I didn't sleep.

I sat in the small room Thomas had kept for us on the edge of the compound—just two beds, a desk, and a window that looked out toward the pines. The sky shifted from black to gray to pale pink, and I watched it all without blinking. My wolf was still silent. The hollow ache in my neck pulsed with every heartbeat.

When the first light broke over the tree line, I stood and changed into plain clothes. Jeans. A dark sweater. Boots. I braided my hair back tight and checked my reflection in the small mirror above the desk. My face was pale. My eyes looked bruised. But my hands were steady.

I had three things to collect before I left Ironridge for good.

The compound was quiet. Most of the pack was still asleep, knocked out from the celebration that had gone late into the night. I moved through the stone corridors like a ghost, keeping my footsteps soft, my aura pulled in tight so no one would sense me. The guards at the main hall were slumped against the wall, half-asleep. They didn't even glance my way.

I went to Thomas's room first. He was awake, sitting at the edge of his narrow bed, hands folded in his lap. He looked up when I opened the door. His eyes were red.

"Erin," he said quietly.

I crossed the room and knelt in front of him. "I need the jewelry box."

He didn't argue. He reached under the bed and pulled out the small wooden box with the false bottom, the one he'd kept hidden for as long as I could remember. He handed it to me without a word. I opened it carefully, checking the pendant inside—a platinum piece shaped like a howling wolf, delicate and old. My mother's. The only thing I had left of her.

I closed the box and tucked it into my coat. "Thank you."

Thomas reached out and gripped my hand. His fingers were rough and warm. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

"Good." His voice cracked. "You should have left years ago. I should have told you to run."

I squeezed his hand once. "I'll see you soon."

He nodded, but he didn't look convinced. I stood and left before either of us could say anything else.

The archive room was on the second floor of the east wing, tucked behind the Beta's office. I had catalogued every document in there myself over the past three years—territorial maps, summit rosters, alliance agreements, supply records. Colton had never cared about the archives. He thought paperwork was beneath him. But I knew exactly which files would matter at the summit.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The room smelled like old paper and dust. Rows of shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tight with leather-bound volumes and rolled maps. I went straight to the back corner and pulled out the territorial boundary file and the current summit delegation roster.

I was sliding the documents into my bag when I heard footsteps in the corridor outside.

I froze.

The door swung open. Malia stepped through, still wearing the ceremonial Luna white from last night. The lace looked wrinkled now, and her lipstick was smudged at one corner, but she held herself like a queen. Her dark eyes locked on me.

"Erin," she said sweetly. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. "I thought I might find you here."

I straightened and slung the bag over my shoulder. "I'm collecting what's mine."

"Yours?" Malia tilted her head, her smile widening. "Sweetheart, nothing in this compound is yours anymore. Not after last night."

I looked at her without expression. My wolf was still silent, but something cold and sharp was rising in my chest. Something that didn't need a wolf to function.

Malia took a step closer, folding her arms. "I wanted to let you know personally—since you're still technically a guest of Ironridge—that Colton has decided you may attend the summit. Isn't that generous of him?"

I said nothing.

"But," she continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy, "Omega guests are permitted only in a service capacity. You'll be listed as a platter-carrier. Not a delegate, of course. You understand."

She waited for me to flinch. To argue. To beg.

I adjusted the strap on my bag and met her eyes. "Then I'll see you at the summit."

Her smile faltered. Just for a second.

I walked past her, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed. She smelled like gardenia and something metallic underneath. Burnt musk. It made my stomach turn.

Malia's voice followed me into the corridor. "You think you can just leave? You think anyone will want you now?"

I didn't stop. I kept walking, the documents secure in my bag, Thomas's pendant warm in my fist.

Behind me, Malia's footsteps echoed once, then went silent.

I stepped out into the cold morning air and didn't look back.

The summit lodge sat high in the mountains, surrounded by pines and cold air that smelled like snow. It was massive—three stories of stone and timber, with wings branching off in every direction. The main hall had vaulted ceilings and iron chandeliers. The Alpha suites were on the upper floors, with views of the valley. The service wing was in the back, behind the kitchens, where the heating didn't quite reach.

I arrived on foot. I had left Ironridge before dawn, hitching a ride with a supply truck heading north. The driver didn't ask questions. I didn't offer answers. By the time we reached the lodge, the sun was high and delegations were already streaming through the main entrance.

