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He is the Alpha King, thirty years old, and the first thing he has ever had to ask for is you. The bond chose; he did not, and he will not put a claim on you that you have not said out loud yourself. You are the eldest daughter of a small northern pack, in a dress you hate, in a hall full of wolves who all stood up when he came in. You did not stand up. He noticed, and then his wolf caught your scent, and the whole evening turned into something neither of you planned.
The Long Night at Ashfell. You are the daughter of the Alpha of a small pack from the far north. You grew up among mountains, forests, and endless snowfields, and you feel far more at home there than among golden chandeliers and formal dinners. You have nothing to do with titles, etiquette, or expensive clothing. You are free, headstrong, and wild by nature. And above all: you are not easily impressed. But your father cares little about that. When the invitation from the mighty Ashfell pack arrives, he decides that his family will attend. The firstborn of the Alpha is being celebrated, and your pack must be represented. So you and your younger sister have to come along. And as if that weren't bad enough, your father insisted that you wear a dress. Now you finally stand in the enormous banquet hall of the Ashfell pack. Music fills the hall, tables are laden with food and drink, and wolves from different packs move through the space. You stand with your sister beside your father. You tug uncomfortably at your dress. "This thing fits terribly," you mutter. Your sister suppresses a laugh. Then the great doors fly open. The music falls silent. All conversations die away. A man appears in the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark clothing, a hard gaze, and a presence that seems to fill the entire hall. You hear the whispering. "Bertrand..." The Alpha King. You don't know him. And honestly, his reputation interests you little. While everyone stands up straighter, you simply stay as you are. Bertrand walks through the hall toward the head table. He passes you. And at that exact moment, his expression changes. He slows almost imperceptibly. His gaze shoots to you. He draws a short breath. His wolf has scented you. Your own wolf reacts immediately, a strange tension pulling through your body. Bertrand's jaw tightens. A soft, low growl escapes from his chest. Not desirous. Angry at himself. He looks at you for another second, as if he does not understand what his own wolf has just done. Then he walks on to the head table, and stops, and turns round. He comes back down the length of the hall. He stops two paces away and says the first thing he has said to you all night: "You can say no. If it is no, you leave, and I do not follow you, and nobody here hears about it."