To Rule the Alpha's Heart

2. A Bargain

Calla's head buzzed. The faint drumming of her heartbeat between her ears muffled the growing sound of voices around her. She couldn't make out any words but had the faintest idea that they were arguing.Her eyelids felt impossibly heavy, but, merciful gods, at least the festering, tingling warmth had faded. She took a deep breath, allowing sentience to slowly pour over her once more.

As awareness settled over Calla again, she became increasingly aware that she was strewn across a hard surface– likely a stone floor. The arguing voices grew louder. She recognized the tenor of her father's words, rising above the mumblings of a foreign language.

With shaky breath, Calla forced her eyelids open, blinking as the world settled around her. She was staring at the wooden-beamed ceiling of the reception hall, where orange lantern and candle light dodged the shadows that moved throughout the room.

She rolled her head to the side, releasing a low whimper as memories of the invasion– the werewolves– slowly descended upon her once more. The last things she remembered were a pair of unfathomably beautiful gray eyes and a chorus of howls. How had she managed to make her way to the reception hall?

Calla took a deep breath, daring to lift her head long enough to realize that she was lying at her father's feet. "Pa?"

"Calla?" her father exclaimed, immediately dropping onto his knees beside her.

Other bodies shifted throughout the room. Calla's eyes flickered from her father's worn, worry-filled eyes to the Berlyne men standing behind him. Her eyes snagged on Branson, who stood stiff a few paces away. Her betrothed did not look at her. No, he was glaring daggers at something across the reception hall.

Calla's brows furrowed as she mustered the strength to turn her head in the other direction, and she nearly gasped at the sight. A dozen men and wolves stood opposite her father and the men of Berlyne.

Panic tightened Calla's throat as she scrambled into a seated position, desperate to put more distance between herself and the nearest wolf. "Father, what–"

"Shhh, easy," her father whispered, stroking Calla's blonde hair with his calloused fingers.

"N-no!" Calla protested. "W-what are they doing here?"

She glared at the group of Nortend warriors– skinwalkers, battling the nausea that threatened to creep up her throat at the sight. Eight of the foreigners had transformed, taking on their human forms, while four remained as beasts. She tried to avoid staring at the monstrous animals that were seated on their haunches, eyes glowing in the candlelight.

"W-where's Mother? The children!" Calla continued, her eyes furiously searching the reception hall for any sign of another female or child. There were none.

Before Calla's father could answer, a heavily accented voice spoke from the other side of the room. "Your women and children will remain safe, so long as you obey the Alpha's command."

Alpha? Calla narrowed her eyes, focusing on the man who'd spoken. He was middle-aged, with golden blonde hair that was tied into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. The man stepped forward, palms extended in a shockingly diplomatic stance. The legends of the Nortend werewolves never mentioned anything about diplomacy...

"F-father?" she whispered, glancing at her patriarch for clarification.

Her father and Regent, Alston Voronín, didn't take his eyes off of the savages. "This man," he spat, "has offered a bargain."

An easy smile played on the corners of the blonde man's lips. "I have not offered anything. I am merely negotiating on behalf of Alpha Einarr Fjerstäd, of the Onyx Craven Pack."