Chapter 3 — Unseen Chains
Cat
The dim glow of candles flickered across the stone walls of Cat’s room, their light dancing like restless spirits that mirrored her fractured thoughts. Her chambers, though spacious and adorned with tapestries depicting the Blackmoor clan's storied history, had never felt more confining. Each shadow seemed to stretch with the weight of her father’s demands, and the stifling air, heavy with the scent of old parchment and burning wax, pressed against her chest in an unrelenting grip.
She stood by the large, arched window, her fingers gripping the cold iron lattice. Beyond the glass, the sprawling grounds of Blackmoor Manor stretched into the night, the sharp lines of its Gothic spires piercing the heavens. The forest loomed in the distance, a dark, breathing entity that called to her, offering solace she could not yet claim. The faint hum of the moonlight against her skin was ever-present, a subtle pull that reminded her she could never fully escape her werewolf nature. Yet, it wasn’t instinct that bound her tonight—it was the chains of duty, forged not of steel but of expectation and manipulation.
Cat’s sharp green eyes traced the horizon, searching for clarity she knew would not come. The adrenaline from her earlier escape into the Forest of Shadows had dulled, leaving in its wake a gnawing ache in her chest. Her thoughts circled endlessly, fragments of her father’s decree and her own helplessness colliding like storm waves. *Why now? Why him?*
The answer was clear: Lucian Ravenshade. His name carried a weight that made her blood simmer. She didn’t need to meet him to know what he would be—another puppet of his clan, another pawn in the endless game of dominance and survival. Someone primed to take advantage of the bond their families sought to force upon them. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: *You will do your duty, Catriona.* The unrelenting command left no room for argument, no room for her.
Her hand instinctively went to the pendant that hung around her neck, the cool silver biting into her skin. The Blackmoor crest etched into its surface felt heavier tonight, its meaning twisted. Her mother had given it to her with words of strength and hope, telling her it would remind her of who she truly was. But now, it felt like a mockery of her circumstances, an emblem of the cage she could not escape. A pang of guilt flickered through her chest at the thought of her mother, long gone but ever lingering in her heart. She softened her grip on the pendant, letting it fall against her collarbone.
The silence of the room pressed down on her like a physical weight, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The faint creak of the wooden floor and the distant howl of a wolf in the night were the only sounds, amplifying the oppressive stillness. She turned from the window, her movements abrupt. Staying here, stewing in her anger and confusion, would drive her mad.
Pulling her leather jacket from the chair by her bed, she shrugged it on with practiced ease, its familiar weight steadying her. The moonlight spilling through the window caught her reflection in the mirror above her dresser, and for a moment, she paused.
The woman staring back at her was a contradiction—a fighter cloaked in vulnerability, strength tempered by exhaustion. She studied her sharp, angular features, the wild cascade of raven-black hair that framed her face, and the piercing green eyes that seemed to challenge the world. “You’re not a pawn,” she whispered to herself, her voice steady despite the storm raging within. “And you’re not going to let him make you one.”
With that, she slipped silently into the hall, the cold stone beneath her boots muffling her steps. Blackmoor Manor at night was a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, its long corridors winding endlessly like veins through the heart of the clan. The air here was colder, heavy with the weight of generations. Cat moved through the halls like a wraith, her body tense and her senses heightened. She knew these passages well—the places where the floor creaked, the spots where portraits seemed to watch her as she passed.
Her destination was the library. She hadn’t admitted it to herself earlier, but as she had sat in her room, the question had burned brighter in her mind: *Why now? Why Lucian?* Her father’s motives were rarely straightforward, and the council’s decree alone didn’t explain everything. If there were answers, they would be hidden among the clan’s secrets. And if her father was hiding something about this mating arrangement, the library would hold the truth.
The door to the library loomed ahead, its dark wood carved with intricate lupine motifs. Cat hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open, the heavy door groaning in protest. Inside, the scent of leather-bound books and aged parchment enveloped her. Rows upon rows of shelves stretched toward the vaulted ceiling, each packed with tomes that told the story of the Blackmoor clan and its place in werewolf society.
Moonlight filtered through the high, arched windows, casting pale beams across the central reading table. Cat let the door close softly behind her and moved further into the room, her boots silent against the thick rug that muffled her steps. She reached the far corner of the library, where the older, more obscure texts were kept. This section was rarely touched, its dusty shelves a testament to secrets long buried.
Her fingers brushed the spines of the books as she scanned the titles, searching for anything that might unravel the truth. Most were written in the ancient language of the clans, their meanings lost to time unless one had the patience—or the purpose—to decipher them. She pulled one at random, flipping through its brittle pages. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. Frustration gnawed at her, but she forced herself to breathe, her mind racing as she considered what Alaric might be hiding and why he would risk her trust now, of all times.
It was then that her gaze caught a faint scratch on the floorboards near the base of the bookshelf. Narrowing her eyes, she crouched, running her fingers along the grooves. The markings were subtle, but they didn’t belong—they were the result of something being dragged, or shifted. Her pulse quickened. She pushed herself up and carefully examined the shelf, testing its edges for any sign of movement.
Something clicked, faint but audible, as her hand brushed the top-right corner. With a low groan, the entire shelf shifted slightly, revealing a narrow gap in the wall behind it. Cat’s stomach tightened, a mixture of triumph and apprehension coursing through her. Sliding the shelf further aside, she stepped into the hidden passage revealed by the opening. The air within was colder, damp with the scent of stone and earth.
The passage was narrow, its walls lined with faintly glowing runes that pulsed softly with an unnatural light, casting eerie shadows that danced with her every movement. Cat’s fingers brushed against them as she moved forward, their texture rough and ancient. The corridor sloped downward, and her steps grew more cautious, her senses on edge. At the end of the passage, she found a small chamber, its ceiling low and its walls etched with more runes that seemed to hum faintly, as if alive.
In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and atop it rested a bound stack of documents. The parchment was thick, aged to a brittle yellow, and tied with a black ribbon. Cat approached slowly, her heart pounding in her chest as she reached for the stack. The ribbon slid away easily, and as she unfolded the top document, her blood ran cold.
The words scrawled across the page described not just the mating arrangement but the reasons behind it—reasons that went beyond political necessity. Her father’s handwriting detailed alliances, betrayals, and, most disturbingly, a prophecy tied to the mate bond. The Blackmoor and Ravenshade clans were entwined by forces far older than the council’s decrees, forces that demanded unity for reasons Alaric had kept hidden. Her eyes scanned the script, catching fragments that spoke of “ancient power” and “unleashing the bond’s true potential.”
A chill ran down her spine. This wasn’t just about peace—this was about control. Power. And she was at the center of it.
Before she could delve further, the faint sound of a door creaking echoed from the passage behind her. Cat’s head snapped up, her instincts flaring. Someone was coming.
Rolling the documents quickly, she slipped them into the inside pocket of her jacket and pressed herself against the wall, her breath shallow as she waited. The soft padding of footsteps grew louder, steady and deliberate. Her fingers itched at her sides, her muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap. Whoever was approaching, they wouldn’t find her cowering.
As the figure rounded the corner, bathed in the faint glow of the runes, Cat’s breath caught slightly. It wasn’t Alaric—or anyone she’d expected. The man before her was unfamiliar, his gaunt face shadowed beneath a hood. His dark eyes gleamed, and a faint, knowing smile curled his lips.
“Well,” he said, his voice smooth and unsettling. “It seems the prodigal daughter has found something she shouldn’t.”
Cat didn’t hesitate. She lunged.
