THE WOLF PRINCE’S UNWANTED MATE

Chapter One -The Announcement at the Village Square

Jessica Marks had always loved the hour just before dusk. There was something tender about it, something almost secret, as though the world had taken one long breath and was holding it. The fields beyond her family’s cottage softened beneath a veil of gold. The small white flowers that grew along the fence leaned towards the fading sun. Smoke rose from chimneys in slow blue ribbons, and somewhere beyond the lane, Mrs Calder’s youngest boy was laughing so hard he hiccupped.

It was an ordinary evening. Jessica loved ordinary evenings. She loved the sound of her mother humming in the kitchen while bread cooled beneath a clean cloth. She loved the clink of her father’s tools from the shed behind the house, the warm, woody smell of freshly carved chair legs and polished oak. She loved the way the village settled into itself at the end of each day, as if every home were a small lantern against the dark.

Other girls dreamed of jewels. Jessica dreamed of a life where someone came home to her - someone kind. Someone who would remember the small things without being asked. How she liked honey in her tea when the rain came down hard. How she read the last page of a book twice when she did not want it to end. How she pressed flowers between old pages and forgot them there until months later, when they fell out like memories.

She had never been in love, not even once. At twenty-one, most unmated girls in the Thundering Storm Pack had already known at least one heartbreak, one stolen kiss behind a barn, one whispered promise beneath a summer moon. Jessica had known books. She had known stories. She had known princes who crossed forests for girls in towers, wolves who guarded maidens from the dark, kings who loved poor girls for their goodness, not their bloodline.

She knew real life was not like that, of course she did - Jessica was romantic, not stupid. Still, some tender, foolish part of her kept believing that love should feel like being chosen gently. Completely. Without having to beg for it.

“Jessica!” Her mother’s voice came from the kitchen window, warm and breathless.

Jessica looked up from the little patch of herbs she had been tending by the fence. Soil smudged her fingers. A curl of chestnut-brown hair had slipped loose from the ribbon at the nape of her neck and clung to her cheek. “Yes, Mama?”

Nora Marks stood in the open window, flour dusting one forearm, her eyes sharp with the kind of concern mothers pretended was ordinary curiosity. “Your father says the bell is ringing.” Nora told Jessica.

Jessica straightened automatically. The village bell did not ring at dusk. Not unless there was a fire, a death, a border warning, or a royal decree. For one strange moment, the evening seemed to tilt. The laughter down the lane stopped. A door opened. Then another. Somewhere nearby a woman called for her children.

Jessica turned towards the centre of the village as the bell rang again, deep and iron-heavy, rolling across the fields. Once. Twice. A third time. Inside Jessica’s chest, her wolf stirred. Ally had been half-asleep, curled in that warm inner place where Jessica felt her most days like a second heartbeat, soft and silver and watchful. Now she lifted her head.

Something is coming. Ally said, and Jessica froze. Her wolf did not often speak without reason. Ally was gentle by nature, more curious than fierce, more likely to notice a wounded sparrow than a threat beyond the trees. She was not timid, not exactly, but she carried her instincts quietly. She had never been like the bolder wolves Jessica heard about from other girls, wolves who snarled for mates and status and moonlit runs.

“What is it?” Jessica whispered.

Ally’s answer came like the brush of fur against Jessica’s soul: I do not know. That response frightened Jessica more than certainty would have.

Her father emerged from the shed, wiping his hands on a rag. Thomas Marks was not a large man compared with the warriors who sometimes rode through the village from the northern road, but he had a steadiness about him that had always made Jessica feel safe. His hair was more grey than brown now, his shoulders bent slightly from years of craft and labour, but when his eyes found Jessica’s, she saw the same unease she felt inside herself.

“Come,” he said. “Best we hear it with everyone else.”

Nora had already appeared at the door, shawl pulled around her shoulders, her flour-dusted hands clean enough but still pale at the knuckles. She looked at Jessica as though she wanted to say something comforting, but the bell rang again, and whatever comfort she might have offered seemed to disappear beneath the sound.

They joined the others moving towards the village square. Their village, Brackenridge, sat close enough to the royal road to hear news quickly, but far enough from Silverstorm Castle that crowns and court politics felt more like weather in another country. The Thundering Storm Pack was vast, old, and powerful, its royal family seated in a castle most villagers had only seen on coins, festival banners, and carved ceremonial tablets in the Moon Hall.

Jessica had seen a painting of Silverstorm Castle once in a travelling merchant’s book. Towers rising like spears into the clouds, silver banners snapping from impossible heights, and frost-white stone lit by moonlight. It had looked too beautiful to be lived in. It looked like something from a story.

