En Garde! My Wolf

"Priceless is a sentimental word," Dr. Corvin continued as we crossed the east gallery. "Everything has a value. Historical, political, academic, emotional, or financial. Usually several at once. Your job is to understand which value you are handling before you decide how it should be preserved."

She spoke without looking at me. She was perhaps fifty, though her charcoal suit and silver-threaded hair made age feel irrelevant. I liked her immediately. I also wanted, with a sickening intensity, not to fail her.

Three years of postgraduate conservation training, two museum placements, and eleven exhausting months cataloguing municipal records had taught me a harsh reality, liking a supervisor and impressing one were entirely different achievements.

"Understood," I acknowledged, keeping my pace even with hers.

"Perfect. Because you will eventually be trusted with things people have killed one another over."

I glanced at her profile, searching for a twitch of a smile or some subtle indication that she was indulging in dramatic hyperbole. None came.

"That is a remarkably intense thing to hear before nine in the morning."

"It is also true."

There was no useful response to that, so I kept my mouth shut and followed her deeper into the complex. The Hohenzollern estate shattered every expectation I'd brought on the early morning train. The original residence sat at the center, generations had grafted on offices, vaults, guest wings, labs, and museums until the place required internal maps.

Dr. Corvin had handed me one fifteen minutes earlier. I'd already checked it twice.

We passed centuries of oil portraits-most of them wolves in various degrees of regal poise. Being a wolf was ordinary biology, being Hohenzollern was an institution. One of the five Great Houses with their name stamped across banks, energy consortia, research foundations, and legislation that reached people who would never come within a hundred kilometers of these grounds. Their Alpha sat on the Concordat Council, their foundation owned three regional hospitals, and their private archive held more than two million catalogued artifacts.

That number alone accounted for half the panic in my stomach. The other half came from walking beside Dr. Maëlys Corvin, whose papers I had cited so heavily that being near her felt like standing next to an auditor of my intellectual debts.

I adjusted the strap of my bag as we turned into a quieter corridor lined with glass cases of fencing squads, tournament programs, and antique blades. A sudden, muffled roar of applause reverberated through the thick masonry walls.

I glanced up toward the ceiling. "What was that?"

"The Invitational started this morning," Dr. Corvin sighed, checking her wristwatch with a slight frown.

"I thought the main Grand Circuit didn't open until this afternoon."

"It doesn't. The morning schedule is smaller, preliminary bouts, sponsor exhibitions, and pledge matches."

I knew what pledge matches were, at least on paper. Two parties attached a legally binding concession to the outcome of a sanctioned bout, money, equity, sometimes voting rights or development contracts. The higher the stakes, the louder the outrage in the human press.

I had always found the practice absurd. Gambling on sports was one thing. Risking a multi-million-dollar distribution contract on someone's ability to thrust a blade faster than an opponent was another.

"Do people genuinely transfer major corporate assets over a fencing match?" I asked.

She cast a side-glance at me. "You've read the legal frameworks on pledge law, haven't you?"

"Yes, but reading that a legal precedent exists and seeing it being actually enforced feels like an entirely different thing."

"That," she murmured, "is an excellent perspective for an archivist to hold."

Another wave of applause cascaded down the hall.

"We have seven minutes before showing you your workplace, so you should see one."

I stared at her. "A pledge match?"

"If you are going to be working here long-term, atmospheric context will be invaluable. Besides, if I continue lecturing you on climate-control storage protocols while that noise bleeds through the walls, you won't absorb a single word."

"I would," I protested faintly.

She stopped and turned fully to face me, raising an eyebrow. "Where is the primary manuscript quarantine room located?"

I opened my mouth to answer, searched my memory, and realized I had completely forgotten the lower-level layout. I let out a defeated, quiet huff.

The ghost of a smirk touched the corner of her mouth. "Come."

She swiped a keycard and led me up a narrow spiral of stone stairs. The noise grew with every step, filled with applause, spatial audio, announcements, and the overlapping hum of hundreds of voices. At the upper landing, a security officer scanned our badges and waved us through.

The gallery opened onto the main fencing hall. I stepped to the railing, momentarily breathless. The venue was centuries old, yet modern technology had been woven seamlessly into the architecture.

"Look below," she instructed, leaning her elbows on the balustrade.

A preliminary bout was wrapping up on the central strip. Two female fencers circled each other with terrifying grace, moving at speeds no human athlete could match. Blue biometric overlays glowed beside their names, tracking heart rate and muscle activity.

I had watched high-definition clips online. Seeing it live was different.

"Are they allowed to use their full wolf strength?" I whispered, my heart thumping against my ribs.

