Chapter 8: The Bitter Feast
The hum of the grand hall was a living thing, a vibration that started in the carved oak beams and settled deep in Rio’s bones. It wasn’t the pure, wild song of the forest. This was a symphony of power, appetite, and sharp, watching eyes. The air hung thick with the scent of seared meat, rich herbs, and the cloying sweetness of moon-wine, but underneath it all, Rio caught the darker threads: anxiety, ambition, and the acidic tang of envy.
She sat rigidly at Agatha’s right hand, the High Alpha’s throne-like chair making her own seem like an afterthought. The dress they’d given her was a weapon. Sleeveless and cut from a deep emerald velvet so dark it was nearly black, it hugged her ribs before plunging in a daring V that ended just above her navel. The back was non-existent, a single clasp at the nape of her neck holding the front half up, leaving her spine and the soft curves of her shoulders completely bare. A slit ran up one thigh, revealing a flash of skin with every slight shift. It was couture as conquest. Every freckle, every whisper of her earthy scent, was on display.
Agatha’s hand rested on that exposed thigh under the long table, her thumb stroking idle, possessive circles on Rio’s skin. The touch was a brand. It said mine more clearly than any shout.
“The venison is from the southern woods,” Agatha said to the table at large, her voice a smooth, carrying contralto. “A gift from the Pine-Throat Pack. Their loyalty, as always, is tasted before it’s heard.” She took a slow sip of her wine, her storm-cloud eyes scanning the assembled faces.
Rio followed her gaze. There were maybe thirty of them, Alphas and their attendant omegas or betas from a half-dozen neighboring covens and allied packs. The omegas were all beautiful, polished, their scents carefully modulated with subtle blockers. They wore elegant, covering gowns. They did not have wild copper curls or skin marked by sun and thorn. They looked at Rio like she was a fascinating, feral animal dragged in from the storm.
An Alpha with a sharp goatee and cold eyes—Marius of the Flint Coven—leaned forward. “A curious addition to your table, Agatha. We’d heard you had an… aversion to permanent company.”
The stroke on Rio’s thigh stopped. Agatha’s fingers tightened, just slightly. “Hearsay is for the weak-minded, Marius. I have an aversion to inadequacy.” She turned her head, her gaze settling on Rio. The intensity was a physical heat. “I found something that isn’t inadequate.”
Rio felt a blush creep up her chest. She focused on her plate, pushing roasted root vegetables around with a silver fork she barely knew how to hold.
“She’s a naturalist, is she not?” This from a severe-looking woman, Lyra, High Alpha of the Silver Veil Coven. Her own omega, a delicate man with silver-dusted hair, sat silently beside her, eyes downcast. “Unpacked. I believe I’ve seen her foraging near the twilight marshes. Selling belladonna to apothecaries.”
The words were not wrong, but they were designed to diminish. To frame her as a common peddler.
Agatha’s smile showed teeth. “She knows the liminal spaces better than your border sentries, Lyra. Her craft is unspoiled by committee. A rare thing.” Her hand slid higher under the table, the warm pressure just brushing the inner seam of the velvet. Rio’s breath hitched. “My borders haven’t flickered in three days. You’ll find the ley-line tributary that passes through the disputed gulch is running perfectly stable. A testament to… focused resources.”
A ripple went through the Alphas. That was the real talk. Power. Territory. Rio was the “focused resource.”
Marius’s cold eyes narrowed. “Convenient. And will this resource be presented for the traditional blessing at the lunar apex? Or is her magic too unspoiled for ceremony?”
The blessing. Rio had heard of it. A ritual where an omega’s harmony with their Alpha was tested and displayed by channeling a shared spell. It was intimate, complex, and a public proof of a bond’s strength. Many paired couples practiced for months.
Agatha’s fingers dug in, a silent command for silence as Rio opened her mouth. “She will be presented,” Agatha stated, her voice leaving no room for doubt. “The moon will find her more than ready.”
The rest of the feast passed in a blur of probing stares, pointed questions masked as polite conversation, and the constant, unsettling touch beneath the table. Agatha’s hand was a claim, a reassurance, and a cage all at once. Rio drank the moon-wine too quickly. It was sweet and heavy, amplifying the low thrum of the bond between them, making Agatha’s scent of jasmine and ozone almost dizzying.
As desserts were cleared, the atmosphere loosened, fueled by wine. An omega from a minor pack, a young man with flushed cheeks, stumbled slightly as he rose. His goblet tipped, and a splash of dark wine arced across the table.
It landed on Rio’s chest.
The cold shock of it made her gasp. The velvet darkened instantly over her right breast, the stain spreading. Conversation hiccupped. The young omega paled, stammering apologies.
Before Rio could even look down, Agatha was moving. Not with anger, but with a terrifying, deliberate calm. She stood, her presence instantly sucking the air from the space around them. With one hand, she picked up her own pristine linen napkin.
“Clumsiness is a tedious flaw,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmur. She didn’t look at the stammering omega. Her entire focus was on Rio.
She turned. With slow, ceremonial precision, she dabbed the napkin against the stain on Rio’s dress. The touch was through the fabric, but it felt more invasive than anything that had happened in the tower. Her other hand came up to cradle Rio’s jaw, holding her still, forcing her amber eyes up.
“But it provides an opportunity,” Agatha continued, loud enough for all to hear. “A reminder.” Her thumb swept over Rio’s lower lip. The napkin dropped, wine-soaked, to the floor.
Then Agatha bent her head.
Her tongue, hot and deliberate, licked a slow, wet stripe from the hollow of Rio’s throat up over the stained curve of her breast, cleaning the wine from her skin.
Rio froze. The hall fell into absolute silence. The sensation was not sexual; it was primal. A claiming so blatant, so vulgar, it stole the breath from every witness. The bond between them vibrated, a chord struck deep and low, ringing with Agatha’s absolute dominance.
Agatha straightened, a flicker of violet in her gaze. She tasted her lips, never breaking eye contact with Rio. “There. All better.”
She turned back to the stunned assembly, her arm snaking possessively around Rio’s bare shoulders, pulling her close to her side. Rio’s skin burned where Agatha’s tongue had been.
“The feast is concluded,” Agatha announced, her tone dismissing them all. “My omega and I have preparations for the lunar apex. See yourselves out.”
She didn’t wait for a response. She guided Rio, who moved on legs of water, away from the table, through the gaping crowd, and out of the grand hall. The last thing Rio heard was the explosive, hurried whisper of conversation that erupted in their wake.
In the cold, quieter stone of the corridor, Agatha’s grip tightened. She pushed Rio against the wall, her body caging her in. The scent of night-blooming jasmine was overwhelming.
“You see?” Agatha whispered, her breath hot on Rio’s ear. “They want to pick at you. To see what you’re made of. To see if you’re weak.” She pulled back just enough to search Rio’s face. “You will not give them a single thing. At the blessing, you will not flinch. You will channel everything you are through me. Do you understand?”
Rio, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, her skin still buzzing from the very public mark, could only nod. The loneliness of the wild spaces felt like a dream from another life. This was her reality now: stone, scrutiny, and the terrifying, all-consuming fire of the Alpha whose taste still lingered on her skin.
Agatha’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “Good.”
She took Rio’s hand, her fingers lacing through with a startling, possessive firmness, and led her deeper into the heart of the coven, away from the eyes. The path felt less like a walk and more like a pull, drawing them both toward the coming moon, and the test it would bring.