I spent seven years keeping Jace Mercer on the ice.

I taped his injuries, slept outside hospital rooms, and believed him every time he promised I would become his Luna.

Then, on championship night, he rejected me on live television.

He gave another woman my place, my future, and the Captain Jacket I had carried for him after every victory.

The rejection nearly dropped me to my knees.

But the worst part came seconds later.

My suppressant shattered in the tunnel.

Jace’s greatest enemy caught me before I hit the floor.

Ronan Cross froze the moment my real scent reached him.

His Alpha wolf went feral.

Then he looked straight at my ex and asked,

“Why the hell does she smell like my mate?”

I thought Jace had stolen seven years of my life.

I was wrong.

He had been drugging my wolf so I would never discover where I truly belonged.

***

The roar of twenty thousand fans shook the concrete beneath my sneakers.

Confetti rained from the arena rafters in silver and gold sheets, coating the ice as the final buzzer echoed through the rink. The Ironfang Wolves had just won the league's final showcase before the championship series.

I stood near the mouth of the players' tunnel, hugging Jace’s heavy wool Captain Jacket against my ribs.

For seven years, this was our ritual. Win or lose, regular season or playoffs, Jace always skated straight to the tunnel first. He would drop his stick, pull off his helmet, and let me slide his jacket over his bruised shoulders before facing the press.

A sharp, familiar cramp flared in the center of my chest. I pressed a hand against my sternum, trying to breathe through the sudden heat. The dull ache in our mate bond had been flaring for four days now, but when I asked him about it yesterday, he brushed it off without looking up from his playbook.

*“They’re making us take heavy-grade scent suppressants for the finals, Wren,”* he had told me. *“It messes with the bond’s feedback. You’re overthinking it.”*

I had believed him. I always believed him. In my other hand, I carried his medical kit, complete with the custom ice pack I had molded earlier to fit the chronic fracture in his right shoulder.

Out on the ice, the Wolves piled on top of each other, screaming and raising their gloves to the ceiling. I smiled, waiting for Jace to break away from the huddle and skate toward the bench.

He didn't.

Instead, Jace skated toward the red carpet rolled out near the penalty box. A woman was already standing there under the spotlight. Sloane Keller, daughter of the pack’s primary corporate sponsor. She wore a tailored black coat, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the freezing arena air.

Jace stepped off the ice, took Sloane’s hand, and led her directly to the center ice podium where the commissioner and the national broadcast cameras were waiting.

The arena announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers. “We now go down to Captain Jace Mercer for his post-game victory remarks.”

I stepped closer to the boards, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Jace took the microphone from the sideline reporter. His face filled the giant screens hanging above the ice, gleaming with sweat and victory.

“This cup belongs to Ironfang,” Jace said, his voice ringing through every television across the country. “And as Captain, leading this franchise into a new era requires strength, legacy, and unity. Ironfang needs a Luna who can truly stand beside an Alpha on every front.”

He turned slightly, looking straight into the main camera lens.

“To ensure our pack’s future remains undivided, I am officially declaring the end of my private mate promise to Wren Lawson. As of tonight, Ironfang moves forward with Sloane Keller by my side.”

The words hit me like a physical blow to the sternum.

A tearing sensation ripped through my chest, burning through every nerve ending where my soul had been tied to his since we were eighteen. The mate bond didn't just snap; it shattered, sending a wave of rejection sickness crashing into my stomach.

My vision blurred gray at the edges. My knees buckled, and I had to grab the dasher board just to keep myself upright.

The stadium broke into wild cheers, treating the announcement as a fairy-tale championship proposal. Flashbulbs went off like lightning across the ice.

Jace walked toward the bench to grab his gear, his expression tightening when he spotted me standing by the tunnel gate. He stepped through the gate, his jaw clenched as he leaned in close enough that only I could hear.

“Don’t do this here, Wren,” he muttered under his breath, his tone clipped and hard. “Don’t make a scene in front of the cameras.”

“A scene?” My voice came out cracked and hollow. “Jace, you just did this on live television.”

“Because it had to be clean,” he said, not even meeting my eyes. “You always knew you weren’t cut out to be Luna. You don’t have pack status, and you can’t handle the political side of this life. Sloane can.”

Before I could answer, Sloane stepped into the tunnel behind him, smelling strongly of expensive floral perfume and fresh champagne. She looked down at the heavy wool jacket clutched in my trembling hands.

