Part 2

“Aveline Vance,” Sabine said, her voice cutting through the quiet kitchen like ice sliding across tile.

Tamson—or the woman who had spent the last twelve hours masquerading as a humble cook—did not gasp. She did not run. She simply stood frozen by the sink, the dishcloth clutched tightly in her fingers, as if holding onto it might anchor her to the reality she had spent months building.

Gideon stepped between his sister and the counter, his broad shoulders shielding Aveline from Sabine’s sharp, unyielding gaze. His wolf was no longer merely curious; it was pacing behind his ribs, low growls echoing in the back of his mind. Protect her.

“Explain,” Gideon commanded, his Alpha voice low and weighted with authority.

Sabine threw the paper onto the marble counter. “Tamine Bellweather is sixty-two years old and currently living with her sister in the South Province. I recognized the crest on the recommendation letter the moment I saw it in your study—it’s the seal of House Vance. House Vance was dissolved three months ago following the treason charges against Lord Vance.” Sabine’s eyes locked onto Aveline. “This isn’t a misplaced cook, Gideon. This is the disgraced daughter of a traitor.”

Silence descended upon the room, thick and suffocating.

Aveline slowly set down the cloth. The air was charged with tension, the subtle scent of iron and ozone filling the room as Gideon’s pack instinct reacted to a potential threat. Yet, he didn’t reach for his collar, nor did he call the guards.

“My father was framed,” Aveline said softly. She didn’t look down. Her chin remained lifted, the same quiet defiance she had displayed over burnt pastries and ruined porridge. “He opposed the Council’s tax decree, and before the sun set, his ledgers were altered and his estate was seized. I fled with nothing but a set of false papers and my mother’s recipe book.”

“And you thought hiding in the household of the High Alpha was a clever disguise?” Sabine asked, her voice laced with sharp skepticism.

“I thought no one would look for a noblewoman in a kitchen,” Aveline replied. “And based on my performance today, no one would ever suspect I was trained for anything.”

A ghost of a smile passed across Gideon’s face before he forced his expression back into rigid stone.

“Sabine,” Gideon said, turning to his sister. “Leave us.”

Sabine frowned, her silk skirts rustling as she took a step back. “Gideon, she lied to enter your home. She is a risk to the pack.”

“I said, leave us.”

When the door clicked shut behind Sabine, the tension in the room did not dissipate, but it shifted. Gideon turned back to Aveline. She was small compared to him, her flour-dusted hands resting against the dark wood of the counter, awaiting her fate.

“You lied,” Gideon said.

“Yes.”

“You breached my perimeter under a false identity.”

“Yes.”

“And you ruined three pounds of oats.”

Aveline blinked, caught off guard by the final accusation. “I… I warned you about the recipe.”

Gideon walked toward her, his heavy boots sounding deliberate against the stone floor. He stopped only inches away, close enough to see the amber flecks in her dark eyes and the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath them. His wolf leaned forward, resting its chin against his chest, completely satisfied.

“Who taught you to make the pastry?” he asked softly.

“My mother,” she whispered. “Before the soldiers came.”

Gideon reached out, his thick fingers lightly brushing against the red mark on her wrist—the burn from the oven tray. Aveline shivered, but she didn’t pull away.

“The Council is searching for you,” Gideon said. “If they find you here, it will be considered an act of defiance by my pack.”

“Then let me leave before morning,” she said, though her voice betrayed a flicker of dread. “I can pack my things—”

“No,” Gideon interrupted.

She looked up, startled.

“You aren’t leaving,” he repeated, the words solid and absolute. “Tamine Bellweather was dismissed an hour ago for incompetence. As of tomorrow, you are Aveline, personal assistant to the High Alpha. You will work in my study, where the Council cannot reach you.”

Aveline searched his face, looking for cruelty, leverage, or pity. She found none. Only the steady, iron certainty of an Alpha who had made up his mind.

“Why?” she asked quietly. “Why protect me?”

Gideon rolled down his sleeves, hiding the faint scar on his forearm. He didn’t tell her about the wolf resting inside him, or how it had claimed her scent the moment she had pointed at a jar of pepper and called it cinnamon.

“Because,” Gideon said, opening the kitchen door, “you are terrible at cooking, but you don’t run from a fight. And I have enough obedient people in this castle.”

Part 3

By the fourth week, the transition from kitchen maid to administrative assistant had proved one undeniable truth: Aveline Vance was as chaotic with border reports as she was with breakfast.

“This map is upside down,” Gideon noted, resting his elbows on his massive oak desk.

