Greyson showed up at my temporary den at seven in the morning.

I knew it was him before he knocked. His aura pressed against the door like a hand—heavy, furious, barely contained. I was sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and the lunar trust documents spread in front of me, cataloguing what I'd won.

The knock came. Three sharp raps.

I didn't move.

Another knock. Harder this time. "Eleanor."

I took a sip of coffee. Set the cup down. Walked to the door and opened it.

Greyson stood on the threshold with Lylah half a step behind him. He looked like he hadn't slept. His jaw was tight, his eyes bloodshot, and he reeked of rage and something else—something raw that his wolf was leaking through his skin.

"We need to talk," he said.

"No," I said. "We don't."

I started to close the door. His hand shot out and caught it.

"My mother told me," he said through his teeth. "About the contract. About the payment."

I looked at him. "Congratulations. You're caught up."

"Did you ever—" He stopped. His claws pressed into the doorframe. "Did you feel anything? Even once?"

Behind him, Lylah shifted. Her scent—vanilla, cloying—wafted forward. She looked uncomfortable. Good.

"I felt a lot of things," I said evenly. "Relief, mostly."

Greyson's wolf snarled behind his eyes. His aura spiked—trying to press me back, force submission, make me flinch.

I didn't.

And then a voice came from inside the den, behind me. Warm. Lazy. Amused.

"She's resting. Her wolf had a long night."

I turned.

Jensen Kael stood in the hallway, shirtless, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His hair was slightly mussed. My scent—faint, barely there, but unmistakable—clung to his skin like he'd been wearing it.

I stared at him.

He smiled at me. Then looked past me at Greyson.

Greyson's claws extended fully. His entire body went rigid. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"Visiting," Jensen said pleasantly. He pushed off the wall and walked toward the door with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never been threatened in his life. "You're early, Miller. Most Alphas wait until a decent hour before showing up uninvited."

He stopped beside me. Close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. His aura rolled outward—not aggressive, just present. Ancient. Absolute.

Greyson's wolf whimpered.

I felt it before I saw it—the way Greyson's body locked up, the way his claws retracted involuntarily, the way his knees wanted to bend. Jensen wasn't even using his Alpha tone. He was just standing there.

Lylah took a step back. Her eyes were wide. She was staring at Jensen like she'd just realized exactly who he was.

"You need to leave," Greyson said. His voice shook.

"No," Jensen said mildly. "I don't think I do."

Greyson's aura flared again—desperate, furious. It hit Jensen's and shattered like glass against stone.

Jensen didn't move. Didn't blink.

And Greyson, shaking with rage, could not take a single step forward.

I looked at Jensen. "What are you doing?"

"Answering the door," he said. "You looked busy."

"I wasn't busy."

"You were drinking coffee. That's busy."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Turned back to Greyson.

He was staring at Jensen with something close to hatred. But underneath it—buried under the fury and the humiliation—I saw something else. Fear.

Lylah cleared her throat. "Greyson, maybe we should—"

"Shut up," Greyson snapped.

She flinched. Her hand dropped from his arm.

I felt a flicker of something that might have been pity. Might have been satisfaction. Hard to tell.

Jensen glanced at Lylah. "You're Lylah Sanchez."

She straightened. "Yes. We met—"

"At the café," Jensen said. "I remember. You ordered the salmon."

Her face went pale.

I looked between them. "What café?"

Jensen's smile didn't waver. "A scent-match appointment. Arranged by the Lycan Court. I terminated it before dessert."

Lylah's mouth opened. No sound came out.

Greyson turned to look at her. Slowly. "You had a scent-match with him?"

"It was years ago," Lylah said quickly. "It didn't mean anything. He rejected it."

"Dissolved it," Jensen corrected. "There's a difference."

Greyson's jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. He looked at me. Then at Jensen. Then back at me.

"This is what you want?" he said. His voice was raw. "Him?"

I met his eyes. "I want you to leave."

"Eleanor—"

"You rejected me in front of two hundred witnesses," I said. "You got what you wanted. I got what I wanted. We're done."

"I didn't know—"

"You didn't ask."

The words landed clean. Final.

Greyson stared at me. His wolf was right there under his skin, clawing to get out, but Jensen's aura held him pinned to the doorframe like an invisible hand around his throat.

"Leave," Jensen said quietly. His Alpha tone hummed in the walls. "Now."

Greyson's body obeyed before his brain caught up. He stepped back. Once. Twice. Lylah grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the stairs.

He looked at me one more time. "This isn't over."

"Yes," I said. "It is."

Jensen closed the door.

Silence.

I turned to look at him. He was still shirtless. Still wearing my scent like a second skin.

