"What?" Gideon was so shocked he couldn't speak for a moment.
Jezebel, on the other hand, burst into laughter; it would have been a lie to pretend she wasn't thrilled by Alexander's words.
Gideon shot Alexander a baleful glare—so frightening Alexander stiffened and clutched her dress. He narrowed his eyes, then sneered. "I hope you're having a moment of delusion before you say such nonsense. Damon is the Alpha, and there's no way I'm rejecting such a wonderful son-in-law."
Alexander fidgeted, forcing the words out. "Dad, he wants me to be his wife so he can torture me. He doesn't love me at all. He threatened to make me his sex slave—"
Gideon didn't listen. He simply lifted a hand and cut her off. "That's enough. I'm not listening to your excuses. Get yourself prepared. You're moving to the palace, and you are going to be Damon's wife."
He turned and climbed the stairs, unwilling to stay and hear either Alexander or his wife—who was clearly drunk. They were both irritating him. Neither of them could see the bigger picture.
If Alexander married the Alpha, Gideon's influence would soar. It would strengthen his claim among the elders—perhaps even give him the right to take the position of Head Elder.
Alexander and Jezebel waited until Gideon disappeared from view. Then Jezebel looked back at her and flopped onto the couch, eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "You murderer."
Alexander frowned but said nothing. She feared her stepmother more than anyone—Jezebel had been tormenting her since childhood.
"Do you think after killing my daughter you'll live in luxury and become the Luna of this pack?" Jezebel's voice sharpened. "I'll make sure everyone hates you. You'll be the most hated Luna in this pack's history."
She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. "You'll wish you were never born."
A chill slid down Alexander's spine. She didn't doubt a single word. Jezebel had the means to do it: she hosted the elders, held authority as the pack's solicitor, had access to the women of the pack, and had even led warriors to defend the castle. Her influence rivaled Gideon's.
It was that influence that had fed Gideon's hunger for power—enough to make him abandon Alexander's mother, who had been driven to suicide, just to marry Jezebel.
Alexander didn't dare lift her head. She kept her gaze lowered, trembling as sweat trickled down her forehead.
Still swaying, Jezebel continued up the stairs. "I'll make your life a living hell, Alexander. I'll make you suffer."
The threat made Alexander's heart stutter. Even after she reached her room, she couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep.
Alexander was startled the next morning when her door creaked open. She'd skipped breakfast so she wouldn't have to see her stepmother, Jezebel—only to find her father standing in the doorway.
Gideon had never set foot in her room since she'd come of age. Now his gaze moved slowly over the space, his brows drawn together in disapproval.
Alexander opened her mouth again and again to call him Father, but the word wouldn't come. Ever since her mother died, he'd treated her like she didn't exist. Even when she tried to speak to him, he either ignored her or looked straight through her. They lived under the same roof, yet they were strangers.
"Alexander, why aren't you greeting your father?" Gideon grumbled.
The longer he stared at her, the more displeased he seemed. He'd wanted Tracy to be the Alpha's chosen mate, but since Alexander had been chosen instead, he'd decided it wasn't a complete loss.
"H-Hather…" she stammered, then forced it out. "Father."
Sweat beaded on her forehead. Gideon's expression shifted as he realized she was afraid of him.
"Relax," he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "I am your father."
He glanced around the room again, then spoke more softly. "You're going to be the Alpha's wife. Your room shouldn't look like this. I'll send people to take care of it."
He looked at her, waiting—expecting gratitude.
Alexander could only stare, too stunned to react. Irritation flared across Gideon's face. He turned on his heel and left, anger in his wake.
For a long moment, Alexander just blinked, as if she were trapped in a dream. "Did my father really just say that?" she whispered to herself.
Disbelief still clung to her when, less than an hour later, people arrived. Furniture was hauled out and replaced, decorations and figurines arranged, curtains changed, every corner transformed with brisk efficiency. Alexander watched from the side, speechless.
When they finally allowed her back in, she barely recognized the room. She stood there for a full ten minutes, turning slowly in place, taking it all in—stunned into quiet admiration.
And she still hadn't recovered from the shock of her transformed room when, that evening, someone knocked.
Alexander froze. No one ever knocked on her door. It was usually kicked open—or pushed aside without a thought by the household maids.
She was still wondering who it could be when a young maid's voice came through the wood. "Young miss, may I come in?"
Alexander's eyes widened, her throat tightening. She knew that voice—her personal maid, the one assigned to serve her, yet more often used as a messenger to summon her to duties and unbearable labor.
Everything happening so suddenly felt unreal. She swallowed and forced out, "Y-yes. You can come in."
The door creaked open and the maid stepped inside. She bowed in a proper, formal salute.
Alexander blinked, stunned. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had saluted her like that. Usually, she was the one bowing—lowering herself for others.
The maid straightened and spoke quickly. "Young miss, dinner is ready. Your father requests your presence in the family dining hall."