The Beta’s Ugly Daughter

Chapter 7

Sleep was impossible with Wyatt's jacket burning like a secret beneath my mattress and his voice echoing through my skull like a war chant.

Your work is extraordinary, Gail.

I paced my cramped room like a caged wolf, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—two impossible versions existing in the same devastating package.

Wyatt in the archives, leaning forward with that predatory focus as I explained territorial disputes. The way those silver-blue eyes had locked onto mine instead of sliding past like I was furniture.

Then Wyatt in the grove, calling me Red with hunger burning in his voice. Close enough to touch, close enough to kiss, close enough to destroy everything I thought I understood about my place in this world.

A soft knock at my door froze me mid-step.

"Gail?" Mira's voice drifted through the wood like a dagger wrapped in silk. "Are you awake?"

Panic slammed into my chest. I shoved Wyatt's jacket deeper under the mattress, my hands shaking as I smoothed down my nightgown.

"Come in," I managed, my voice cracking.

She slipped inside like moonlight given form, her silk nightgown making her look ethereal in the dim light. Even at midnight, she was devastatingly beautiful.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, settling onto my narrow bed without invitation. "The wedding preparations are driving me insane."

"What's wrong?" I perched on the room's only chair, grateful for the distance.

"Everything." She laughed, but the sound carried no humor. "Mother wants white roses, his mother insists on red. The council demands a traditional ceremony, but Alpha Sullivan wants to modernize the ritual. Even the fucking menu is a political nightmare."

The rare profanity from Mira's lips shocked me. She was always so composed, so perfectly controlled.

"Can't you just choose what makes you happy?" I asked.

"Happy?" She turned to look at me, her expression sharp as broken glass. "Gail, this isn't about happiness. This is about uniting two bloodlines, strengthening territorial alliances, producing the next generation of leaders."

"But surely you want some say in your own wedding—"

"Want?" She stood abruptly, beginning to pace my small room. "What I want stopped mattering the day I was promised to him at age seven."

The bitterness in her voice made my chest tight. "Mira—"

"Do you know what it's like?" She whirled to face me, her eyes blazing. "To spend your entire life preparing to marry someone you barely know? To have every conversation analyzed for compatibility, every interaction scrutinized for pack advantage?"

I stared at her, seeing not the perfect future Luna but a girl trapped in a golden cage. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Her voice softened slightly. "Be grateful you get to choose your own path."

Choose. The word hit like a physical blow. As if I'd ever had choices.

"I should let you sleep," she said, moving toward the door. "I just needed to talk to someone who wouldn't give me political advice or remind me of my duties."

"Mira." The word escaped before I could stop it. "Are you... are you happy with him?"

She paused, her hand on the door handle. "Happiness is a luxury I can't afford. But Wyatt is... kind. Respectful. He could have been much worse."

She slipped out, leaving me alone with the devastating realization that even golden princesses lived in prisons.

I collapsed onto my bed, my mind reeling. Mira's confession should have made me feel better—if she didn't love Wyatt, maybe my feelings weren't such a betrayal. Instead, it made everything worse.

Because now I knew he was trapped too.

I rolled onto my side, pulling my knees to my chest as the memories crashed over me like waves. Wyatt in the archives, looking at my work with genuine fascination.

The way his fingers had almost brushed mine when we'd reached for the same document.

What would it have felt like if he'd made contact? If those strong, calloused hands had covered mine instead of pulling away?

I let myself imagine it—his palm against mine, warm and solid and real. The way his silver eyes might have darkened with something beyond professional interest.

How his voice might have dropped to that rough whisper I'd heard in the forest when he'd called me Red.

The memory of his words made the heat pool low in my belly. In the grove, he'd looked at me like I was something precious, something worth wanting.

His transformed self had wanted to kiss me, had confessed desires that made my blood sing. I pressed my face into my pillow, trying to muffle the sound that escaped my throat—half sob, half moan.

What would it feel like to be chosen by him? Not out of duty or political necessity, but because he wanted me. Because he saw something in me worth keeping.

I imagined his hands in my hair—my real hair, not the transformed ginger locks he'd admired as Red. Would he still find me beautiful if he knew the truth?

Would those silver eyes still burn with hunger if he saw me as I really was?

The fantasy shifted, became more vivid. Wyatt's mouth against mine, his breath hot against my lips as he whispered my name. Not Red, not some mysterious forest creature, but Gail.

Plain, broken Gail who organized dusty records and cleaned floors.

In my imagination, he didn't care about my appearance or my status. He wanted me for my mind, for the way I'd organized decades of pack politics, for the intelligence he'd recognized and praised.

Your work is extraordinary.

I could almost feel his hands on my skin, reverent and desperate. Could almost hear him telling me I was brilliant, beautiful, worth everything he was risking by choosing me over duty.

But fantasy collided with reality like ice water to the face. In two months, he'd be mated to Mira under the full moon. The ceremony was planned, the alliance sealed.

Nothing I felt or wanted would change that.

I pulled Wyatt's jacket from beneath my mattress, clutching it against my chest. It still smelled like him—pine and smoke and something uniquely male that made my head spin.

This was all I'd ever have. Stolen moments in archives where he saw my mind. Midnight encounters in the forest where he desired my transformed body. Fragments of connection that could never become whole.

But as I buried my face in his jacket, breathing in his scent like a drug, I knew with terrible certainty that these fragments weren't enough anymore.

I wanted everything. His respect and his desire, his mind and his body, his duty and his choice.

I wanted him to know that the brilliant archivist and the mysterious Red were the same person. Wanted him to choose me anyway, to fight for me, to risk everything for the possibility of something real.

The want was a living thing in my chest, growing stronger every day, fed by every kind word and every heated glance.

And that terrified me more than anything else ever had.

Because wanting Wyatt Sullivan completely was the first step toward losing myself entirely.