"Never," Dr. Corvin replied. "Circuit regulations cap muscular output at thirty percent above baseline human peak. Partial shifting fangs, claws, optical shifts is strictly prohibited on the strip. Enhanced perception is unavoidable, but deliberate alpha-dominance projection is grounds for immediate disqualification."

I nodded. My gaze drifted across the arena. Certain boxes drew a constant rotation of aides and visitors, others stayed isolated. Some guests moved through security without pause, others waited. Near the center of the main balcony sat an older man whose profile I recognized from political broadcasts.

Alaric von Hohenzollern.

The patriarch and Alpha. He leaned toward the dark-haired woman beside him, Eleonore, his wife. They carried the casual composure of people who had never doubted their place at the top. Their eldest son I knew only by reputation. Dashiell von Hohenzollern, grand Circuit Champion, olympic medalist, and continental record holder.

Fencing had never held much space in my life. My mother, Celestine Borghese, had always dismissed professional wolf competitions as "crass displays of animal instinct." She insisted she bore wolves no personal ill-will while holding a dozen unyielding opinions to the contrary, a contradiction I had stopped questioning by sixteen.

A loud chime echoed through the venue, drawing my eyes back to the main floor. The primary digital display above the center piste cleared, replaced by red lettering.

REGISTERED PLEDGE MATCH

BELLACOURT COMMUNICATIONS - SOUTHERN DISTRIBUTION OPTION

12% CONDITIONAL TRANSFER

I blinked, re-reading the numbers. "That... that cannot possibly mean twelve percent of the entire parent corporation."

"No," she responded mildly.

I let out a breath. "I thought as much"

"It represents twelve percent of the regional subsidiary that controls all distribution rights across three provinces."

My relief vanished. I stared at her. "That is barely an improvement!"

"It isn't."

"Whose match is important enough to decide that?"

The overhead lights dimmed across the outer spectator bays, focusing into a beam over the central piste. The ambient chatter in the stadium didn't stop, but the energy changed instantly.

She gestured toward the far archway. "That one."

As if on cue, a fencer stepped onto the strip in black. That was the first thing that struck me. Every other athlete today had worn white, pale grey, or heraldic colors. His jacket was matte black, tailored so sharply it looked like armor, broken only by a thin gold stripe down his left arm. He carried his mask under one arm. Even from the gallery, the lineage was obvious.

Dashiell von Hohenzollern.

He stood quietly while an official inspected his weapon, unfazed by the thousands of eyes on him. His coach stepped forward and spoke into his ear. One minimalist nod, then the dark mesh mask snapped into place.

His opponent entered from the opposite side in shimmering silver and dark blue.

"Asterholt," a voice murmured behind us in the gallery.

I knew that name, too. House Asterholt controlled massive private security networks across the continent. Their long-standing, tense corporate rivalry with Hohenzollern had fueled financial tabloids for a decade.

"Which one is favored to win?" I asked softly.

"You tell me."

"I've seen exactly three minutes of live fencing in my entire life."

"You have eyes. Use them."

Fair enough. I leaned further over the railing. The Asterholt fencer bounced on the balls of his feet, shifting his weight, and twitching his blade in short nervous arcs while he waited for the command.

Dashiell stood entirely still. Arrogance, I supposed.

"En garde! Prêts? Allez!"

The first exchange lasted under four seconds. Asterholt charged, blade whistling in a flurry of speed. Dashiell yielded ground smoothly, stepping back inch by inch. Steel clashed once, twice, then a green light flashed on Dashiell's side of the piste.

Point.

The second exchange was faster. Asterholt launched high at the shoulder. Dashiell's micro-parry turned the blade a fraction of an inch and drove his own point into the center of Asterholt's chest.

Clack. Green light.

Another point.

"He's controlling the distance," I whispered.

Dr. Corvin glanced at me. "Mostly. Keep watching."

Asterholt adapted fast. Two quick touches in a row sent a roar through the far side of the arena.

At the break, Dashiell requested a weapon check. He raised his hand, unclamped the mask, and pulled it off. From the gallery I finally saw his face clearly. Dark hair clung damp to his forehead as he wiped sweat from his jaw with the back of his glove. A sudden pressure locked behind my sternum. Tight, then tighter, flooding heat up my throat and into my face. My heart slammed against my ribs hard enough that I blamed low blood sugar and the skipped breakfast.

I forced my eyes back to the piste, he lifted his mask... and snapped his head up, locking onto the exact place I stood. The pressure in my chest closed like a vice.

He was thirty feet below me on a lit stage, finishing a match with millions on the line. Two hundred people packed this side of the gallery alone. There was no reason for him to notice an anonymous assistant archivist in the shadows.

