Chapter 343
Dallas turned to me, his brow furrowed. “Adella, you don’t understand. My grandmother is not like Braydon. She doesn’t play games. She destroys. She will look at your lack of a wolf and see it as a personal insult to the Marshall legacy.”
“She already looked at me that way once,” I said quietly. “The night I fled Hyde Manor. She gave me a ride back to The Aurelia and told me I had honest eyes. She didn’t know who I was then — or maybe she did. But now she knows everything, and she still summoned us.”
I looked from Azalea’s terrified face to Dallas’s protective one.
Yesterday, I was a victim. I was a receipt, a political pawn, a wolfless girl running from her past. But Dallas had called me his Queen. He had claimed me. If I hid in this tower while he fought my battles, I would prove Gigi right. I would prove that I was weak.
I straightened my spine, channeling every ounce of dignity my mother — the White Wolf — had tried to instill in me before the world broke her.
“I am your Mate,” I stated, locking eyes with the Alpha King. “I am the future Luna of this Pack. If she has a problem with my blood or my wolf, she can say it to my face. She already saw me at my worst — bleeding, broken, running from her enemies. Now she can see me standing beside you.”
Dallas stared at me, the shock in his eyes slowly giving way to a fierce, burning pride. The ice in his gaze melted, replaced by the fire of the bond that connected us.
“Her fight is with me too, Dallas,” I said softly, stepping closer and placing a hand on his tense forearm. “We face her together.”
Dallas covered my hand with his own and squeezed it tight. He looked at Azalea, then back at me, a grim smile touching his lips.
“Very well,” he said, his voice ringing with finality. “Get dressed. We’re going to war.”
Forty minutes later, my walk-in closet had transformed into a war room.
The space was vast, lined with shelves of designer clothes Dallas had filled for me — a life I was still learning to wear. I stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror, the silk of my robe pooling at my feet. Behind me, Azalea sat on the velvet ottoman, her knees pulled to her chest. She had traded her pajamas for a simple grey dress, but her hands were still trembling.
“Not the pink,” Azalea murmured, her voice hollow. “Gigi hates pastels. She says they are for children and weak-willed women.”
I pushed aside a hanger holding a blush chiffon gown and reached for something more structured. My fingers closed around a midnight-blue sheath dress — modest but fitted, with a high neck and long sleeves. It looked like armor.