By the time the Marks family reached the square, most of Brackenridge had gathered beneath the old clock tower. Mothers held children close. Young men stood with their arms folded, pretending not to be anxious. Several unmated girls Jessica’s age clustered together near the fountain, whispering with wide eyes. Jessica recognised them all. Clara Bell, who had golden curls and a laugh that made men turn their heads. Amelia Frost, whose father owned half the grazing land beyond the river. Tessa Vale, tall, sharp-faced, ambitious, and already dressed as though she expected the announcement to concern her personally.

Jessica stayed beside her parents. It was not that people were cruel to her ... at least they were not usually cruel. They simply did not look at her the way they looked at girls like Clara and Tessa. Jessica was liked, in the way people liked warm bread or clean linen or a familiar song. She was pleasant, dependable, sweet. No one looked at sweet girls and thought of destiny.

At the foot of the clock tower stood Beta Corwin Hale, the royal-appointed governor of their district. He was a broad, severe man with silver threading through his black beard and the faint scar of an old claw wound across his jaw. Beside him stood two mounted royal guards in dark blue uniforms trimmed with silver. The crest of the Thundering Storm Pack gleamed at their shoulders: a wolf beneath a crown, lightning splitting the sky behind it.

The square quietened. Even the children seemed to understand that something important had reached them. Beta Corwin unrolled a parchment sealed with silver wax. Jessica felt her mother’s hand slip into hers.

“By decree of Alpha King Alfred Silverstorm,” the Beta began, his voice carrying across the square, “and by the blessing of Luna Queen Livy Silverstorm, let this summons be heard in every village, town, province, and border settlement under the protection of the Thundering Storm Pack.” A murmur travelled through the crowd, and Jessica’s fingers tightened around her mother’s.

Beta Corwin continued. “The Crown hereby calls all unmated females of eligible age, born of loyal pack blood and free of existing bond, promise, or claim, to present themselves at Silverstorm Castle before the next full moon.” The world seemed to go very still for a moment. Then beside the fountain, one of the girls gasped.

Jessica blinked. All unmated females?

“The Crown believes,” Beta Corwin said, each word formal and heavy, “that the time has come for His Royal Highness, Alpha Prince Edward Silverstorm, heir to the Thundering Storm Pack, to take a bride and prepare for his future rule.”

This time, the square erupted in a million whispers. No one dared speak over the royal decree while the Beta still held the parchment. But sound rippled through the crowd all the same: sharp breaths, whispered names, a stifled laugh, a mother’s startled prayer.

Prince Edward Silverstorm, even in Brackenridge, his name had weight. Jessica had never seen him, of course; very few had. But rumours of him travelled farther than royal messengers. He was said to be beautiful beyond reason, with hair pale as winter sunlight and eyes like blue fire. He was said to be powerful, brilliant, untouchable. Some said he had never lost a sparring match. Others said his wolf was a creature of pure silver and storm.

Girls spoke of him the way they spoke of legends. Even Jessica, who did not enjoy gossip, had once heard Clara Bell sigh that the prince’s mate would be the luckiest woman alive. Now Clara stood near the fountain with both hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes shining.

Beta Corwin lifted one hand, and the murmuring faded. “All summoned females shall be received at Silverstorm Castle and presented before the royal family. The Moon’s will shall be honoured. The Prince’s bride shall be chosen in accordance with sacred law, royal tradition, and the good of the realm.”

The Moon’s will. Jessica felt Ally go very quiet inside her. A strange sensation moved over Jessica’s skin, not quite a shiver, not quite a breeze. For a heartbeat she had the impossible feeling that something had turned its face towards her from a very long way away. Then it passed, and she exhaled.

“Those who fail to attend without lawful exemption will be considered in breach of royal decree,” Beta Corwin finished. “Travel arrangements shall begin at dawn in two days’ time. Families will present names to the district office before noon tomorrow.” He rolled the parchment. The announcement was over.

For several seconds, no one moved. Then the square broke open with noise. Mothers began speaking over daughters. Fathers frowned. Girls clutched each other’s hands. Someone laughed in disbelief. Someone else began to cry. Clara Bell was surrounded at once by her sisters, all of them whispering as though she were already halfway to becoming royalty.

Jessica stood very still. This all felt absurd. Not frightening exactly, well at least not yet. It was more like someone had opened a door in the middle of her ordinary life and revealed a corridor that should not have existed - Silverstorm Castle. Prince Edward. A royal bride selection. All unmated females ...which meant her.

“Jessica,” her mother said softly.