"Where are your clothes?" I said.

"In the guest room."

"Why?"

"You have a guest room. I used it."

I stared at him. "When did you get here?"

"Around three. You were asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

"So you just... let yourself in?"

"Your door was unlocked."

"That's not an invitation."

"It's not a deterrent either."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Walked back to the kitchen table and sat down.

Jensen followed. Pulled out the chair across from me and sat. He looked at the lunar trust documents spread across the table.

"Ironveil's eastern hunting rights," he said. "Impressive."

"It's mine."

"I know."

I picked up my coffee. It was cold. I drank it anyway.

Jensen leaned back in his chair. "You applied to three neutral packs."

I set the cup down. "How do you know that?"

"I intercepted them."

I stared at him. "You what?"

"Intercepted. Blocked. Prevented from processing." He said it like he was explaining the weather. "You're not joining a neutral pack."

"That's not your decision."

"It is, actually." He tilted his head. "You've been appointed my personal liaison to the Lycan Court. Effective immediately. Indefinite term."

I laughed. It came out sharp. "No."

"Yes."

"I handled Greyson for an entire year," I said. "I don't need your protection."

"You handled a Greyson who didn't know the truth," Jensen said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. Infuriating. "This Greyson is different. He knows you played him. He knows you walked away richer. And he knows his wolf is still pulling toward you even though the bond is gone."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Because he was right.

And I hated that he was right.

Jensen watched me. "You're the only wolf who stayed standing under my aura last night."

"So?"

"So that's not normal."

I looked at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Jensen said slowly, "that you suppressed more than your scent."

My wolf stirred. Faint. Uneasy.

I stood. "I need you to leave."

Jensen didn't move. "No."

"This is my den."

"And you're my liaison. Which means wherever you go, I go."

"That's not how this works."

"It is now."

I stared at him. He stared back. His eyes were steady. Warm. Completely unbothered by the fact that I wanted to throw him out a window.

My wolf stirred again. Stronger this time.

And for the first time in a year, she didn't sound angry.

She sounded curious.

The Lycan Court quarters were nicer than anything I'd ever lived in.

That was the first thing I noticed when Jensen's attendants—two silent, efficient wolves who moved like shadows—deposited my bags in the suite and disappeared without waiting for a tip. The second thing I noticed was the size. Three rooms. A sitting area with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the eastern training grounds. A bedroom with a bed large enough to sleep four wolves comfortably. A bathroom with a tub that could double as a small swimming pool.

The third thing I noticed was the tea.

It sat on the kitchen counter in a small ceramic canister, unlabeled, the lid slightly ajar. I walked over. Opened it. The scent hit me immediately—chamomile, lavender, a hint of honey, and something else I couldn't name. Something I'd sourced from a neutral-territory apothecary eight months into the contract year because the scent-dampening herbs were giving me headaches and I needed something that didn't taste like punishment.

I stared at the canister.

This wasn't the suppression blend. This was the comfort tea. The one I'd brewed privately, late at night, when no one was watching. The one I'd never told anyone about.

I picked up the canister. Turned it over in my hands. Set it down.

Walked out of the suite, down the hall, and straight to Jensen's office.

He was at his desk, reading something on a tablet. He looked up when I walked in. Smiled. "Eleanor. Settling in?"

"How did you know?" I said.

He set the tablet down. "Know what?"

"The tea. The one in my quarters. How did you know about it?"

Jensen leaned back in his chair. "I pay attention."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

I stared at him. He stared back. His expression was calm. Open. Completely unbothered by the fact that I'd just walked into his office without knocking and was now standing in front of his desk with my arms crossed.

"You've never been in my den during the contract year," I said. "You've never seen me brew that tea."

"No," Jensen agreed. "I haven't."

"So how—"

"I asked," he said simply. "After the bar. After I saw you standing under my aura. I wanted to know who you were. So I asked."

"Asked who?"

"People who know you. People who've seen you when you thought no one was watching." He tilted his head. "Andi mentioned the tea once. Said you brewed it late at night. Said it smelled like the only thing that made you smile during the contract year."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Andi. Of course Andi had told him. Andi, who'd been rooting for Jensen since the moment he'd stepped between me and Greyson at the bar.

"That's invasive," I said finally.

"It's thorough," Jensen corrected. "There's a difference."

I wanted to argue. I didn't have the words.

Jensen stood. Walked around the desk. Stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could smell his scent—cedar, something warmer underneath, something that made my wolf stir faintly.

"I'm not trying to trap you," he said quietly. "I'm trying to know you."

"Why?"

"Because you're worth knowing."

The words landed soft. Honest. I felt them settle somewhere in my chest I didn't have a name for.

