“Alpha… I want to sever my bond with Lucien and renounce my place in his pack. Draft the agreements for me.”

The attorney—a seasoned pack mediator—tilted his head, eyes wary.

“Sylvara… breaking from a mate is never simple. Your bond didn’t form overnight. Think carefully before signing anything irreversible.”

Sylvara Thorne had served as Lucien’s second-in-command in the Thorne Pack for three years. Hidden from the world, she had also been his mate for the same amount of time.

A month ago, everything had shattered. She had been captured by rogue hunters—humans who preyed on supernatural beings—and trapped in a cursed forest. The hunters contacted Lucien repeatedly, demanding the pack’s treasure in exchange for her life. He hadn’t responded once.

When they finally cast her into the icy river, she nearly drowned, but a wandering shifter—a river wolf—rescued her before death claimed her.

Meanwhile, that same night, Lucien was elsewhere. Not hunting, not searching.

He was in the heat of the moonlit lodge… with Tahlia, Sylvara’s younger sister and fellow pack member.

Years of devotion, the bond of their matehood, three years of shared life—all of it shattered under the moon’s pale gaze.

Sylvara finally awoke from her illusions. She had loved a ghost. Now, she was ready to sever the ties that bound her for good.

“I’ve decided,” Sylvara said, voice steady but cold. “And Lucien won’t oppose me.”

For three long years, she had known—he had never truly cared for her.

But she had loved him since their youth. When he accepted the mate bond three years ago, she had wept tears of joy, believing she was finally home.

Soon, their third lunar anniversary would arrive.

She had prepared one final offering—a gift of release: the dissolution of their bond.

---

That evening, Sylvara returned to the pack’s ancestral villa and found Lucien in the kitchen of the main lodge.

Even as an alpha, he had always been meticulous, especially about keeping the lodge immaculate. She remembered the first year of their bond—he had barged in while she prepared a meal, wrinkled his nose, and growled, “Does this lodge double as a den for scavengers?”

But when Tahlia admitted she enjoyed his cooking, he had joined a human culinary course for her sake, blending his wolfish instincts with delicate human techniques.

Tonight, the aroma of the feast filled the air.

“You said the council meeting ended early. Why are you home so late?” he asked, tall frame looming even in an apron.

Sylvara forced a casual smile. “New initiates joined the pack. I’ve been preparing their orientation rituals.”

He didn’t press—he rarely noticed her outside her duties.

“Alright. Dinner’s ready. Sit.”

She did, watching as he placed a slice of bitter melon onto her plate.

“I remembered you liked this. Made it just for you.”

A dull ache flared in her chest.

Tahlia loved bitter melon. Sylvara’s allergies had always flared with it.

Three years together, and he still couldn’t tell the difference.

If he had ever truly paid attention, he would have remembered.

“Avy?” Lucien’s frown deepened when she didn’t touch her plate. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Gently, Sylvara pushed the dish aside and retrieved two documents from her pack satchel.

“Dinner can wait. You need to sign these agreements.”

He growled softly—a low, disapproving rumble. “Contracts at the table? Do they burn with urgency?”

Before he could take them, his comms device buzzed.

He turned, hand shielding the screen, but Sylvara glimpsed the caller ID: Tahlia.

Lucien’s claws scraped the balcony railing as he stalked outside, still speaking low tones into the device. In his haste, he knocked over a plate; shards of enchanted glass exploded across the floor. One slice slashed Sylvara’s fingertip, blood pooling darkly against the tiles.

He didn’t notice.

Fifteen minutes later, he returned, grabbing his cloak.

“I have urgent matters tonight. I won’t be dining here.”

“You haven’t signed yet,” Sylvara called after him.

He sighed, irritation flashing in his eyes, but finally flipped to the last page and marked his clawed signature.

“Done. Can I leave now?”

She stared at the inked marks that ended their mate bond and her role in his pack. Nodding, she whispered, “Yes… go.”

Lucien departed without a backward glance.

If he had cared, he would have realized the first document severed her ties to his pack—the second ended their mate bond.

He would have seen the blood on her hand.

But his heart had always followed Tahlia—her sister, the “true” daughter of the Winslet clan.

Twenty-five years ago, the nanny and Vionna, Sylvara’s mother, gave birth in the same hospital under a blood moon. A mix-up swapped the infants. Sylvara, the rightful heiress, was raised by the nanny in secret, while Tahlia grew as the adored child of the Winslets.

