Dahlia
I stood there like a mannequin as Billie measured me with the precision of someone defusing a bomb, jotting down each number like it held the secrets to the universe.
"Alpha Cassian—aka Castro, the man of many names—and Luna Sheila are tying the knot at midnight. The master doesn't want you showing up looking like you lost a bet, so any preferences for the dress? Additions? Subtractions? Maybe a design that doesn't scream 'Help me'?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
I whipped out my phone and dove into Pinterest, the holy grail of dress dreams. One design practically winked at me, so I showed it to Billie. She grabbed the phone like it held state secrets, studied it like a detective on a case, and began furiously jotting down notes.
"Hmm," she said, eyes gleaming. "Curtain bangs and a blowout with this dress? Total showstopper. Let's go bold since it's your first werewolf wedding. We'll make jaws drop—literally." I nodded so fast my neck nearly popped.
While she sketched, I couldn't help but wonder how she planned to pull this off in such a short time. Magic? Sleepless nights? Coffee IVs?
Curiosity got the best of me, so I let my fingers do the talking. "How do werewolves look so... human? I mean, aside from the fur and full-moon shenanigans, they're blending in too well."
Billie smirked. "They weren't always so human-looking. Back in the day, they were all fur and fangs, only shifting to human form during full moons. But when humans started hunting them like a seasonal sport, they had to adapt. Now, they've got the language, the culture, even the taste for our food. They're basically undercover wolves, blending in to survive."
I nodded, suddenly imagining werewolves ordering pumpkin spice lattes to fit in. Life here was turning out to be far more entertaining—and educational—than I ever expected.
"Even though we blend in with humans, we've kept our culture intact," Billie said, her explanation making me even more curious about the werewolf way of life.
"My husband mentioned a wedding. What should I expect? Is it like a typical wedding, or are we talking full-moon rituals and howling at midnight?" I asked, eager to understand this new world.
Billie paused, scrutinizing my neck as if it held secrets, then began sketching in her plain notebook. Her lips moved, but her glasses reflected nothing—like they were hiding something too.
"It starts off normal enough," she said. "But right before the vows, the bride and groom cut their palms with a sacred, priest-blessed knife. Then, as they recite their vows, the priest ties their hands together with their blood binding them. After that, there's a dance. First, the bride dances with the groom, then with a guy she once had a crush on, and the groom does the same with an old flame. It's a symbolic 'bye-bye' to their pasts. Lots of food, lots of drinks. Oh, and whatever you do, don't wear red."
I blinked. "Why not red? Is it a werewolf faux pas or something?"
Billie shrugged. "It's complicated, but let's just say it's... frowned upon."
I wasn't exactly excited about this wedding before, but now I was hooked. This wasn't just any ceremony—it was a crash course in my husband's mysterious world. And considering how little he spoke about it, I was hungry for details.
Then Billie shifted gears. "Can I ask you something?"
I nodded, curious.
"What was it like… in the cult?" she signed.
I crossed my arms, the memories swirling. "It felt normal back then. We lived out in the countryside, cut off from the world. We didn't even know there was a war going on. We wore brown—the men, the women, all of us. Only the father wore purple. It was supposed to mean royalty or something. But honestly... I don't remember how it ended. I just woke up, and everyone was gone. The church took me in after that, and learning about the outside world blew my mind. Technology, food, everything—it was like stepping into a completely different reality."
I paused, letting that sink in. The world beyond the cult had been both terrifying and fascinating—a playground of experiences I never knew existed.
"Did they ever... perform rituals on you?" Billie asked gently.
I rubbed my neck, hesitating. I was still new here. Trust didn't come easily.
"Dahlia, you can trust me," she urged. "I just want to understand you better—and keep you safe."
Her sincerity hit me hard. I exhaled, letting down my guard just a little.
"A few times when I was a kid," I signed. "But my memories are a mess. I don't know what's real and what's not. I just want to understand why I survived when no one else did."
Billie nodded, her response soft. "Take your time. You don't have to rush. I'm here when you're ready."
Her words wrapped around me like a safety net, giving me the space to piece together my shattered past without pressure.
**************
I was deep in my carrot-planting research, scribbling notes like a seasoned farmer-in-training when a sudden tap on my shoulder nearly sent me flying out of my chair. I looked up, blinking, only to realize night had crept in without me noticing.
"It's time. Let's get you ready," Billie announced, snapping me out of my gardening trance.
"Will he be with me?" I asked, wondering if my elusive husband had decided to make an appearance by my side.
"He'll be at the venue," she said, pulling out an army of shoe boxes like we were preparing for a fashion war.
I bit back a sigh. "So, he doesn't want to be seen with me," I thought, my frustration simmering. "Fine. I'll make sure everyone, including him, can't take their eyes off me."
***********
Rath.
Everyone was here—except for her. My patience was hanging by a thread. The human girl. My wife. She was embarrassing me. If she didn't show up before the bride made her grand entrance, I'd be the subject of every whisper in the room. I grabbed my phone and called Billie. Voicemail. Probably driving.
The door swung open, and I turned, expecting salvation. No. It was the bride. Fantastic. Everyone's here, and my wife? Still MIA.
Then, I heard it. The unmistakable click, click of Christian Louboutin heels—the kind of sound that demanded attention. Slowly, I turned my head. There she was, in a red off-shoulder gown with a slit that reached dangerous heights. A thigh strap peeked out, matching red stockings. My breath hitched. She had my undivided attention.
Her hair was styled in blowout curtain bangs, framing her face perfectly. A golden necklace rested on her neck, and a diamond ring—my ring—sparkled on her finger. She clutched a small purse like it held the secrets of the universe.
I blinked. Was that... Dahlia? I'd only ever seen her in chiffon and sundresses. But this? This was something else. She looked like she belonged in a different realm—one where humans could rival goddesses.
Our eyes locked across the room. Everything else faded. Just me and Dahlia. The red dress? It wasn't just red. It was dangerous. It did something to me—ignited something primal. She wore it to provoke me, I was sure of it. And it worked. Just... not how she intended.
Every eye in the room was on her, but she was only looking at me. Then came that smirk—a sly, devious curve of her lips. She knew what she was doing. She'd broken the cardinal rule: no red at a werewolf wedding. She didn't care. She was here to make a statement. And damn, she made it loud and clear.
I sighed. First, I needed to apologize to the bride and groom. Dahlia walked in wearing the forbidden color. Second, she used the wrong door. Third—and probably worst of all—she stole the show. Sheila was going to lose it.
But Dahlia didn't stop there. Her gaze shifted, scanning the room, landing on the Alphas. Her eyes narrowed, zeroing in on Alpha Theron—Victoria's husband. She had that look. That sharp look she gave when she was reading lips.
I watched her, feeling a grin tug at my own lips. Maybe marrying Dahlia wasn't such a bad idea after all. I could definitely use someone with eyes like hers.