I stepped back. "I need to unpack."

Jensen nodded. Didn't follow. "Dinner's at seven. I'll meet you in the main hall."

"I didn't agree to dinner."

"You're my liaison. Dinner's part of the job."

I stared at him. He smiled.

I turned and walked out.

---

The next morning, Jensen was waiting outside my quarters at dawn.

I opened the door and found him leaning against the wall, dressed in training gear, looking like he'd been there for a while.

"Morning walk," he said. "Court grounds. I'll show you the territory lines."

"I didn't agree to a morning walk."

"You're awake. I'm awake. Seems efficient."

I looked at him. He looked back. His expression was pleasant. Unbothered. Completely immune to the fact that I wanted to close the door in his face.

My wolf stirred. Curious.

I sighed. "Fine. Give me five minutes."

---

We walked the eastern perimeter first. Jensen narrated the history of each territorial marker—who'd held it, who'd challenged for it, which treaties had redrawn the lines. He spoke with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he actually cared about centuries-old land disputes, and I found myself listening despite my better judgment.

"This section," Jensen said, gesturing to a ridge that overlooked a valley, "was contested for three generations. Two packs, both convinced the Moon Goddess had promised it to them. They fought over it until the Lycan Court stepped in and declared it neutral ground."

"And now?"

"Now it's a training ground. Open to any pack that requests access." He glanced at me. "Including Ironveil. Though they haven't requested access in over a year."

I looked at him. "Why not?"

"Because I revoked their allied territory agreements two days ago."

I stopped walking. "You what?"

Jensen stopped beside me. "Ironveil held three allied agreements—eastern hunting rights, northern trade routes, and a shared water access treaty with the Crescent Ridge Pack. All three were contingent on maintaining peaceful relations with neighboring territories and the Lycan Court."

"And?"

"And Greyson Miller assaulted you in a neutral-territory bar in front of witnesses, using Alpha aura to force submission from non-pack wolves." Jensen's voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. "That's a violation. I filed the administrative orders. The agreements are void."

I stared at him. "You dismantled his resource base."

"I enforced existing policy."

"Jensen—"

"He put his hands on you," Jensen said quietly. His eyes met mine. "He used his authority to intimidate you in a space where you should have been safe. That has consequences."

I didn't know what to say.

Jensen started walking again. "His Beta reached out yesterday. Callum Reid. Polite. Diplomatic. Asked if there was a path to appeal."

"What did you say?"

"I said the appeal process is outlined in Lycan Court protocol. He's welcome to file." Jensen glanced at me. "It'll take six months. Minimum."

I felt something shift in my chest. Not relief. Not satisfaction. Something else.

"You didn't have to do that," I said.

"Yes," Jensen said. "I did."

We walked in silence for a while. The sun was rising over the ridge, casting long shadows across the valley. My wolf stirred again—stronger this time, pressing against the edges of the suppression I'd maintained for over a year.

Jensen looked at me. "What are you thinking?"

I didn't answer right away. I was thinking about Greyson. About the phantom scent of my mark that probably still lingered in the pack house hallways. About Callum Reid's diplomatic phone call and the six-month appeal process that would go nowhere.

I was thinking about the tea in my quarters. About Jensen asking Andi what made me smile.

I was thinking about the fact that I was walking beside a Lycan Prince at dawn, and my wolf wasn't screaming.

"I'm thinking," I said finally, "that you're very good at this."

Jensen smiled. "At what?"

"Courtship."

He laughed. It was warm. Genuine. "I'm really not. I'm just paying attention."

"That's the same thing."

"No," Jensen said. "It's not."

We reached the end of the ridge. The valley stretched out below us, green and quiet. Jensen stopped. Looked at me.

"I'm not performing, Eleanor," he said. "I'm just here."

I met his eyes. Held them.

My wolf stirred. Quiet. Curious. Not screaming.

I didn't know what to do with that.

So I turned and kept walking.

The forum post went up at three in the morning.

I didn't see it until Andi forwarded it to me with a single word: **Bitch.**

The post was titled *The Truth About Eleanor Bennett's Contract.* It was long. Detailed. And completely fabricated.

According to the anonymous author—who was definitely Lylah, based on the writing style alone—I had used dark herbs to manipulate the mate bond, coerced Greyson's mother into offering the lunar trust under false pretenses, and was now leveraging the Lycan Prince's name the way I'd leveraged Greyson's. The post included vague references to 'sources close to Ironveil' and 'documented evidence' that did not exist.

It had been shared in two small pack networks by dawn.

I read it twice. Set my phone down. Drank my coffee.

Andi called. "We're handling it."

