I don’t like that smile on my mother’s face.”
“She looks far too pleased with herself,” I agreed.
A voice called out, crystal-clear. “Attention! May I have everyone’s eyes on our most dedicated team—the ones who didn’t let speed get in the way of deep bonding!”
Groans and laughter erupted. I glanced sideways at Elena. “We’re going to be mocked for this forever, aren’t we?”
“Oh, without question.”
The Luna appeared, regal and mischievous, flanked by two warriors holding…oh no.
Oh no.
Drums began again—this time with a sultry rhythm.
The warriors carried a large chest forward and popped the latches open.
Inside were clothes.
Costumes.
Feathers. Sequins. Sashes. Something that might have been a lyre.
“Tonight’s performance,” the Luna said, her voice almost too gleeful, “is brought to you by the losing team… who will be reenacting—in interpretive form—the sacred tale of the Moon Goddess and the First Alpha.”
There was an audible gasp. Someone choked on their drink.
Elena blinked. “She wants us to act out the Moonbinding myth?”
“Interpretively,” I echoed flatly.
“With props.”
Elena picked up a sheer lavender scarf and examined it like it had personally offended her.
A moment later, I was handed a shimmering silver tunic, a fake sword, and what I could only describe as... antlers on a circlet. The laughter from the crowd was already rolling like thunder across the field.
Aiden was near the front, howling with laughter.
“I’m going to remember this when you want a pony,” I muttered under my breath.
Elena, now barefoot and draped in a shimmering blue cape, leaned toward me. “You better commit, Derek. Because if I go out there and make a fool of myself and you just stand there looking pretty, I will throw you in the fountain.”
“Is it wrong that I kind of want to see that?”
“Get out there, Moon God.”
I’ve been humiliated before.
I’ve faced battle losses, pack scandals, even a press ambush where I had to explain—live, on camera—why I’d held a funeral for my very-much-alive fiancé.
But nothing, nothing, prepared me for interpretive theater under moonlight.
“Smile,” Elena hissed from the corner of her mouth as she handed me a silver platter wrapped in a gauzy shawl.
“I look like a moon-themed fruit basket,” I muttered.
“Commit,” she snapped. “Or I’m telling your son you cried during the Moon Pie Bake-Off.”
I sighed and raised my arms dramatically as the drums shifted tempo again, heralding the final act of our punishment: the sacred moment when the Moon Goddess bestowed shifting upon the First Alpha.
A moment the Moonstone pack usually treated with ceremonial gravitas.
Except this time, it featured me in a glitter-dusted tunic and Elena pretending to levitate a foam crescent moon while I presented her with a glow stick taped to a pinecone.
We’d gone through three “acts” already. I’d mimed being born from stardust. She'd pretended to tame a howling wolf chorus. At one point, I think I was supposed to embody a falling star, which involved a cartwheel I definitely didn’t land.
But when the crowd erupted into cheers, I realized something wild: they weren’t laughing at us. Not entirely. They were laughing with us.
Because Goddess help me, I was laughing too.
By the time we took our final bow—Elena sweeping a dramatic cape over her shoulder and me holding up the pinecone like it was Mjölnir—we were both breathless with laughter.
The crowd gave us a standing ovation.
Someone threw a flower crown at my feet.
Elena scooped it up and dropped it on my head before winking. “You’ve never looked more radiant, Alpha Derek.”
“I’m retiring,” I said. “Effective immediately.”
We stumbled off stage, Elena still giggling as she tried to pull pine needles out of my sleeve. “I think you actually found your calling.”
I gave her a look. “Please never say that again.”
“I’m just saying, interpretive storytelling? It’s a niche.”
“You’re a menace.”
She shrugged, eyes glowing. “And you’re finally fun.”
The celebration picked up again as we rejoined the main crowd, lanterns flickering high above and the scent of woodsmoke mingling with honey and rosemary from the food stalls. Guests were already drifting toward the wide firelit ring that had been cleared earlier—some sitting, some standing, all watching the center with anticipation.
The drums shifted again, this time to a pulsing, steady rhythm that echoed down into my chest.
I turned toward the sound as the Moonstone Alpha stepped into the center of the ring, his voice rising smoothly over the crowd. “It is now time for one of our oldest traditions. A moment not just of celebration, but of connection.”
The murmuring quieted.
“The Courting Circle,” he announced, “is a space of open expression. Of dance, of challenge, of invitation. And perhaps…of fate.”
All around us, wolves leaned forward.
“It is open to all who are unbonded. You may choose to dance, to spar, or simply to witness.”
A ripple of excitement went through the younger crowd, a few bolder voices whooping or clapping.
Elena reappeared at my side, fresh from cleaning up after our "performance." She had changed into a soft slate-blue wrap dress that flowed around her legs like moonlight on water, and her hair was half pulled back with silver pins that caught the firelight.
I blinked. “You changed.”
“I wasn’t going to smell like glitter and stress for the rest of the night,” she replied, then leaned in and lowered her voice. “Besides, I always liked the Courting Circle.”
“Did you participate?” I asked, honestly curious.
“No. I just liked watching.”
I tried to ignore the way that made my stomach tighten.
The first group entered the ring—a pair of younger wolves who’d clearly coordinated. One chose to dance, the other to spar. They began a playful routine that included twirling cloaks, exaggerated gestures, and a choreographed “accidental” collision that ended with them holding hands and bowing.
The crowd cooed and clapped.
After them, two women entered—cousins from the northern territory. They opted to spar, their movements clean and respectful. They tapped blades, traded grins, and each allowed the other a flourish before bowing in unison.
Another couple followed—this time both men—and their sparring was sharp and fast, their rhythm practiced. At one point, one of them faked a stumble, fell into the other’s arms, and gave a theatrical wink.
Elena smiled beside me. “Some people take the ‘courting’ part very literally.”
“Seems smart,” I said. “If you’re going to get bruised, might as well flirt at the same time.”
She arched a brow. “And what would your approach be?”
I gave her a look. “Apparently? Interpretive moon pantomime.”
She laughed again—soft and sudden, catching her off guard—and I had the wild, dangerous thought that I’d never wanted to kiss someone more in my life.
The Moonstone Alpha called out another name. A tall woman stepped into the circle and chose to dance. Her dress shimmered as she spun, her bare feet brushing the dirt like wind over sand. She danced with strength, with purpose.
I could feel the energy building.
Then a name I recognized.
“Logan Farrow.”
The circle grew quieter.
Elena stiffened slightly beside me. I caught the flicker of tension in her jaw, the tightness in her posture.
Logan stepped into the ring slowly, deliberately.
He was dressed in deep gray, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, the lines of his body sharp and honed. He moved like he was born for this arena—and maybe he was. But there was a stiffness in his spine. A restraint that felt like it might snap.
The Moonstone Alpha regarded him with polite neutrality. “Dance or spar?”
“Spar,” Logan replied without hesitation.
The Alpha nodded. “And your chosen opponent?”
Logan’s eyes swept the crowd.
They locked on me.
Dead center.
A hush fell around us, as if the whole courtyard had suddenly taken one breath and held it.
Logan raised his hand. Pointed straight at me.
“Him.”
