Forbidden Mate

Chapter 3

Last night, after Lord Leon had called his daughter from the garden, he stood waiting in the doorway of her chambers with an expression she knew too well. Disappointment wrapped in concern.

"I saw you," he'd said quietly. "With the wolf. Alone in the garden."

Her throat had gone dry. "Father, we were only talking—"

"Only talking." He'd stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Cordelia, I have tried to be patient. I have tried to trust your judgment. But I will not watch you walk the same path that destroyed your mother."

The accusation had landed like a blow. "That's not fair…"

"Promise me." His voice had cracked with something raw and desperate. "Promise me you will stay away from them. Especially from him."

So she had. What else could she do when her father looked at her with such fear and expectations?

Now, standing in the eastern loggia with a ledger spread before her, Cordelia felt the weight of that oath like chains around her chest.

The steward droned on about grain stores and winter provisions, but her mind was elsewhere. Replaying forest-green eyes and a gentle voice soothing her.

She sensed Dante's presence before she saw him. Her pulse jumped traitorously, and she kept her eyes fixed on the ledger's neat columns as if they held the secrets of the universe.

"Lady Cordelia," he said, stopping at a proper distance. "The east ridge is clear. There's a small rise above the orchards where you can see the whole valley. If you wish a walk, I—"

"No." It came out firmer than she meant. She softened it then. "Thank you, Alpha Dante, but I must decline."

Something flickered across his face—understanding mixed with disappointment. Daniel, who'd been hovering nearby, suddenly discovered an urgent errand in the stables and made himself scarce.

Dante inclined his head with perfect courtesy. "Another time, perhaps."

"I don't think there will be another time," she said quietly. "My father has… expectations."

"I understand expectations." His mouth gentled into something that might have been a smile if it wasn't so sad. "More than you know."

He didn't press, didn't argue, didn't try to convince her otherwise. Somehow, that made her chest feel tighter, made breathing harder.

When he left, she returned to her figures and worked until the columns stopped blurring together.

All day, she played a careful game of avoidance. She chose corridors he'd just vacated, entered courtyards one beat after his footfalls faded.

Yet each time his presence brushed the edge of a room, her heart miscounted its rhythm and had to start again.

She told herself this was for the best. That distance would cool whatever strange fever had taken hold of her. That eventually, she'd stop listening for his voice in every conversation. Stop searching for dark hair and golden skin in every crowd.

By evening, the great hall hummed with activity and her chambers offered blessed quiet. Cordelia crossed the threshold, already reaching for the pins in her hair, when her slipper touched something on the floor.

A slip of cream parchment, folded once.

Her heart knew before her mind caught up. She picked it up with trembling fingers and unfolded it to reveal two neat lines in a strong, masculine hand:

'I will wait anyway. Where only the moon and stars have seen us.'

No signature. None needed.

Cordelia stood frozen. The note clutched in her hand, feeling like the world had just tilted sideways.

She should burn it. Should forget she ever saw it. Should keep the promise she'd made to her father.

Instead, she shut the door and leaned against it, pressing the parchment into her palm until its edge left a mark on her skin.

The argument raged inside her. She'd made a promise. She was betraying her father's trust. This was dangerous and foolish and wrong.

But another voice whispered softer truths—that she'd never felt so alive as she had in that garden. That Dante had looked at her like she was something precious. That maybe, just maybe, some things were worth the risk.

Finally, the internal battle thinned to a single thread of logic: if she went, she might name this feeling and loosen its hold. If she stayed, it would grow teeth and devour her from the inside.

So she moved. Boots beneath the nightgown's hem, cloak over her shoulders, latch lifted.

The garden heard and hushed. She followed familiar stones to the orchard and beyond, toward the clearing with the pond. He was already there, a dark silhouette against pale moonlight.

Dante didn't move when she stepped into the clearing, but something in his posture eased. As if a weight he'd chosen to carry had finally set itself down.

"You came," he said, and the relief in his voice made her chest ache.

"I shouldn't have." Her breath misted white in the cold air. "But I did."

"For a little while," he offered gently. "Then you'll go back and tell yourself you only needed air."

"You do like that excuse."

"It fits many sins."

She huffed a not-quite laugh and came to his side. Without speaking, they began to walk the path that ringed the pond, boots whispering over frost.

"Tell me more about wolves," she said abruptly, because the quiet felt too much like choosing something she wasn't ready to name. "Not the kitchen stories. Yours."

He accepted the request with a nod, considering his words carefully.

"We're stubborn. Practical. We travel on foot when we can—it keeps us faster, more connected to the land. We sing when we're far from home."

"Singing?" She glanced up, genuinely surprised.

"You call it howling. But for us, it's more than that. Sound becomes a rope on some nights."

"And your favorite thing?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.

"Running," he said without hesitation. "With the pack. When every heartbeat around you belongs to someone who'd die for you—" He stopped, shook his head slightly. "There's nothing else like it."

She understood without translation. Her smile was small but bright in the darkness. When Dante turned to look at her, his expression held such understanding that something in her chest cracked open.

They made another slow circuit of the pond. The question that had been burning in her since the great hall finally found its voice.

"I heard there is a... some bond between ones of your kind. Fated even, they said."

His steps faltered almost imperceptibly.

"There is. The mate bond is a gift of recognition—it strikes like sunrise. Sudden, absolute, and somehow soft all at once. It turns your world, and everything else finds its place by that turning."

Her breath caught. "It sounds beautiful."

"It is." His voice was rough with emotion he couldn't quite hide.

Dante glanced at her then, casual as weather, and his gaze snagged on her mouth for a single unguarded heartbeat before he wrenched it back to the path ahead.

"Have you..." She hesitated, suddenly afraid of the answer. "Are you already bound to someone?"

Surprise showed, quick and plain, in his expression—something unarmored and bright.

"That's a difficult question right now, Lady Cordelia," he said carefully, and the tenderness in those words warmed the cold air between them.

For a moment, they simply stood there, close enough to touch. The world narrowed to just the two of them and the truth hanging between them.

Until Cordelia realized how much she'd given away.

Panic flared, and she stepped back too quickly. Her heel found a frost-slick stone and the ground betrayed her. One boot slid toward the water's edge.

Dante moved before thought could form. His arm locked around her waist, his other hand caught her forearm. Momentum carried them one breath farther and stopped: her boot half over the black shine, his stance braced in the grass.

For a heartbeat she hung against him, pulse hammering through silk, breath at his throat.

Shame flared in her eyes with a heat that wasn't only shame. Leather and winter, clean salt of sweat, the iron memory of ink—his nearness was a fact the night refused to blur.

He held still so she could make the next choice herself.

"Forgive me..." she said, voice unsteady.

"There's nothing to forgive."

"There is." She found her feet and her distance at once. "I shouldn't have come."

He let his hands fall slowly. Their broken reflection quivered in the pond and stilled.

"Thank you," she added—more than balance in the words—and turned.

Cloak flaring, braid striking her back, she ran for the hedges and the house beyond. Her thoughts beat time with her steps:

'I've broken my oath. I've broken my oath. I've broken my oath.'