When Ceremony Becomes a Vendetta

VANESSA

My heart hammered against my ribs as Wesley's challenge hung in the air. This wasn't about tradition. This was about me, about marking territory like I was some prize to be won rather than a woman with my own mind.

The crowd parted as Roman stepped forward, his face unreadable except for the slight tightening around his eyes. He moved with that lethal grace that had always fascinated me—power contained but never hidden.

"I accept," Roman said simply.

My father approached with ceremonial staffs—polished oak rods topped with silver emblems of our packs. These matches were supposed to be symbolic, a display of skill rather than true combat.

But the tension crackling between these two Alphas told a different story.

"Remember the rules," my father said, his voice carrying across the now-silent gathering. "First to three touches wins. No shifting, no drawing blood."