Chapter 123

Iris

“Arms up, please, Miss Willford.”

I raise my arms dutifully as Violetta, the most sought-after human designer in Ordan, circles me with pins held between her lips. Her assistant hovers nearby, clutching a pincushion and looking nervous, as if expecting me to suddenly collapse under the weight of the fabric that’s draped around my frame.

I don’t blame her; this gown is fucking enormous.

“A little higher, please,” Violetta murmurs around her pins. “I need to check the draping on the bodice.”

I stretch my arms higher, my shoulders already aching from holding still for so long. We’ve been at this for over two hours now, and I’m starting to lose feeling in my feet. But I don’t complain—not when the gown is finally nearly finished after weeks of planning.

My debut gown. Even thinking the words feels bizarre. The ball is tomorrow, and it feels so surreal.

“Mmm, I need to take in the waist just a touch more,” Violetta says, placing a pin at my side. “You’re slimmer than our initial measurements indicated.”

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Must be all the dancing lessons.” And the stress, if I’m being honest; it’s been gnawing at me, and it’s been getting worse as the days tick closer to my debut. I hardly even slept last night because I kept agonizing over the upcoming ball.

She waves off my apology. “It’s no trouble. Weight fluctuates. We’re all human.” She glances at me. “Well… you know what I mean.” I can’t help but laugh at that, and Violetta cringes as the movement makes one of the pinned portions stretch.

I have to admit, the gown is stunning. When my mother first introduced me to the designer, she’d expected me to choose one of her standard debutante designs—something classic and elegant, with clean lines and traditional beadwork.

Instead, I showed her my paintings.

Specifically, I showed her the one I’d done of Miles when he was barely two years old, sitting in a field of wildflowers in Bo’Arrocan, sunlight streaming through his dark hair, his chubby hands plucking at the petals.

It was one of those perfect, peaceful moments where everything felt right.

“This,” I’d told the designer, pointing to the wildflowers surrounding my son. “I want to look like this.”

Two days later, she presented me with a design that took my breath away. Rather than the traditional white or pastel debutante gown, she envisioned a dress the color of a summer field, a delicate sage green layered with embroidered petals in varying shades of yellow, purple, and white—like wildflowers growing up from the ground.

The bodice would be encrusted with tiny crystal beads catching the light like morning dew, and the skirt was composed of layers upon layers of gauzy fabric that would sway when I move.

Now, standing here in the almost-completed gown, I finally feel like myself again.

I was so afraid of losing my identity in all of this—especially after my disastrous first attempt at being Arthur’s Luna, when Selina’s old stylist had practically forced me into Selina’s leftover clothes and makeup. I’d felt like a cheap knock-off, a poor imitation of the woman who had come before me.

But this… this is me. Even if I’m completely, utterly terrified about the ball, at least I don’t feel like I’m masquerading as another person.

“There,” Violetta says, placing the final pin. She steps back, her critical eye scanning every inch of the gown. “Now, let’s see the movement.”

I carefully make my way to the center of the room, mindful of the pins, and do a slow turn. The layers swirl around me with ease, causing each petal to catch the light as it moves. It’s like standing in the middle of a field on a breezy day with flowers dancing around my ankles.

“Beautiful,” the designer murmurs, and even her usually stoic assistant nods in agreement.

The door suddenly opens, and Caleb sticks his head in. “Is it safe to come in? Mother sent me to check on the progress.”

“Come in, come in.” Violetta waves him forward. “We’re just finishing up.”

Caleb steps into the room, and his usual confident stride falters as he catches sight of me. His mouth actually drops open, an expression I’ve never seen on my normally composed brother’s face.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. I’m not quite sure if I’ve ever heard him curse before.

He approaches slowly, circling me the way he did the first time we met—only this time, instead of assessing me, he seems genuinely awestruck.

“Iris,” he says, “you look… you already look the part.”

Do I, though? Am I really ready for this debut, or am I just wearing a pretty dress?

The question haunts me all day, through the rest of the fitting, through dinner with my parents, through the drive back to the city.

One day. Just one day until I have to stand in front of hundreds of people—politicians, celebrities, society figures—and be presented as the long-lost Willford heir. One more day until I have to dance with Arthur in front of all those judging eyes.

One more day until I have to put myself and my son at risk of judgment. Again.

Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. I’m not a socialite, not a princess, not an heiress. I’ve already embarrassed myself multiple times. The pressure is even more immense now that I’m a Willford.

They’re going to eat me alive.

I’m getting ready for a shower when it happens. I grip the bathroom sink as a wave of dizziness takes over me. My chest begins to heave. I can’t breathe. The room begins to spin, and I think I might vomit. But I know I’m not sick.

This is a panic attack.

When was the last time I had one of these? I used to get them a lot when I was younger, still living in the orphanage, but I genuinely can’t recall the last time I had one—college, maybe? Right before a final presentation?

Just as I feel like I’m about to collapse, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Iris?” Arthur’s gentle voice filters through. He’s spending the night with me tonight. Shit. I don’t want him to hear this. “Are you okay?”

I want to say yes, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a strangled sob.

The door opens immediately, and then Arthur is there, strong arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his chest. “Hey,” he says softly, “I’ve got you. Just breathe with me. It’s just a panic attack.”

The way he holds me brings me back to times that have long passed. I remember the way he used to hold me at night, soothing me when the anxiety was too much to bear. He always knew exactly what to do, what to say or not say, and it seems he never lost that ability.

I focus on the rise and fall of his chest, trying to match my breathing to his just like I used to. Slowly, the tightness in my lungs eases, and the room stops spinning.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his shirt. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t apologize.” His hand strokes my hair soothingly. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

I pull back just enough to look up at him. “What if I can’t do this, Arthur? What if I make a fool of myself again? What if I embarrass my family, or you, or ruin Miles’ future—”

“Stop,” he says gently, cupping my face in his hands. “You’re going to be amazing. You always are. And even if you weren’t—which is impossible—I’d still be standing right beside you, proud to be your mate.”

“I wish I felt half as confident as you do,” I whisper with a tiny laugh that has very little humor in it.

Arthur smirks. “Trust me, I get just as terrified before I have to do anything in public. That’s why fate brought us together, though, isn’t it? So support each other?”

I nod, and he leans down and presses his lips to mine. The kiss is just a gentle one, and yet…

A heat spreads through me, starting where our lips meet and flowing outward to every nerve ending, and it has nothing to do with the steam from the shower filling the bathroom. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before—more intense, more primal than simple desire.

Suddenly, as if a switch has been flipped, my body responds to his with a ferocity that surprises me. My hands clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer. The feeling is overwhelming, a hunger that’s both familiar and entirely new.

I feel something stirring deep inside of me, something wild and untamed.

Something that recognizes him as mine.

As I melt into him, giving myself over to the sensation, I know with sudden clarity that I need him—not just for comfort or reassurance, but with a desperation that feels almost feral. I need his touch, his scent, his strength.

I need him now.

Because I am a werewolf, and he is my mate.