Yet his eyes never drifted as he slid the mask back on.

"Allez!"

Asterholt exploded forward in a ruthless lunge. Dashiell reacted a fraction late, and his blade missed the parry entirely.

Red light.

The Asterholt side erupted. He finally looked away, and the pressure in my chest vanished at once.

The next exchange was brutal. Dashiell advanced with cold hostility that left Asterholt no room to breathe. Heavy parries rang through the hall like gunshots. Three seconds later, the winning touch landed so fast the tip of Dashiell's blade struck the gold emblem before Asterholt had finished starting his advance.

Green light. Silence for one brief beat. Then the Hohenzollern boxes exploded. The digital board refreshed.

CONDITION SATISFIED

BELLACOURT OPTION RETAINED

Twelve percent of a massive distribution network had just stayed under one family's control because one man drove a piece of steel into another man's chest. I still found the concept absurd.

On the floor he unmasked, shook his opponent's hand without a word, spoke briefly to the official, and turned. Before he stepped off the strip, his head tilted upward one last time.

Humans did not trigger Recognition. It was an absolute law. Biology could point, but it required a wolf on both sides of the equation. Which was precisely why I refused to name what had just happened on the piste.

The woman in the gallery was human. I knew it the instant my senses locked onto her. There was no territorial scent or harmonic frequency of a beast beneath her skin. Delicate, beautiful, and utterly human. Yet my beast had nearly broken my ribs trying to reach her.

"Dashiell."

I ignored the voice and unbuttoned my collar.

Matthias Voss stood near the door of the private suite. He had been silent since we cleared the tunnel, which meant he had spent the entire walk constructing the most insufferable lecture he could manage.

"I am changing, Matthias."

"You were late on the fifth exchange."

"Severin was late twice. The scoreboard reflected the difference."

"Severin is a brute who relies on mass and momentum." He stepped into the room. "You are a Hohenzollern. You don't get to be late."

I pulled the jacket from my shoulders and reached for the towel.

"What happened out there?"

"I misread his line."

"Don't insult my intelligence. I've trained you since you were thirteen. You don't misread an advance from a man you've beaten six times this season."

"You've spent fifteen years reminding me that arrogance breeds errors."

"You make physical errors," he countered, taking a step closer. The subtle push of his beta dynamic slid off me without effect. "You freeze when something pulls your attention. You do not freeze on the strip.

I dropped the towel on the bench. "Something caught my eye in the gallery."

Matthias's eyes narrowed. "And whatever it was mattered more than a twelve percent distribution option?"

"The option remains under Hohenzollern control. I believe that concludes the athletic portion of the morning."

He stared at me. "You're hiding something."

"I am taking a shower."

"That wasn't an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting." I turned and let my gaze settle on his until the balance of the room swung back to me.

A sharp knock broke the silence. The latch clicked, and the door swung open.

Ottilie sauntered in, still in her equestrian gear, blonde hair pinned loosely at her nape. She took in Matthias's scowl and my indifference, and a slow grin spread across her face.

"Oh, marvelous. The golden boy is being lectured."

"I was not."

"We were approaching it," Matthias muttered.

"Sounds exhausting." She swept past him, pulled a bottle of mineral water from the mini-refrigerator, and drank.

"That's mine."

"You have several others."

"They're chilled for recovery."

"Mine tastes like pipe rust." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Matthias pointed at her. "This family is why I have gray hair."

Ottilie offered him a sweet smile. "You're paid a small fortune, Voss. Suffer in luxury."

"Not enough," he grunted, though the tension in his shoulders eased.

I reached for a fresh shirt. "Did Mother send you, or are you just here to ruin my peace?"

"A bit of both." She leaned against the massage table, watching me. "What actually happened out there, Dash? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"I won the bout."

"Yes, yes, we all clapped. Grand outcome." She waved a dismissive hand. "I'm asking why you turned into a statue in front of Severin."

"It was a matter of no consequence."

"It was most certainly not a matter of no consequence, Dash." she countered, her tone dropping its teasing edge, revealing the razor-sharp mind beneath her spoiled heiress exterior. "The entire box held its breath because we all thought you'd finally lost your mind."

I buttoned a cuff. "They worry too much."

"Was it equipment failure?" she pressed, stepping closer. "Did you sense an unsanctioned Alpha shift in the crowd?"

"No."

"Did you hear something?"

My hand paused.

"You did," she said quietly. "You heard something."

"Cease making a mountain out of an absolute molehill, dear sister," I replied, slipping my wrist into the fabric.

