"He fucking mated and left!"
Lenora’s scream shattered the silence, her voice raw, broken—feral. Her knees buckled, crashing onto the damp forest floor, her fingers clawing at the dirt as if she could bury the agony coursing through her. The bond, that damned mate bond, pulled at her like a leash tied to an invisible ghost, a cruel tether that burned hotter with every heartbeat.
"My mate is gone!" she scread again, her cry echoing like a thunderclap in the still air. Tears stread down her face, unchecked and unrelenting, as her body trembled under the weight of a bond cruelly abandoned. The forest seed to hold its breath, the trees standing as silent witnesses to her devastation.
~~°~~
24 Hours Ago
The scent of damp earth lingers in the air, heavy with the promise of rain. The sacred grove is filled with the quiet murmurs of the White Stone Pack, all gathered around the white wolf statue, where my mother’s ashes rest beneath the land she once walked. She was never Luna—not officially—but she was the heart of this pack.
And yet, my father isn’t here.
As soon as I was old enough to conduct the morial on my own, he stopped coming.
I keep my expression neutral, even as grief weighs down. I focus on the ritual, the incantations, the steady rhythm of my breath as the witch in charge motions for to begin.
A cut across my palm. A drop of blood into the fire. The scent of sage and smoke curling into the sky. A final bow, an incantation whispered into the wind.
I honor my mother’s mory.
But the pack watches with sothing colder than grief.
When I rise, Frederick is waiting.
His golden eyes glint in the firelight, sharp, calculating—too much like a snake, not enough like a wolf. He makes my skin crawl, but I offer him the sa polite, distant expression I always do.
"Such a sha," he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk. "Aunt left too soon."
My jaw clenches, but I nod. "Too soon."
He tilts his head, scanning the crowd. "Uncle isn’t here this year either, huh?"
I don’t answer imdiately, just smooth a hand over the silver embroidery on my ceremonial cloak. A practiced habit, sothing to ground .
"As soon as I was old enough to conduct the ceremony, he stopped attending," I say, my tone asured.
Frederick hums in amusent, his gaze flickering with sothing I don’t like.
I turn to leave.
"Here."
A silver chalice is suddenly in my hands, warm from his touch.
"The ceremonial tea," Frederick says, too casual. "To calm your mind, steady your heart."
For a brief mont, sothing in my chest stirs—a warning.
But I am tired.
Grief lingers, heavier than it has in years, and I don’t think.
I drink.
The warmth spreads through almost instantly, but it is not the warmth of comfort.
It is sothing else.
---
I just want to go ho.
Crawl into bed, curl under the blankets, and watch one of those old human sitcoms that my mother used to love. She always said there was sothing peaceful about the way humans lived—no mate bonds, no hierarchies, no laws of the jungle.
But that peace was never ant for .
I pass a group of female wolves, their gazes locking onto with thinly veiled disdain. I don’t react. I never do.
It’s not my fault I was born like this.
Ultra-rare. Desired. Hated.
My mother was an oga wolf, and I inherited it. A one-in-four chance. And just my luck—it happened.
To humans, I would be considered albino, with my ashen-white hair and storm-gray eyes. But here, in the White Stone Pack, I am sothing else.
Sothing wolves want.
The object of endless, unwanted attention.
It makes it impossible to form friendships. Impossible to trust anyone. Because if a female befriends , her mate inevitably notices , and everything shatters.
So, I keep my distance.
All I want is my mate.
The one person who will truly be mine, who will shield from the weight of desire and expectation.
And then—
It happens.
A sudden, violent wave of heat crashes through , starting from my core and spreading outward like wildfire.
I freeze.
My vision sharpens, the world suddenly too bright, too loud, too much.
My breath cos faster, my pulse a frantic, erratic thing.
Then I hear it.
A low, guttural snarl.
Then another.
Claws extend. Wolves shift.
They sll it.
They sll .
No. No, no, no, no.
I spin, my gaze locking onto Frederick.
He’s smirking.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I take off.
The second my foot leaves the ground, I am running.
The forest blurs around , but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My muscles burn, my lungs strain, but the sound of pounding paws, of snapping jaws, of wolves too far gone to think—
It drives forward.
My body is working against , the heat clouding my thoughts, slowing my limbs.
They’re gaining on .
I push harder.
Run. Shift. Survive.
My bones snap mid-air, my body twisting, reshaping—wolf, faster, stronger, wilder.
I land light, swift, white fur blurring into the trees.
Still, they chase.
I dodge left, barely missing a pair of snapping teeth.
I leap over a fallen tree, claws digging into the bark before I push off again.
A wolf lunges from the side—I twist my body, mid-run, and throw him off-course.
But I can’t keep this up forever.
My heat is too strong. My body is weakening.
I make it to the base of a massive tree before I realize—
I’m surrounded.
This is it.
My back presses against the bark, my chest rising and falling in sharp, desperate gasps.
They’re closing in. Their eyes dark with instinct, hunger.
And then—
A shadow moves.
A presence so large, so powerful, that it seems to ripple through the air itself.
And suddenly—
Everything stops.
A growl—low, lethal, final.
The pack freezes.
Then he steps forward.
A wolf—the largest I’ve ever seen, fur black as midnight, eyes a piercing ice-blue.
His presence alone sends a violent shiver of dominance through the clearing.
And they all bow.
So submit instantly.
Others hesitate, still drunk on my scent.
One wolf lunges—
The black wolf swipes.
Claws tear through flesh.
The idiot yelps, crumpling to the ground, blood dark against the dirt.
I barely process it because my wolf is howling.
Mate.
Frederick is the last to submit. His gray wolf stands rigid, snarling. A challenge.
He lunges.
So do the others.
A battle.
The black wolf doesn’t hesitate.
He fights with devastating precision, pure strength, pure power. One by one, they fall.
When the dust settles, only he remains.
The wolves tuck their tails, fleeing into the night.
And then—
His blue eyes et mine.
I know he’s mine, he steps closer, sniffing my neck. I let him. I want him to.
I’ve waited for this mont. For him.
And he’s perfect.
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