"Don't," I said.

"Too late. Sunny's already drafting."

I sighed. "Andi—"

"She coached Lylah," Andi said. Her voice was cheerful. Gleeful, even. "She handed her a literal playbook. We have screenshots. We have timestamps. We have the handwritten list you gave Lylah with Greyson's scent triggers. This is going to be so satisfying."

"You're going to make it worse."

"We're going to make it accurate," Andi corrected. "There's a difference."

She hung up.

By noon, Sunny's response thread was live. It was titled *A Timeline of Events, For Clarity.* It was meticulous. Devastating. And it never once named Lylah directly—but every informed wolf who read it knew exactly who the 'returning childhood friend' was, who the 'coached replacement candidate' was, and what the 'step-by-step guide to triggering Alpha protective instincts' referred to.

The original post was deleted within two hours. Lylah's reputation took longer to bury.

---

Greyson opened the drawer.

I didn't see it happen. I wasn't there. But I knew he did, because Callum told me later—quietly, carefully, during a neutral-territory meeting I hadn't asked to attend but Jensen had insisted I observe.

"He's not well," Callum said. We were standing outside the conference hall, waiting for the session to start. "The severance is affecting him more than he's admitting."

I looked at Callum. He was Greyson's Beta. Loyal. Diplomatic. And currently looking at me like he was trying to solve a problem he didn't have the tools for.

"That's not my concern," I said.

"I know." Callum's voice was quiet. "But he's standing in hallways. Staring at doors. He opened the drawer where he keeps the pendant he gave you during the contract year."

I felt something twist in my chest. I ignored it.

"Did he take it out?" I asked.

"No. He just looked at it. Then closed the drawer."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

Callum watched me. "He knows he lost you. He just doesn't know how to stop losing you."

"That's not my problem either."

"No," Callum agreed. "It's not."

He walked into the conference hall. I stayed outside for another minute, staring at the closed door, feeling the phantom ache of a bond I'd never wanted in the first place.

Then I followed him inside.

---

The training session was routine. Boring, even.

Jensen had invited two visiting pack Alphas to observe Lycan Court protocols—standard diplomatic procedure, the kind of thing I was supposed to attend as his liaison but didn't actually need to participate in. I stood on the sidelines with a tablet, taking notes I didn't care about, watching wolves run drills I'd seen a hundred times.

One of the visiting Alphas—a man named Garrett from the Northridge Pack—walked past me on his way to the sparring ring. He looked me over. Dismissed me. Kept walking.

"That's the discarded Omega," he said to his companion, loud enough for me to hear. "The one who couldn't hold an Alpha."

His companion laughed.

I didn't react. I'd heard worse.

But my wolf did.

She stirred. Not the faint, curious stirring I'd felt over the past few days. This was different. Hotter. Angrier. Like something that had been compressed for too long and was now expanding too fast.

I felt it in my chest first. Then my hands. Then everywhere.

The heat spread. My bones cracked. Not painfully—just inevitably, like they'd been waiting for permission and had finally received it.

I dropped the tablet.

Jensen turned. His eyes met mine. He didn't look surprised. He looked like he'd been waiting for this.

"Eleanor," he said quietly. "Breathe."

I couldn't.

My wolf erupted.

Silver fur. Twice the size of a normal she-wolf. An aura so powerful it detonated across the training grounds like a shockwave.

Every wolf present dropped to their knees. Including Garrett. Including his companion. Including the two Lycan Court enforcers who'd been running drills.

Jensen didn't drop. He stood perfectly still, watching me.

I looked down at my hands—paws now, silver-furred, claws extended. I felt my wolf's presence like a second heartbeat, strong and furious and finally, finally awake.

Garrett was on the ground, whimpering, his head bowed in instinctive submission.

I walked toward him. Slowly. My wolf's aura pressed down on him like a hand around his throat.

"Say it again," I said. My voice came out rough. Deeper than usual. "Call me an Omega."

Garrett didn't move. Didn't speak.

I stopped in front of him. Looked down. "I'm waiting."

He lifted his head. Met my eyes. And I saw it—the recognition. The fear.

"Alpha," he whispered.

I held his gaze for another moment. Then stepped back.

My wolf receded. Not all the way—she was still there, still present, still awake—but enough that the aura lifted and the wolves on the ground could breathe again.

I looked at Jensen. He was smiling.

"Welcome back," he said quietly.

I looked down at my torn clothes. My shredded shirt. My ruined shoes.

"This outfit cost two hundred dollars," I said.

Jensen laughed. "I'll buy you ten."

I wanted to argue. I didn't have the energy.

My wolf was awake. And she wasn't going back to sleep.