“I’ll take that,” Sloane said smoothly.

She reached out and pulled the Captain Jacket from my fingers. I didn't fight her for it. I couldn't even close my hands.

Sloane slid her arms into the sleeves of the jacket that had carried my scent for seven seasons. She zipped it up, turned toward the lingering media photographers at the edge of the boards, and tilted her head up.

Jace wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her against his chest, and kissed her right under the flashing cameras.

The crowd roared again. Nobody looked at the girl standing against the concrete wall, choking on the phantom pain of a severed bond.

Jace broke the kiss and glanced back at me, his gaze lingering as if he expected tears or a breakdown.

I didn't give him one.

I looked down at the medical kit in my hand, knelt down, and set the ice pack flat on the rubber floor by his skates.

“Then she can learn where your shoulder locks when you’re nervous,” I said quietly.

I stood up, turned my back on them, and walked down the tunnel.

The moment I turned the corner out of sight of the rink, the adrenaline deserted me. The rejection backlash slammed into my nervous system with the force of a freight train. Cold sweat broke across my skin, my lungs seized, and the hallway tilted violently sideways.

My legs gave out entirely.

Before my knees hit the concrete floor, a pair of heavy, leather-gloved hands caught me under the arms, hauling me upward against a broad, solid chest.

“Easy,” a deep, gravelly voice cut through the ringing in my ears. “I’ve got you.”

I looked up through blurred vision into the dark, fierce eyes of Ronan Cross.

The Captain of the Blackridge Wolves. Ironfang’s most hated rival, fresh off the ice after losing the game, his jersey still soaked in sweat and ice shavings.

When my body collided with his chest, the impact crushed the glass bottle of high-grade scent suppressant tucked inside my jacket pocket.

The small vial shattered with a muffled crunch.

The heavy chemical blocker leaked into my lining, but without its pressurized seal, the artificial mask evaporated instantly, releasing my true scent for the first time in five years. Fresh cedarwood, crisp frost, and wild winter berries flooded the narrow corridor in an overpowering rush.

Ronan froze instantly.

His entire body locked rigid as iron. His fingers dug hard into my shoulders, his pupils dilating until the dark brown of his irises vanished beneath pure black. A low, shuddering sound tore from the back of his throat, his head dipping instinctively toward the exposed curve of my neck.

“Wren!”

Jace’s sharp voice bounced down the hallway as heavy footsteps sprinted around the corner. Jace came to an abrupt stop, his eyes landing on the way Ronan had me pinned against his chest.

“Get your hands off her, Cross,” Jace snapped, taking a threatening step forward. “She was with me.”

Ronan didn't step back. He tilted his head up slowly, his jaw set like stone, shielding me completely behind his massive frame.

His dark eyes locked onto Jace with lethal intensity.

“Then why the fuck does your ex smell like my mate?”

The narrow hallway felt suffocating. Ronan’s scent—crushed pine, iron, and the sharp bite of impending storm—slammed against my shattered nerves, trying to weave into the cedar and frost radiating from my broken vial.

His grip on my arms tightened, pure Alpha dominance vibrating through his palms.

I shoved against his chest with both hands.

My palms hit hard, sweat-soaked padding and solid muscle beneath his Blackridge sweater. The sudden jolt made my head spin, but I forced my legs to hold my weight, stumbling back until my spine hit the damp concrete wall.

"Don't touch me," I said, my voice shaking with raw venom. "I don't want another Alpha telling me who I belong to."

Across the hallway, Jace stood motionless, his eyes flicking between my bare neck and Ronan’s rigid posture.

Ronan’s wolf was clawing at the surface. I could see the battle in his posture, the tight coil of his shoulders, the low, ragged breath pushing past his clenched teeth as his instincts demanded he step forward and claim what the universe had dropped into his arms.

He didn't move.

Slowly, Ronan lowered his gloved hands, curling them into tight fists at his sides.

"Good," Ronan said, his dark eyes never leaving mine. "I don't want the Moon Goddess making my decisions either."

Jace let out a sharp, mocking breath. "You're out of your mind, Cross. She's been taking suppressants for years because her biology is unstable. Whatever trick you're trying to pull to mess with my head after losing tonight, drop it."

"Shut up, Jace," I said without looking at him.

Jace stepped forward, his expression turning sharp. "Wren, get away from him. You're making a fool of yourself in an enemy corridor."