"I beg your pardon." She stepped up to me, reaching out to adjust the collar of my shirt. "You looked rattled. I don't think I've ever seen you rattled in my entire life. It's almost human."

"Careful, sister. Your affection is showing."

She snorted and handed me the half-empty bottle. "Mother expects you in the north salon at eleven forty-five. Varenne arrived from Paris early. She wants the family looking pristine before the press conference."

"Tell her I'll be there."

Ottilie turned toward the door, her boots clicking softly against the floor. She paused at the threshold, turning back with a wicked smirk.

"And Dashiell? Whatever existential crisis you're having, keep it out of the three o'clock match. I put thirty million on you to clear the finals in under four minutes."

I raised an eyebrow. "It is explicitly illegal for House members to wager on sanctioned bouts."

Her smirk widened. "Which is why it's in my stylist's name. Don't disappoint me, brother."

She flashed a brilliant, heartless smile and vanished down the hall, letting the door click shut behind her.

Matthias let out a long breath and picked up my discarded jacket. "Your family is utterly psychotic."

"You signed the contract renewal last month."

"A decision I regret daily." He hung the jacket on the rack and checked his tablet. "Recovery protocols in thirty minutes. Whatever you saw up in those rafters-deal with it before you step back onto my strip."

I gave him a short nod.

Only when the lock clicked, and I was alone, did the mask slip. I sat heavily on the sofa, elbows on my knees, and let out a low, ragged breath.

The pressure behind my sternum had not fully released. It sat there like a second heartbeat. My wolf still paced beneath my skin, refusing the quiet I demanded of it. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until the amber light burning behind them finally dimmed.

Recognition with a human was impossible. Every text, every archive, and every piece of theology I had been forced to learn said so. There had to be another explanation-exhaustion, adrenaline, some fluke of the arena's air system. Anything was more acceptable than the alternative.

I had twenty minutes before I was required to sit in a salon and pretend to care about corporate diplomacy. Twenty minutes to prove to myself that she was only an ordinary human woman, and the pull in my chest was nothing more than a ghost.

The harsh glare of the examination lamp showed every flaw in the century-old fencing jacket. Dr. Corvin had charged me with finding every place a mid-century curator had "improved" it with synthetic thread. Painstaking work. I welcomed it.

"Criminal," I murmured under my breath.

Anika, a junior conservator with messy braided hair, glanced over from the next worktable. "What is it?"

"Polyester."

She pressed a gloved hand to her heart in mock horror. "Thoughts and prayers to your sanity."

I shook my head in response. Dr. Corvin had vanished upstairs twenty minutes earlier for an administrative meeting, leaving me with strict instructions to complete the preliminary condition report before touching anything else.

The shutter clicked as I captured the final angle of a particularly botched seam, the high-resolution image flashing onto the connected monitor. Across the desk, the sharp, rhythmic buzz of a phone vibrated against the leather blotter. Anika reached out, swiped the screen, and let out a heavy groan. Without a word, she began sliding her calipers into their cases and clearing her workspace.

"You're leaving?" I asked, holding a scale ruler against the wool.

"Lunch."

"It's two-fifteen."

"Precisely." She slid her diagnostic tablet into a locked drawer. "Coming?"

I looked at the jacket, then at the half-filled intake form, and back at her. " I should finish logging the shoulder lining first."

She stopped, giving me a look of theatrical pity. "Dr. Corvin has already infected you."

"I want to finish this before the lighting shifts."

"That's how it starts, Zhenevieva," she warned, pointing two solemn fingers at me. "Next thing you know, you're forty-seven, you own twelve identical cardigans, and you have furious, unyielding opinions about nineteenth-century bone glue."

"Go eat your lunch," I laughed.

She left with a dramatic sigh.

The garment on my table belonged to Konrad von Hohenzollern, a celebrated figure from the early Grand Circuit era. He had worn it during the 1921 continental season and, according to the archivist's ledger, had stubbornly refused to let the House replace it after an Italian épée nearly parted the sleeve from the collar during a brutal semifinal in Lyon. Which made the cheap, 1980s polyester repair feel like an insult to a war hero.

I adjusted my posture to tilt the macro-lens, centering a particularly egregious knot of synthetic fiber in the viewfinder. The intense, white glare reflecting off the examination table vanished as the light was suddenly cut off, replaced by a shadow.

A sharp intake of breath caught in my throat as I threw my weight back so hard the stool scraped the floor.

I lifted my chin slowly, my pulse instantly skyrocketing into a frantic tempo. Dashiell von Hohenzollern's presence simply flooded my field of vision. He stood directly across the table, his imposing frame anchored by dark tailored trousers and a pale grey dress shirt.

