Chapter 2

There she was — Freya, in front of the mirror, in my wedding dress.

"So this is what it feels like to be the Alpha's mate." She tilted her head, admiring herself. "No wonder every woman wants to marry Damon."

The silver-white train pooled across the floor, the moonstone embroidery along the entire skirt catching the light.

I had designed that dress for half a year. Revised the pattern twenty-seven times. Lost count of how many nights I stayed up, how many times the needle broke skin.

"Take it off."

Freya didn't react. She gathered the skirt in her hands and spun slowly in front of the mirror.

"It fits me perfectly — isn't that something. Even better than I expected. Are you really this thin? Will it even fit you?"

"I said," I repeated, "take it off. Right now."

Not a trace of panic on her face.

"Don't be so stingy. I'm just checking how it looks."

"You have no right to touch it."

"Really?" She smiled. "Because Damon was with me till midnight last night helping me pick out a necklace. He said white diamonds suit me better than blue."

Something tightened in my chest. Because Damon had told me last night he was busy with wedding preparations.

"You know, Lyra," Freya said, "I've always wondered. If it weren't for the engagement contract — would Damon have chosen you at all?"

"Freya." My voice was flat. "I'm only going to say this once. Take it off. Now."

I walked up to her and reached for her arm.

That's when Damon's voice came from the doorway.

"What's going on in here?"

My hand hadn't even touched her. But the second she heard his voice, Freya crumpled to the ground — as if I'd shoved her.

Damon rushed in and caught her. She looked up at him, eyes glistening, and leaned softly into his chest.

"I just wanted to check the fit for Lyra," she said quietly. "I was worried the dress wouldn't be right for her. She got upset out of nowhere and said she was going to throw me out of the estate."

"Lyra." Damon's jaw tightened. "Apologize to Freya."

I stared at him. "On what grounds? She's wearing my dress."

He frowned. "So what? It's just a dress."

"It's my fault," Freya murmured. "I'm sorry. All of this is on me."

"What are you talking about?" I said. "You're the one who—"

I didn't finish.

Damon's hand came up, and he slapped me across the face.

"Enough. Can you stop picking on Freya?"