"She isn't coming with you," Ronan said, turning slightly to block Jace's line of sight. His voice dropped lower, steady and lethal. "Get back to your press conference, Mercer. Before I finish what we started in the third period."

Jace held Ronan’s gaze for three long seconds. The tension between them was thick enough to choke on, two rival Captains on the verge of tearing the concrete tunnel apart. Finally, Jace scoffed, adjusting the collar of his jersey.

"I'll see you in the medical bay, Wren," Jace said, backing away toward the arena lights. "Don't be late."

When Jace’s footsteps faded, the hallway fell dead silent.

I slid an inch down the wall, pressing the back of my head against the cold stone to stop the room from spinning. The rejection sickness was still pulsing through my veins like ice water.

Ronan took a single step back, giving me space, though his dark gaze stayed pinned to my face.

"We have a problem," he said bluntly.

"No," I said, wiping a line of cold sweat from my forehead. "You have an overactive wolf, and I have a broken scent blocker."

"You know damn well what that reaction was," Ronan countered, his tone flat. "And you know what happens if anyone outside this hall catches wind of it. Blackridge and Ironfang have up to seven championship games scheduled over the next three weeks. The league arranged it to squeeze every dollar out of this rivalry."

I closed my eyes. The media would turn it into a bloodbath. If the press found out the Captain of Blackridge was claiming the Omega who had just been publicly discarded by Ironfang’s Captain, the scandal would swallow both franchises whole.

"The Blackridge board would never allow it anyway," Ronan continued, leaning his shoulder against the opposite wall. "They’re old-school traditionalists. They won't accept an Omega who was just dropped on live television by Jace Mercer to stand anywhere near our leadership."

"I don't want to stand near your leadership," I snapped, opening my eyes to glare at him. "I don't want a bond. I don't want a pack. I just survived seven years of being an Alpha's stepping stone. I'm done."

"Then we're on the same page," Ronan said without hesitation. "No mark. No bond. No public acknowledgment. We keep our distance, keep our mouths shut, and once the championship series ends, we find a specialist to sever whatever biological glitch linked us together."

I stared at him, searching his scarred, angular face for any sign of deception. There was none. Just raw pragmatism and the same cold discipline he showed on the ice.

"Deal," I whispered.

I pushed off the wall and walked past him, heading toward the Ironfang locker rooms.

The team facility was mostly empty when I walked in. Most of the players were still out on the ice or in the main lounge celebrating with the trophy. I walked straight into the staff medical office, grabbed a cardboard storage box from under the exam table, and began clearing my shelves.

My ultrasound gels, my custom resistance bands, my specialized joint braces—everything I had bought with my own salary over the past four years went into the box.

The door swung open behind me.

Jace walked in, holding a fresh ice pack against his right shoulder. He had already changed into his tailored post-game suit, looking every bit the triumphant Alpha.

"You're late," Jace said, walking over to the main treatment table and sitting down. He tossed a laminated sheet onto the counter in front of me. "The strength coach revised my off-season shoulder protocol. I need you to prep the shockwave therapy machine for tomorrow morning at eight."

I didn't stop packing. I wrapped a box of sterile needles and placed them inside the carton.

"Did you hear me, Wren?" Jace's voice took on an edge of annoyance. "Our personal situation doesn't change your job. You're the head rehabilitation specialist for this team. You have a contract."

I picked up my clipboard, slid the metal clip open, and pulled my staff identification badge off my lanyard.

I turned around and set the plastic badge on top of his therapy sheet.

"You fired me as your future Luna," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "I'm resigning as the woman who keeps fixing everything you break."

Jace’s jaw tightened. He stared at the badge, then looked up at me with sudden anger. "Don't be childish. You're throwing away your entire career over wounded pride? Where else are you going to work? Who is going to hire an unbonded Omega who just walked out on a championship franchise?"

"That's none of your business anymore," I said.

I picked up the heavy box, tucked it under one arm, and walked out the door before he could say another word.

The cold night air hit my face as I stepped through the arena's private loading dock exit. The parking lot was filled with media vans and departing fans, red taillights cutting through the falling snow.

"Miss Lawson."

An older man in a charcoal overcoat stepped out from the shadows near a Blackridge team bus. It was Coach Marcus Vance, the veteran head coach of the Blackridge Wolves. Behind him, standing beside an idling black SUV, was Ronan.

"Coach Vance," I said, stopping on the slushy pavement.