I watched from the tree line as Colton's convoy pulled up—three black SUVs with Ironridge's wolf crest on the doors. He stepped out first, wearing a tailored suit that made him look every inch the Alpha. Malia followed, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. She wore a cream-colored dress that hugged her curves, her dark hair swept up in a twist. She smiled at every wolf who greeted them. Colton introduced her as "the future Luna of Ironridge" at least four times in the first ten minutes.

No one mentioned me.

I waited until they disappeared inside, then walked around to the service entrance. A tired-looking Beta with a clipboard checked my name against the staff manifest.

"Erin Phillips," I said.

He scanned the list, then frowned. "You're listed as domestic aide. Omega tier."

"I know."

He handed me a plain gray tunic and pointed down a narrow corridor. "Service wing is that way. You'll share a cot with the other Omegas. Meal assignments start at six."

I took the tunic and walked.

The service wing smelled like soap and old wood. The cots were lined up in rows, separated by thin curtains. Most were already claimed—bags stacked at the foot, blankets folded on top. I found an empty one in the back corner, near a window that looked out at the kitchen's loading dock. I set my bag down and changed into the gray tunic. It was rough against my skin, shapeless and plain. I braided my hair back tight and checked my reflection in the window glass. I looked like every other Omega here. Invisible.

Good.

Malia found me before lunch.

I was in the main corridor, carrying a stack of linens to the upper guest rooms, when I heard her voice behind me.

"Erin."

I stopped and turned. She stood at the top of the staircase, flanked by two she-wolves from her personal circle. Both wore expensive clothes and smug expressions. Malia descended slowly, her heels clicking on the stone steps.

"I need you to bring my luggage to the Alpha suite," she said sweetly. "Third floor. East wing. Don't drop anything."

I looked at her without expression. "Of course."

She smiled. "Good girl."

I carried her luggage. Three suitcases, heavy and awkward, up two flights of stairs while visiting wolves passed me in the corridors. Some glanced at me. Most didn't. I was just another Omega doing Omega work. When I reached the Alpha suite, Malia was waiting at the door. She inspected each suitcase, running her fingers along the zippers like she was checking for damage.

"Set them inside," she said. "By the window."

I did. The suite was enormous—plush furniture, a four-poster bed, a fireplace already crackling with heat. Colton's jacket was draped over a chair. His scent—cedar and iron—filled the room. My wolf stirred faintly, then went silent again. The hollow ache in my neck pulsed once.

Malia stepped close, her voice dropping. "You know, I almost feel sorry for you. Walking around here like you still matter."

I straightened and met her eyes. "Is there anything else you need?"

Her smile faltered. Just a fraction.

"No," she said tightly. "You're dismissed."

I left.

By evening, I had been reassigned to scrubbing the banquet hall floor. Malia's orders, delivered through the head Omega with a thin smile. I knelt on the cold stone with a bucket and brush, working my way across the massive hall while wolves streamed past on their way to dinner. Some stepped around me. Others didn't bother. I kept my head down and scrubbed.

Malia walked past twice. Both times, she slowed just enough to make sure I saw her.

I didn't look up.

That night, alone in the service wing, my wolf woke up.

It wasn't gentle. It was violent. She slammed against my ribs so hard I gasped, doubling over on the narrow cot. My hands clenched into fists. My heart hammered. The hollow scar on my neck burned cold, then hot, then cold again. My wolf snarled—raw and furious and wounded—thrashing inside me like she was trying to claw her way out.

She couldn't shift. The rejection had damaged something deep, something I didn't understand yet. But she was awake. And she was angry.

I pressed a hand to my sternum, breathing hard. Around me, the other Omegas slept, oblivious.

"I know," I whispered. My voice was hoarse. "I know. We're not done."

My wolf stilled. Not submitting. Listening.

Waiting.

I lay back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. My hands were steady. My mind was clear.

Ryker would arrive tomorrow. And when he did, everything would change.

The corridor was empty when Torin Cross cornered me.

I had been carrying a tray of cleared dishes from the Alpha dining hall, moving quickly through the back passageways to avoid the main corridors where visiting wolves lingered after dinner. My arms ached. My feet were sore. The gray Omega tunic stuck to my back with sweat. I just wanted to drop the tray in the kitchen and disappear back to my cot.