Jessica turned to see that Nora’s face was pale. “I have to go,” Jessica said, because it was the first true thing her mind could find.

Her father’s jaw tightened. “We will see if there is some exemption.”

“There won’t be,” Nora said quietly, and Thomas looked at her. Nora’s eyes did not leave Jessica. “She is twenty-one. Unmated. No promise. No claim.” Her mouth trembled a little before she pressed it firm. “The decree applies.”

“But surely they do not expect every girl to be truly considered,” Thomas said, frustration roughening his voice. “This is politics. They will choose some Alpha’s daughter. Some noble girl raised for court. Not—” He stopped. Not our Jessica. He did not say it cruelly. That was the worst part.

Jessica almost smiled to comfort him. “I know, Papa,” she said. “I know they won’t choose me.” Because they would not. Of course they would not. Jessica thought.

Jessica Marks from Brackenridge, with soil beneath her nails and three patched hems in her travelling cloak, was not the sort of girl a prince looked at twice. She was not the sort of girl who married into castles. She was the sort of girl who read about those marriages by candlelight while her mother slept in the next room and the winter wind tapped gently at the glass. She did not belong in royal halls. She knew that.

Ally shifted inside her and asked. Do we have to go?

Jessica’s heart softened. “Yes,” she whispered inwardly. “I think we do.”

Around them, the village continued to churn with excitement and fear. Tessa Vale’s mother was already discussing gowns. Clara Bell was crying now, but smiling through it, as if overwhelmed by the possibility of being chosen. Amelia Frost stood very straight, chin lifted, eyes bright with calculation.

Jessica watched them and felt oddly distant. There were girls here who wanted this. Girls who would step into Silverstorm Castle with hope blazing in their chests. Girls who had imagined a prince seeing them and knowing, instantly and forever, that they were the one the Moon had made for him.

Jessica had imagined love like that too, not with a prince, never with anyone so grand. But in secret, in the tender privacy of her own heart, she had imagined recognition. A man looking at her and softening. A wolf seeing Ally and choosing her. A bond that felt not like a trap, not like a duty, but like coming home. Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she looked down before anyone could see the foolishness in her face.

It was only a visit, she told herself. Two days of travel. A presentation. Perhaps a glimpse of the castle library, if she was lucky. A hall full of girls far more suitable than she would ever be. Then home again to Brackenridge, to her mother’s bread and her father’s steady hands and the little herb garden by the fence. Nothing more.

“Jess,” her father said, voice gentler now and she looked up. Thomas reached for her free hand. There was worry in his eyes, but something like pride too, which made Jessica’s throat ache. “You keep your head up there, do you hear me? Crown or no crown, castle or no castle, you are no less than any girl in this kingdom.”

Jessica swallowed. “I know.” She did not know, not really. But she loved him for saying it.

Nora touched Jessica’s cheek with semi flour-rough fingers. “And you remember that beauty can be loud, but goodness lasts longer.”

Jessica let out a soft, shaky laugh. “Mama.”

“I mean it.” Nora’s eyes shone. “Do not let those polished girls make you feel small.”

Jessica glanced again at Clara, Tessa, Amelia, all bright and excited and already half-transformed by possibility. “I do feel small,” she admitted.

Her mother’s face changed, tenderness folding into something fiercer. “Then feel small and go anyway.”

For some reason, those words settled deep in Jessica's bones. Feel small and go anyway. Jessica nodded.

Above the square, the first star appeared in the lavender sky. The Moon had not yet risen, but Jessica felt its absence the way one felt a room before someone important entered it. The air seemed charged, waiting and watching. She looked towards the north, where the royal road vanished beyond the hills. Silverstorm Castle waited somewhere at the end of it. The prince waited too, but not for her, of course. There was no way he could be waiting for her.

Still, inside her chest, Ally stood and turned towards the road, ears pricked, silver eyes fixed on something Jessica could not see. Jessica pressed a hand lightly over her heart. “What is it?” she whispered again.

For a long moment, her wolf did not answer. Then Ally said, very softly, very uncertainly: The Moon feels restless.

Jessica stood in the village square beneath the fading gold of an ordinary evening, surrounded by girls dreaming of crowns, parents whispering of duty, and royal guards waiting beside silver-crested horses. She tried to tell herself nothing was beginning. She tried to tell herself she would go to the castle, stand at the back, be overlooked, and return home unchanged. But far above Brackenridge, beyond the clouds gathering over the northern hills, the unseen Moon seemed to pull one thin silver thread through the darkening sky, and somewhere deep inside Jessica Marks, something answered.