The open collar exposed the hard column of his throat, leading the eye down to sleeves rolled twice up his forearms to reveal the clean, shifting lines of powerful muscle. Before my brain could even process the sudden proximity, the harsh white light of the lamp caught the geometry of his jawline and the dark strands of hair falling slightly out of place across his brow. Then, his gaze caught mine.

The same pressure beneath my sternum from this morning surged back with terrifying intensity.

"Mr. von Hohenzollern."

His eyes drifted over my face before dropping to the antique wool garment resting between us.

"That repair isn't original."

"Yes, sir," I responded, keeping my tone perfectly flat. "The original linen repair along the shoulder seam remains intact. This synthetic stitch was added much later."

A subtle tightening touched the corner of his jaw. "Barbaric."

I blinked, momentarily thrown. Then I looked back down at the offending thread. "Completely."

He circled the table slowly, keeping a respectful distance from the exposed textile without me having to remind him... a flawless demonstration of conservation protocol. This was his family's private collection, he had probably been taught how to handle artifacts before I learned long division.

The heat under my ribs made breathing deliberate work. I reached for the clipboard and started tapping notes.

"Are you here for Dr. Corvin?"

"No."

His voice was absurdly polished up close. I fought down an insane urge to smile. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"I chose to divert my path down to the vaults," he remarked, lifting his gaze to meet mine. "It is always beneficial to ensure our auxiliary staff is properly supported."

Liar. I kept the accusation safely imprisoned in my throat. Archival work carried its fair share of professional risks, but brandishing a charge of dishonesty against the future ruler within the confines of his own foundations would ensure my immediate execution from the payroll.

"How fortunate for the department," I offered instead.

I quickly dropped my gaze to the report before my face could betray me.

"You were standing in the upper gallery this morning," he quipped smoothly. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, sir."

"Corvin brought you?"

"She believed observing a high-stakes pledge match would provide helpful context for the Circuit inventory."

"And did it?"

"I learned that your family is willing to gamble regional infrastructure on a fencing bout."

One dark eyebrow rose slightly. I caught myself instantly. "Professionally speaking, of course. It was very educational."

"I'm sure it was."

There was a dry, razor-thin edge of amusement in his tone that made my heart do another stupid, erratic flip. He glanced down at Konrad's jacket again, resting his fingers casually against the edge of the display frame. "What did you think of the bout?"

I hesitated. Surely the Grand Circuit champion hadn't descended three flights of stairs to solicit compliments from an assistant archivist.

"It was impressive," I answered carefully.

"That sounded remarkably diplomatic."

I met his gaze dead-on. "So was the question, sir."The words left my mouth half a second before I realized what I'd said. My blood went cold.

"Forgive me," I added quickly, stepping back into professional decorum. "My response was far too familiar."

"I asked for your opinion," he responded softly. "I don't recall specifying that it needed to be sanitized."

"You make people choose badly," I replied honestly. "You kept offering Asterholt openings that weren't really openings. Every time he believed he had forced you into a corner, he was actually stepping exactly where you wanted him."

Dashiell stared at me in complete silence. I couldn't read him at all, and I began to wonder if I had crossed a line, or if my blunt analysis had offended his aristocratic pride.

"You've never held an épée," he mumbled.

"No."

"Yet you broke down my distance control in four exchanges."

"I notice things," I replied, finding my footing. "It's my job."

"Hmmm." The low cadence of his voice sent a sudden shiver straight down my spine. He took one slow step closer. It was an entirely innocent gesture, and yet the heat behind my chest expanded so violently that my fingers cramped around the stylus.

His proximity brought a sudden wave of rich, hypnotic blend of rare black saffron and smoky Mysore sandalwood, anchored by the dangerously dark warmth of pure cacao absolute. I had lived alongside wolves my entire life, and none of them had ever made every nerve ending in my body scream in red-alert awareness.

Dashiell leaned slightly over me, his shoulder inches from mine. My breath caught in my throat. I couldn't help it.

I took a deliberate step back, using the excuse of setting my stylus into its charging dock to put distance between us.

"Was there anything else you required, sir? Or may I return to my inventory?"

He glanced down at the gold watch on his wrist. "I am keeping you from your duties."

I stared at him, my lips pressed into a tight line as I fought to formulate a response that wouldn't result in security escorting me off the premises. "A little," I admitted guardedly.

"I see."

Dashiell turned smoothly toward the door, turned the handle, and pulled the door open. "Enjoy the remainder of your afternoon, Miss."

"Thank you, Mr. von Hohenzollern."

The door clicked shut, leaving me standing alone.

"What an extraordinarily infuriating man," I whispered to the empty room.