CHAPTER 245: STANDING BY HIS WIFE

(Third Person).

Gabriel, however, sat back in his chair, his surprise carefully masked. Draven defending Meredith was unusual—suspicious, even.

No sane Alpha, especially one set to be King, would bind himself to a wolfless deviant without reason. And if Draven had a reason, Gabriel intended to find it.

In that moment, he decided he would send Gary and Mabel to Duskmoor. They would watch Meredith closely, see if anything could be uncovered from Draven.

The room had just begun to settle when Draven’s next words dropped like a blade.

"One more thing," he said, the quietness of his tone making it all the more dangerous. "If any of you think to make a foul play against her, remember this—Meredith is my mate. Touch her... and you touch me."

A moment passed, then suddenly, the chamber erupted in sharp gasps.

Shock rippled through the assembly, as visible as a wave breaking across the shore.

Oscar’s eyes went wide. Jeffery’s lips parted. Even Randall’s controlled facade cracked, his frown deepening in genuine surprise.

Gabriel’s hand froze on the table. The revelation struck him like a blow—Meredith, his wolfless, cursed daughter... a true mate to the future King?

King Alderic, however, simply leaned back in his seat, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

More gasps filled the chamber like a sudden gust of wind, but Reginald’s shock was different.

It was sharper and colder.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move—his hands frozen on the table, eyes locked on Draven as if the younger man had just ripped the foundation from under his feet.

He blinked once, slow, as the words replayed in his mind.

"Meredith is my mate."

It was more than an announcement. It was the nail sealing a coffin—and the coffin was for his plans.

For years, he had maneuvered the board with quiet precision. Every dinner invitation. Every whisper in the right ear. Every calculated moment where Wanda had been placed in Draven’s path, her beauty and poise sharpened into a weapon.

The girl had grown up shadowing him like a second skin, carefully groomed to slip into the role of Queen as naturally as breathing.

Now, in the span of one sentence, Draven had taken all of that and ground it into dust in front of every Alpha, Elder, and Beta present.

Reginald’s jaw tightened until the muscles ached. He forced his face into a mask, but rage coiled under his skin like a caged beast. Mate.

That single word was a wall no amount of scheming could easily break. No council ruling. No political marriage bargain.

Wolves obeyed the bond, and no Alpha with a shred of honor—or pride—would reject his true mate without cause.

Worse, Draven had announced it here, publicly, making it almost impossible for Reginald to undermine Meredith without looking like he was openly attacking the future King’s chosen.

That meant every step he took now would have to be in the shadows, silent and precise.

He forced himself to unclench his fists. His mind, already accustomed to plotting, began twisting the new reality into possible openings.

If Meredith was truly Draven’s mate, she’d have weaknesses he could exploit—perhaps her wolfless state could still be turned against her, or her inability to win the loyalty of others.

But still... the taste of the moment was bitter. Wanda had been this close.

Across the table, Draven’s gaze lingered on him for a fraction too long, and Reginald knew—knew—that the young Alpha was enjoying every flicker of emotion that passed across his face.

---

The Oatrun estate loomed like a fortress in the night, its tall stone walls and sprawling grounds bathed in the pale glow of the moon.

As the convoy of sleek black cars rolled into the courtyard, the crunch of tires over gravel filled the otherwise still air.

Draven stepped out of his own vehicle first, his long coat billowing slightly in the cool wind.

Across the drive, his father emerged from another car, his posture straight, chin lifted, and eyes already fixed on his son.

The look they exchanged wasn’t merely a greeting—it was a silent acknowledgement that unfinished business awaited them.

"Father, I want to see you for a moment," Draven said without preamble, his voice low but edged with steel.

Randall’s eyes narrowed, his reply just as clipped. "Likewise."

No further words were exchanged as they crossed the threshold of the grand manor.

Jeffery and Oscar stepped out of the car next.

"How long do you think their conversation will last?" Oscar asked, his gaze following the father and son pair until they disappeared into the house.

Jeffery tilted his head to the side. "Probably until our stomachs start to growl and beg for food."

---

Inside, the scent of polished oak and old leather welcomed them, along with the muted crackle of a distant fireplace.

