Tamed by the Lycan Prince

17- THORIN DAWN

CHAPTER THREE

-WILHELMINA-

My morning at Gravemaw Manor passed in a blur of silk and lace as Trisha meticulously oversaw the fitting of my wedding dress. Despite the excitement that was supposed to accompany such preparations, a growing sense of unease gnawed at me. All the while, Boris' words hung over my head - a dark cloud poised to pour.

When the gilded clock in the corner chimed two, I excused myself from Trisha's relentless scrutiny and made my way to Boris' office. The servants moved like wraiths around the manor, their hushed whispers echoing through vast corridors as I passed.

A chill skittered down my spine as I approached the towering wooden door, an intricately carved monstrosity that seemed to hold centuries of secrets within its grains. With a deep breath, I raised my hand and knocked softly, my knuckles barely grazing the cool surface.

"Come in," Boris' voice echoed from within, muffled by the heavy door. I pushed the door open and stepped into a room that was a stark contrast to the rest of the manor. The chamber was cloaked in shadows, only a few rays of light filtering through the slits in the burgundy drapes leaving delicate stripes on the mahogany desk. A large painting of a fierce-looking man hung behind him, adding an eerie depth to the room.

Boris sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his face partially hidden by a stack of parchment. The air smelled of ink and old paper, with an underlying fragrance of tobacco from the cigar that was nestled between his fingers. His eyes flicked up from the parchment as I entered, a faint smile playing on his lips.

A tall figure stepped out from behind the pile of papers. His dark wavy locks cascaded down his board shoulders, like the night sky, and were tied back in a low ponytail. His striking eyes were a warm shade of brown. His face adorned with numerous piercings, and his body was a canvas of inked artwork. The man's face seemed oddly familiar, but I couldn't quite pinpoint where I had seen him before.

The man greeted me with a warm smile, "Mina, it's great to see you again. I've missed you and all of our classmates dearly." His voice carried a subtle hint of a Spanish accent.

Recognition flickered in my eyes as they widened in surprise. "Thorin?" I stuttered, momentarily caught off guard. The last time I had seen him, he was a scrawny teenager with a wild mop of hair and not a single piercing or tattoo in sight.

An amused spark lit up his eyes. "The one and only." His gaze softened as he took in my shocked expression. "I know it's been quite some time since we last met."

"I didn't know you were here, Thorin," I confessed, my surprise making way for curiosity. "Where have you been since we graduated?"

Thorin's gaze flickered to the vast window that overlooked the Manor's sprawling gardens, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his eyes. "I've been traveling," he replied, his voice distant as if his mind was lost amid those foreign lands he'd explored. "Europe, Africa, Asia... I was out there, exploring, learning." His fingers lightly traced the outline of a dragon tattoo on his forearm. "I had to grow up and find my purpose in life."

He turned his gaze back to me, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "You remember how I always dreamed of seeing the world, yes?" When I nodded in recognition, he continued, "Well, I decided to stop dreaming and start doing. I lived among monks in the mountains of Tibet, dove for pearls in the South China Sea, and even danced with Berber tribesmen in the Sahara. It's been quite an adventure."

He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting to the window once again. The silence in the room was broken only by the cracking of the fire in the grate and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. His smirk dropped as he turned back to me.

"Do you remember my mother? Haifa?" He asked, his tone softer now. His gaze was intently fixed on me, his playful demeanor evaporating as quickly as it had appeared.

I furrowed my brow as my mind churned with memories of our school days. "The one who made those delicious meat pies for our school bake sale?" I recalled, picturing her warm eyes and how she always wore bright floral prints.

"Yes, that's her." His voice was a mere whisper now. "She's ill," he confided quietly. His fingers clenched into a fist on top of the desk, knuckles whitened by the strain. The jovial adventurer had momentarily faded away, replaced by a worried son.

"She's always been strong," he continued, his voice tinged with a frail hope. His gaze was rooted to the floor, lost somewhere in his thoughts. "But it's different this time. They're saying it's cancer."

The last word hung in the air, a grim epilogue to a joyous tale of adventure. It clung to the room's walls, mixing with the scent of ink and tobacco. Thorin ran his other hand through his hair, the sparkling piercings on his fingers catching the firelight. He looked older suddenly, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced against his bronzed skin; the merriment in them replaced with melancholy.

"The doctors," he swallowed hard at this, "they've... they've given her a few months." His brows knotted together as he worriedly rubbed the dragon tattoo on his forearm.

His voice wavered as he finished his sentence, a multitude of emotions swirled in his brown eyes. He looked away, out towards the gardens, a perfect painting of peaceful serenity that stood in stark contrast to the storm brewing inside of him.

"I'm sorry, Thorin," I finally managed to say, reaching out to place my hand over his clenched fist. He looked up at me, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Is there anything... anything I can do?"

Thorin breathed out heavily, rubbing his face with his free hand as he leaned against the wall. "You are to be Luna, yes?" he asked, his voice starting off soft but growing in intensity. "I understand it is the responsibility of the Luna to fund the growth and preservation of our society," he continued, his words gaining strength. "Although all werewolves have the ability to heal, there are still many among us who are suffering, Wilhelmina. It's not just my mother...there are countless others too." He straightened up against the wall, his gaze unwavering. "Our hospitals require more than what they currently have. They lack resources, equipment, even basic necessities."

His words hung in the air between us, a fragile plea from a man who had seen the world but had been brought to his knees by something he couldn't fight. The adventurer who had climbed mountains and swam oceans was powerless against this unseen enemy, his mother's illness.

"Lady Gravemaw, the former Luna, may have been one of the most renowned Lunas in history, but her record shows minimal contributions to funding hospitals. I know you'll be different, Wilhelmina," he continued, his tone desperate and pleading. The man who had trodden the jungles of the Amazon and defied blizzards in Siberia was now hoping for an angel in me.

For the first time since becoming Luna, I started to see that my title was more than just a miserable lifelong sentence. It was an opportunity to bring meaningful change, to touch lives and, perhaps, to save them. Being the wife of the Alpha was not just about continuing his bloodline, it was about taking care of our people--my people. Their wellbeing is my responsibility now. I felt the weight of this realization press onto me, heavy but not crushing.

Thorin's words had a powerful effect on me, causing my fear and dread to dissipate. They cut through the layers of emotion that had built up since my true dreams were torn away. I looked at him, seeing in his eyes not just a plea for his mother, but for all those who were suffering. This was my responsibility, a calling. A chance to make a difference and bring comfort and aid to those who desperately needed it.

"I promise you, Thorin," I said solemnly. "I'll ensure our hospitals get what they need. I promise."

Relief seemed to wash over him at my words, the tension in his shoulders lessening just slightly. "Thank you, Wilhelmina," he said, his voice barely audible above the crackling embers in the fireplace. There was a quiet gratitude in his eyes, a profound relief that seemed to slightly lift the weight of worry bearing down on him.