"I'll make this quick," Vance said, his breath fogging in the freezing air. "Ronan’s chronic hip impingement and old labral tear flared up again during the second period tonight. Our regular physiotherapist just took emergency family leave, and you're the only person in this state who understands modern Alpha joint restoration well enough to keep him on the ice for the championship series."

He pulled a folded document and a tablet from his coat pocket.

"A six-week independent consulting contract. Full medical authority. Triple your Ironfang salary."

Before I could process the offer, the metal exit doors slammed open behind me.

Jace sprinted down the concrete ramp, his face dark with fury as he saw Vance and Ronan standing in front of me.

"Wren, step away from them right now!" Jace shouted, his voice echoing across the concrete loading bay. "Are you really this pathetic? You're going to crawl to our biggest enemy just to try and make me jealous?"

I looked at Jace. I looked at the man who had traded seven years of loyalty for television ratings and corporate funding without blinking.

I reached out, took the stylus from Coach Vance, and signed my name on the digital contract.

"I'm not trying to make you jealous, Jace," I said clearly. "I'm doing my job."

Ronan stepped forward, his towering frame cutting between me and Jace's furious glare. Without a word, he reached down and took the heavy cardboard box from my arms, his fingers briefly brushing against mine.

Ronan opened the passenger door of the SUV, placed my things inside, and turned to look down at me.

"Welcome to Blackridge."

The private medical room in the Blackridge training facility smelled of antiseptic, fresh ice, and trouble.

Ronan sat on the edge of the high examination table in gray training shorts, his bare chest glistening with a thin sheen of sweat from the morning skate. His left thigh was swollen near the hip flexor, the muscle tight as steel cable.

The moment I stepped within two feet of him, the air grew heavy. My cedar-and-frost scent surged to the surface, tangling with his crushed pine and ozone until the room felt charged like the sky before a lightning strike.

"Control your pheromones, Cross," I said, peeling the backing off a roll of heavy medical tape. "We had an agreement."

Ronan set his jaw, a muscle jumping in his cheek. "I'm trying, Lawson. My wolf thinks you're standing in front of me to be claimed, not to fix my hip."

"Tell him to look at the clipboard instead."

I dropped to one knee on the rubber mat between his knees, positioning myself to stabilize his thigh. His skin radiated pure heat against my cool fingers. Every time my thumbs pressed into the inflamed tendon, a sharp electric pulse shot up my arms, testing my focus.

I smoothed the compression bandage around his upper thigh, securing the anchor wrap with firm, practiced tension.

"Does this hurt?" I asked, looking up at him.

Ronan looked down, his dark gaze locked onto my lips. "Not where you're touching me."

"Keep talking like that and I'll skip the numbing spray," I replied, keeping my voice level.

I wrapped another layer of elastic support high up his groin line. Underneath my palms, the thick muscles of his quad bunched and twitched with intense restraint. His Alpha scent thickened by the second, rich and suffocating, wrapping around my senses like a heavy blanket.

Yet when I glanced up at his posture, I saw where his discipline lay.

Ronan’s hands were clamped hard against the metal edge of the treatment table, his knuckles bone-white. The metal groaned faintly under his grip. He had every biological excuse to touch my shoulder, to brush his fingers against my neck, to let his instincts take over.

He didn't move an inch toward me. He just held the cold steel, breathing through his nose in measured, ragged intervals.

The heavy door swung open with a bang.

Three Blackridge forwards walked in, laughing and stripping off their sweat-soaked practice jerseys. The laughter died in their throats the second they crossed the threshold.

The scent in the room stopped them in their tracks. Their nostrils flared, their eyes darting between Ronan’s rigid posture and me kneeling on the floor between his legs.

"Captain?" Miller, the alternate forward, asked, his voice cautious. "What the hell is that smell?"

"Get out," Ronan growled, his voice dropping an octave into an Alpha command that made the floorboards hum.

"Is she..." Miller started, looking at my bare neck.

"Shut the door and keep your mouths shut," Ronan cut in, his tone cold as glacial ice. "She's your medical staff. Treat her like it."

The players didn't ask another question. They backed out immediately, pulling the heavy door shut behind them.

I stood up, shaking out my fingers to break the static tingling in my skin. "You didn't have to bite their heads off."

"They need to know the line," Ronan said, watching me pick up his custom carbon-fiber hip stabilizer.

