Mated To A King Who Hates Me

Amiyah POV

The Blackwood Pack House loomed before me like a beast carved from dark stone and ancient timber, radiating an aura of wealth and suffocating tradition. As the heavy oak doors groaned open, I didn't step into a welcoming home; I stepped onto a battlefield.

Standing in the center of the entrance hall was a woman who wore her bitterness like a second skin. Georgiana Wilder, the former Luna. Her eyes raked over me, dissecting my simple travel clothes with surgical precision.

"So," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "This is what the Elders dragged in from the backwoods."

Before I could introduce myself, she snapped her fingers. An Omega servant scurried forward, trembling, clutching a spray bottle that smelled of acrid herbs and chemical lemon.

"Cleanse her," Georgiana commanded, wrinkling her nose as if I were a walking disease. "We cannot have the filth of the rogue lands and public transport contaminating my son's home."

The servant hesitated, fear in her eyes, before spraying a mist of the stinging liquid toward me. It settled on my skin, cold and insulting. My Inner Wolf bristled, pacing in the back of my mind, urging me to bare my teeth. *Disrespect,* she growled.

I didn't flinch. I didn't step back. I simply lifted my chin, channeling the icy composure my grandfather, the Alpha of the Silvermoon Pack, had drilled into me since birth.

"You can stop," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried the undeniable weight of authority. The servant froze, the bottle lowering instantly.

I locked eyes with Georgiana. "You can spray me with all the sage and lavender in the world, Mrs. Wilder, but it won't cover up the scent clinging to you." I took a deliberate step closer, inhaling deeply. "It smells like sour milk and insecurity. Jealousy is a hard scent to wash off."

Georgiana’s face turned a mottled shade of red, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Without waiting for her retort, I brushed past her, signaling the end of the conversation.

I walked into the Great Hall, a cavernous space dominated by a massive stone fireplace and trophies of past wars. Sprawled across a leather sofa was a girl about my age, scrolling through her phone with bored affectation. Cassidy Wilder.

She looked up, her lip curling. "Oh, look. The mail-order bride has arrived." She sat up, tossing her hair. "I heard you took the train here. How quaint. Did your little pack not have enough gas money for a car? Or do you just enjoy smelling like the unwashed masses?"

I almost laughed. If only she knew that my grandfather had rented out the entire high-speed rail line for my journey just so I wouldn't have to deal with traffic. But lions do not explain themselves to sheep.

I didn't break my stride. I didn't even look at her. I simply treated her like part of the furniture—insignificant and dull.