Chapter 4

Juliette’s pov

Liam’s absence dragged on, each day more unbearable than the last. I knew, as long as the Outcast was still on the border, he would not return.

I sat near the window, stitching winter clothes for Liam, trying to focus on the rhythm of the needle.

But Violet, the servant who usually styled my hair, broke the silence with a teasing smile. "Yesterday, the Alpha kept staring at the clothes you mended, but he refused to wear them," she said, a playful lilt in her voice.

Maybe he doesn't like the style.

“Go buy more fabric—something for Liam’s winter clothes.”

Violet left, but as she did, I overheard the murmurs from outside.

"She’s already thinking of special fabric, just days after marrying him. What’s next? Gold?" The voice was sharp and accusing.

I leaned out to see who was speaking, only to find an old lady standing in the courtyard, her gaze cutting through the air. "Already scheming for better clothes?" she sneered, eyes narrowing as she took in my unfinished work.

I stepped forward, meeting her gaze with as much grace as I could muster. “I am making clothes for the alpha,” I said, swallowing my nerves.

Her eyes flicked to the half-cut fabric, and for a brief moment, something like approval flashed in her sharp features. "Making his clothes yourself, huh?" she muttered, her tone softening ever so slightly. "I suppose there's some honor in that."

But then her expression turned calculating, the matriarch in her reasserting itself. "But clothes won’t solve anything here, child. You need more than fabric to survive in this pack."

She left.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, but before I could respond, the door creaked open. Another servant, Grace, entered with two unfamiliar women carrying a heavy chest between them.

"This is from some locals," Grace said, her eyes darting nervously toward me. "They heard you were in need of fabric."

The chest was opened, revealing bundles of luxurious cloth, sparkling jewels, and a thick stack of notes. But something didn’t sit right. One of the women stepped forward, her smile too sweet, her eyes too calculating. She leaned in closer, her voice low but dripping with malice.

"I've heard alpha... well, some say he has enemies in the pack. You could help us with that, right?"

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I glanced at Grace, who looked away uncomfortably. Liam had always forbidden me to get involved in the pack’s politics, telling me it was dangerous.

But now, as his mate, how could I not? His enemies would target him.

...

Garrick had been so busy these past few days that he hadn’t had the chance to return home. His main worry wasn’t the weight of pack matters, but whether his grandmother approved of his new Luna. However, the servants’ whispers told a different story—despite her sharp tongue, the matriarch seemed oddly satisfied with his wife.

The first day his grandmother arrived, she disembarked from her ship with a stormy expression.

“I never liked that scheming Alice,” she declared. “You should’ve sent her packing ages ago.”

By the fourth day, Garrick heard that his wife had been visiting his grandmother’s quarters daily, chattering endlessly.

“Your mate is like a sparrow,” his grandmother complained through a messenger. “Chirping on and on until my head spins. I have no patience for her.”

On the fifth day, the tone of her message changed.

“…She’s got a knack for handiwork,” was all she said.

By the sixth day, there was no message at all. Suspicious, Garrick sent someone to inquire. His grandmother dismissed the servant with a cryptic reply.

“What’s between me and your Luna is none of your business, boy. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Garrick allowed himself a rare chuckle, feeling a weight lift from his chest as the matriarch seemed to have found some grudging respect for his wife.

But the relief was short-lived. His desk was piled high with unopened messages, one of which caught his eye—a message from his old friend, Alpha Liam, sent over a month ago. He opened his phone and read it during a rare quiet moment at his meal.

"Brother Garrick, what would you do if you were forced to marry someone you did not love—a dull, unworthy mate—bound only by an unbreakable childhood pact? What course would you take against such a wind?"

Garrick frowned as he stared at the message. Before he could form a response, the door to his dining hall swung open with a soft creak.