Aveline didn’t look up from her ledger. “It provides a fresh perspective on the Northern territory.”

“It puts the ocean in the sky.”

“Then consider it an artistic interpretation, my lord.”

Gideon rubbed the bridge of his nose, hiding the grin that threatened to break his stoic facade. His study, once an immaculate sanctuary of leather, parchment, and militaristic order, had undergone a transformation. Dried inkwells were arranged by color rather than size. Loose papers were held down by smooth river stones she had collected from the courtyard. And every afternoon at three, a small tray of tea and slightly lopsided biscuits appeared on his desk.

She still couldn’t bake without burning something, but Gideon found he no longer cared for perfection.

The peaceful rhythm was shattered on a rainy Tuesday when the heavy oak doors of the grand hall flew open, announcing the unexpected arrival of Lord Corvin—a High Council envoy and the very man who had signed the decree seizing the Vance estate.

Gideon stood immediately, his wolf instantly alert, bristling at the scent of the arrogant courtier entering his domain.

“Lord Gideon,” Corvin said, bowing with exaggerated deference. His eyes swept over the room, instantly locking onto the young woman standing near the tall arched windows, clutching a stack of boundary documents.

Corvin’s eyes narrowed. “Well, well. What an extraordinary coincidence.”

Aveline’s fingers tightened on the parchment, but her expression remained smooth as polished marble. She did not lower her eyes.

“Is there business in Frosmir, Lord Corvin?” Gideon asked, his voice dropping an octave into the resonant timbre of an Alpha defending his territory. He stepped forward, putting his body squarely between Corvin and Aveline.

“I am tracking a fugitive,” Corvin said smoothly, pulling a sealed scroll from his coat. “The daughter of the traitor Vance. Word reached the capital that a woman matching her description was spotted in the borderlands. I didn’t expect to find her serving paper to an Alpha.”

Corvin took a step toward Aveline, reaching into his cloak for a set of iron heavy-suppression cuffs. “By order of the Council, she is to be taken into custody for trial.”

Before Corvin could take another step, a deafening sound reverberated through the hall.

Gideon had slammed his hand down onto the mahogany table, shattering the corner of the wood. The air in the room grew instantly cold, heavy with the suffocating pressure of High Alpha aura.

“You stand in Frosmir,” Gideon said softly, each word weighted with lethal intent. “You speak of arrest in my hall, without presenting a warrant signed by my hand.”

Corvin paled slightly, taking a half-step back from the raw power radiating from the Alpha. “She is a convicted traitor’s blood—”

“She is my pack,” Gideon growled.

The declaration hung in the air, heavy and binding.

Aveline’s breath caught in her throat. To claim someone as pack without blood ties was a dangerous decree; it meant an attack on her was an act of war against the entire Frosmir territory.

Corvin’s jaw tightened. “You would challenge the Council for a nameless clerk?”

“She is not a clerk,” Gideon said, walking slowly toward the envoy until he towered over him. His golden wolf eyes flashed in the dim ambient light of the study. “She is the steward of this household. And if you wish to take her, you will have to strip the title from my dead hands.”

Corvin looked from Gideon’s lethal stance to Aveline’s silent, steady composure. He knew he could not survive a fight inside the Frosmir stronghold.

Slowly, Corvin withdrew his hand from his coat and stowed the cuffs away. “The Council will hear of this defiance, Lord Gideon.”

“Ensure they spell my name correctly on the summons,” Gideon replied coldly. “Now get out.”

When the doors slammed shut behind the envoy and his guards, the heavy silence returned to the study. Gideon breathed out slowly, forcing the beast beneath his skin to settle, though his pulse still hammered in his veins.

He turned back to Aveline.

She had set the papers down on the window sill. Her hands were steady now. She walked across the room until she was standing directly in front of him.

“You just declared war on the Council for me,” she whispered.

“I declared that they cannot take what belongs in this house,” he corrected.

“I am not a possession, Lord Gideon.”

“No,” Gideon said, his voice softening as he reached up, his thumb lightly wiping away a small stray smudge of ink near her temple. “You are the only person in twenty years who dared to hand me an onion and tell me to start chopping.”

Aveline looked at him, her lips parting slightly. “My lord—”

“Gideon,” he said softly. “When we are in this room, it is Gideon.”

His wolf settled contentedly behind his ribs, quiet and calm for the first time in years. Outside, the rain continued to beat against the high glass windows, but inside the study, beside a lopsided tray of burnt biscuits and mislabeled ledgers, the house of Frosmir had finally found its heart.