I turned the corner into the narrow stone hallway that led to the service stairs. The torches along the walls flickered. The air smelled like old wood and smoke.

That's when he stepped out from the shadows.

Torin Cross. I recognized him from the delegation roster I'd catalogued weeks ago—Delta from the Ridgecrest Pack, three hundred miles west. He was big. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a jaw that looked like it had been carved from granite. His eyes were glassy. He smelled like whiskey and something sharper underneath. Aggression. Entitlement.

"Well, well," he said, his voice low and rough. He stepped closer, blocking the corridor. "The little wolfless reject."

I stopped. My hands tightened on the tray. "Excuse me."

"Heard about you," he continued, tilting his head like he was examining something amusing. "The she-wolf who got dumped at her own Mate Ceremony. That's gotta sting."

I kept my face blank. "I need to get past."

He laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. "What's the rush? You got somewhere important to be?" He took another step forward. I could feel his aura now—heavy, oppressive, pushing against mine like a hand pressing down on my chest. "Far as I can tell, a mateless, wolfless she-wolf with no pack standing is fair game at a neutral summit."

My wolf stirred faintly. A ripple of warning. But she was still too weak, too damaged from the rejection. She couldn't surface.

Torin reached out and grabbed my wrist. His fingers were rough and tight. The tray clattered to the stone floor, plates shattering.

"Let go," I said quietly.

He grinned. "Or what?"

I wrenched my arm, twisting hard, but he was twice my size and his grip didn't budge. My heart hammered. My wolf snarled inside me, thrashing uselessly against the walls I couldn't break down. I reached instinctively for the pack bond—the mental thread that should have connected me to Colton, to Ironridge, to anyone who could intervene.

I found nothing.

Just a cold, hollow channel. Dead air. The bond was gone. Severed. I was alone.

Footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor. A passing warrior glanced our way, eyes widening, then turned and ran. Good. Someone would report this. Someone had to.

But minutes passed. No one came.

Torin leaned in closer, his breath hot against my face. "Guess no one's coming for you, sweetheart."

Then the temperature dropped.

It happened so fast I almost missed it. The air turned cold—sharp, biting cold that had nothing to do with the mountain wind outside. The torches along the walls flickered violently. The stone beneath my feet seemed to hum.

Torin's grin faltered. His grip loosened just a fraction.

Then the aura hit.

It rolled through the corridor like a physical wall—vast, ancient, suffocating. My knees buckled. I grabbed the wall to keep from collapsing. Torin's hand fell away from my wrist as he staggered backward, his face going pale. His wolf—I could feel it inside him—whimpered and curled in on itself, instinctively submissive.

Every wolf within thirty meters would be feeling this. Bowing under the weight of it.

I looked up.

Ryker Morales stepped from the shadows at the corridor's far end.

He was in half-shift. His eyes blazed silver-ringed amber, glowing faintly in the dim torchlight. His shoulders were broader than I remembered, his frame wrapped in a midnight military coat with the Blackveil wolf crest gleaming at his collar. His jaw was set. His movements were calm, economical, lethal.

He didn't shout. He didn't speak. He just walked forward, placing himself between me and Torin with absolute, terrifying precision.

Torin dropped to his belly on the stone floor. His hands splayed flat. His head bowed. A low, involuntary whimper escaped his throat.

Ryker looked down at him for exactly one second. Then he looked away, dismissing him like he was less than dirt.

And then Ryker's scent hit me.

Night jasmine and thunderstorm.

It crashed over me like a wave, drowning every other sensation. My dormant wolf—silent for days, broken and hollow—slammed against my ribs so violently that I gasped and grabbed the wall for support. The cold rejection scar on my neck flared hot. Not painful. Not hollow. Warm. Electric. Alive.

The mate bond.

It ignited between us like a lit fuse, crackling through the air, undeniable and absolute.

I stared at Ryker. My chest heaved. My hands shook.

Ryker stared back. His jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jump. His nostrils flared as he breathed me in—rain and white orchids, the scent I had carried my whole life, now blazing with the unmistakable chemical signature of a second-chance mate bond.

Neither of us spoke the word aloud.

But every wolf still conscious in that corridor could feel it. The air between us ignited. Charged. Burning.

My wolf howled—raw and desperate and triumphant—and for the first time since Colton's rejection, I felt whole.