They bypassed the main hall and entered a private sitting room—Randall’s domain, with heavy curtains drawn, deep armchairs, and shelves lined with decades of political history.

The door shut with a soft thud, sealing them away from the rest of the household.

Draven didn’t waste time. "Did you tell Reginald about my... initial intentions with Meredith?"

Randall’s brow furrowed into sharp lines, his eyes narrowing. "No." The denial was firm, not defensive—but Randall’s voice carried a hint of offence, as if the very idea insulted him.

"I never divulged that piece of information to anyone, given how important it was to you."

Draven studied him for a long moment, weighing the truth in his father’s tone. Slowly, he nodded, but the muscle in his jaw ticked.

’Then it must have been Wanda.’

He sank into one of the armchairs, elbows resting on his knees, his mind sifting through possibilities.

He replayed every moment where that secret could have slipped—Oscar, Dennis, Jeffery... no, none of them would ever confide in Wanda.

They despised her too much to even give her the time of day. That left only one explanation.

"She must have overheard me," Draven muttered to himself, his voice low and measured, though a spark of irritation flashed in his eyes.

’Perhaps when I was speaking to Father and Oscar about it... or back in Duskmoor, when I told Dennis.’

He paused, his gaze darkening.

’No... the second one makes more sense. Reginald would never sit on such information for months unless Wanda fed it to him at the perfect moment.’

His hand clenched into a fist, knuckles whitening. The Wanda he had once known—the one who had been like a shadow at his side during their youth—was gone.

In her place was a cunning, restless woman willing to carve through anything and anyone to get what she wanted. And now, she had interfered with his plans in a way that had nearly put him at odds with the entire Council.

Randall’s voice cut into his thoughts, sharp and sudden. "Is it true?"

Draven looked up, his brows drawing together. "What?"

"What you said earlier," Randall said, his tone more probing now. "About Meredith. Is she truly your mate?"

For a heartbeat, silence pressed between them, the crackle of the distant fireplace in the hall barely audible.

Draven leaned back, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Do you think I would feed those greedy, power-hungry elders a lie about something so binding?"

His voice was calm, but there was a dangerous finality to it—like the last step before a drop into a chasm.

Randall’s gaze sharpened as he studied his son’s face, searching for any sign of deception. But Draven’s eyes—stormy and unyielding—offered no cracks to exploit.

At last, he leaned back in his chair with a slow exhale.

"You’re telling the truth," Randall said at length, his voice calm but laced with an edge. "Meredith really is your mate."

Draven gave a short, deliberate nod.

Randall’s next words fell like stones. "But it changes nothing."

A muscle twitched in Draven’s jaw. "What do you mean, nothing?" His voice was low but dangerous, the kind of tone that promised a storm.

His father’s expression hardened into something calculating.

"I mean, you can still proceed with your original plan. The Council won’t rest, Draven. They will bide their time. And when you return to Stormveil—especially once the war in Duskmoor ignites—they will start plotting to remove her. Mate or not."

Draven’s brows drew together, and an icy wave of displeasure rippled through him. "No." The word was sharp enough to cut.

"You didn’t hear me the first time, Father. Everything I said today at the Council was the truth. Every word. I will not divorce Meredith."

Randall’s hand tightened on the arm of his chair, his knuckles whitening. "You’re making a mistake," he snapped. "That girl is wolfless, cursed, and useless to you. When you become King, she will not strengthen your reign—she will weaken it."

"She is my mate," Draven said, his tone unflinching, "and her position will remain untouched. That is the end of it." His gaze locked with his father’s, steel meeting steel.

Randall leaned forward, his voice rising. "You will ruin yourself! You think sentiment will protect you from political reality? The Council will eat you alive if you give them this weakness."

"I don’t care," Draven cut in, his tone flat and final. "I will not abandon her. Not for them. Not for you."

For a long, tense moment, neither spoke. The silence was thick with defiance and unspoken challenge, the air between them heavy enough to press against the walls.

Finally, Draven straightened to his full height, his voice a warning edged in cold steel. "Do not bring this up again, Father. It is no longer up for discussion."