I stepped back into his space, sliding the brace around his waist and reaching down to fasten the lower strap near his inner thigh.

Before I could lock the buckle, the door was shoved open again—this time with violent force.

Jace Mercer stood in the doorway, wearing his Ironfang track jacket, his chest heaving as his eyes took in the scene. He saw me standing flush against the examination table, my hands resting on the inner strap of Ronan’s thigh brace.

Jace’s eyes flashed gold, his Alpha aura flaring out in a suffocating wave of pure territorial rage.

"Get away from him, Wren," Jace barked, stepping into the room. "Right now."

Ronan’s shoulders instantly coiled, his posture shifting into an attack stance as he prepared to launch himself off the table.

"Stay where you are, Ronan," I said without turning around.

I stepped back from the table, placing myself directly between the two massive Alphas. I turned to face Jace, meeting his furious glare with dead, steady eyes.

"Don't look between my legs, Mercer," Ronan mocked from behind me, his voice dangerously calm. "You might realize what you traded away."

"Shut up, Cross!" Jace snapped, his fists clenching at his sides. He pointed a finger at me. "Wren, you're packing your shit and coming back to our side of the facility. I don't care about your little temper tantrum. You do not touch another Alpha like that."

"I don't belong to your side of the facility," I said, my voice cutting through the thick tension. "And you don't get to give me orders anymore."

"I made you who you are!" Jace snarled, taking an aggressive step toward me. "Seven years, Wren! You think this bastard actually cares about your rehabilitation work? He’s using you to get inside my head!"

Ronan shifted behind me, his boots hitting the rubber floor with a heavy thud.

I threw my arm back, palm flat against Ronan’s chest, blocking him from moving past me. I looked over my shoulder, giving Ronan a single, sharp look.

*Let me handle this.*

Ronan held my gaze for a second. The lethal fury in his eyes flickered, then softened into something like respect. He sat back down on the edge of the table, resting his forearms on his knees, ceding the floor entirely to me.

I turned back to Jace.

"You didn't make me," I said, each word quiet, precise, and cold. "I spent seven years keeping you on the ice while you took all the credit. You threw that away on national television for corporate funding. So get the hell out of my training room before I have security revoke your arena access."

Jace stared at me, his jaw working as if he couldn't process the fact that I wasn't flinching. He looked at Ronan, who was watching him with cold amusement, then back at me.

"You're going to regret this, Wren," Jace hissed.

He spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. My pulse hammered in my throat, the residual shock of the confrontation rattling my hands.

"Nice form," Ronan said quietly from the table.

"Be quiet and let me finish the strap," I muttered, refusing to let him see my fingers shake.

***

Two nights later, the arena was an absolute war zone.

Game one of the championship series had drawn a sold-out crowd. Every time Blackridge and Ironfang touched the puck, the glass rattled with bone-crushing checks.

Jace was playing like a man possessed. He wasn't focused on the puck; he was hunting Ronan. Every whistle brought an extra shove, an elbow to the ribs, a slash across the pads. Jace’s eyes were wild, inflamed by the heavy scent of my cedar and frost clinging to Ronan’s jersey.

With three minutes left in the third period, I stood near the open bench gate, wrapping an ice bandage around a rookie defenseman's sprained wrist. The roar of the crowd deafened my ears.

Out on the neutral zone, Ronan stripped the puck from an Ironfang winger and turned along the boards.

He never saw Jace coming.

Jace charged across the blue line at full speed, leaving his feet in a blatant, predatory charge. The collision sounded like a shotgun blast.

The force of the hit threw Ronan’s two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame straight toward the open bench gate.

"Wren, look out!"

I looked up just as Ronan’s armored shoulder crashed into me.

The impact tore my feet off the rubber mat. My body launched backward, and the back of my skull slammed violently against the steel frame of the glass partition.

A sickening crack echoed in my ears.

The world exploded in blinding white light before fading into a murky gray. I crumpled to the floor, my vision spinning wildly as a warm, thick liquid began trickling down the side of my neck.

Ronan scrambled to his knees on the ice, shaking off the hit. He reached out to help me, but the moment his gaze landed on the crimson blood running down my pale skin, his entire body seized.

His pupils expanded instantly, swallowing the brown of his irises until his eyes were solid, terrifying pitch black. A deafening, unhinged roar ripped from his chest.

Before anyone could move, Ronan launched himself across the ice like a missile, tackling Jace Mercer straight into the frozen boards.