The truth surfaced only five years later, after the nanny’s death. The Winslets welcomed Sylvara but refused to relinquish Tahlia. Vionna’s words had lingered:

“Avy, hearts are flesh and blood. We’ve raised Yannie. Now that her mother is gone, she only has us. If we expose the truth, the world will scorn her.”

To society, Tahlia remained the heiress. Only the families knew Sylvara’s true bloodline.

Lucien and Tahlia had been childhood mates, destined for an engagement. When Tahlia fell for a French alpha overseas and left, Sylvara was offered in her place. Lucien, loyal to pack protocol, complied.

Then, a month ago, Tahlia returned, and Lucien betrayed her completely.

He even released a recording of their intimate moments online, a public curse to force Sylvara out of the Thorne lineage.

Sylvara had watched. She heard him whisper to Tahlia:

“Sylvara never wronged me, but if I simply dissolve the bond, the clans will protest. We must ruin her reputation.”

Tahlia’s voice had been soft. “After three years… did you ever love her?”

“She was only a placeholder. I married her to appease the families.”

Sylvara had once believed her patience and sincerity could awaken his heart. Now, she realized she had been foolish.

Tears stung her eyes as she pulled out a small leather notebook.

Three years prior, she had sworn: If he disappoints me ninety-nine times, I will leave.

The video marked the ninety-ninth betrayal.

That night, Sylvara placed three keepsakes into a ceremonial box, locked it in the secure vault—her final anniversary gift.

It was her release, his freedom, and the closure she had long awaited.

With everything ready, Sylvara dialed a number she hadn’t used in three years.

Her voice, hushed but firm, trembled with resolve:

“Red… my divorce cooling-off period ends next moon. Come and take me away then.”

Sylvara thought it would take ages for the call to connect. She was wrong—the line picked up almost immediately.

“Sylvara,” a low, sharp voice rasped through the speaker, “don’t even think about playing games with me.”

She remained silent, letting the growl of his tone sink in.

“I’ve been hunting for you as long as you’ve been pining for Lucien. Seven years, icy as a frost wolf, and suddenly you’re giving in? What made you change your mind?”

Red Ralston. Her former mate, a high-ranking alpha in North Carolina’s elite wolf packs.

He had pursued her relentlessly for seven cycles of the moon. Once, she had almost pledged herself to him.

But on the night she was meant to decide, Lucien had appeared, offering her hope, promising warmth in the cold wilderness of her life. And so, she had left Red behind.

Faced with his sharp questions, she drew in a shaky breath. “I… I wasn’t thinking clearly. Forget what I just said.”

A sudden thump echoed over the line, loud and forceful, as though something heavy had crashed onto the floor.

“You don’t get to call me when it suits you and vanish when it doesn’t, Sylvara,” Red growled, his voice rising in pure alpha command. “You chose me this time. Don’t think about running away again.”

“I’m giving you thirty days,” he warned, teeth grinding faintly. “Deal with that… other wolf. After that, I’m coming for what’s mine.”

Before she could speak, the line went dead. A sharp click ended the connection.

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. ‘Some things never change,’ she thought, shaking her head.

That night, Lucien did not return to the villa.

She spent the hours in silence, wandering through the villa, folding old belongings into boxes, sorting through memories. Dawn crept over the horizon by the time the front door finally creaked open.

He entered, still in his rumpled clothes from the night before, scent faintly of cedar and smoke from the hearth. “What are you throwing away?”

Sylvara flinched slightly but quickly straightened, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Just some old things.”

He moved closer, leaning over a box, sniffing the air lightly. Clothes, mementos, gifts he had given her—all piled inside.

“You call these… old things?”

“Old gifts, old clothes,” she said lightly, voice calm. “They take up room. I thought I’d send them to the orphaned cubs in the Appalachian hills. Might even improve your reputation among the neighboring packs.”

Lucien’s lips twitched, the faintest curve forming, but his eyes remained sharp. “Hmm… clever.”

Relief fluttered inside her, but she did not let herself relax. He wasn’t convinced by words—he simply refused to waste more time on trivialities.

A sudden crash from behind made her spin.

Tahlia stood there, wide-eyed, a shattered statuette at her feet. Her smile was the kind that lured predators into traps, innocent yet subtly dangerous.

“Oops… sorry, Mondy, Avy. Didn’t mean to.”

Lucien didn’t even glance at the broken artifact. His attention went straight to Tahlia, checking her for injuries with quick, precise movements.

Seeing no sign of harm, his tension eased slightly. “It’s fine. Nothing matters more than you.”

But Tahlia’s gaze shifted to Sylvara, head tilted innocently. “You don’t mind, right, Avy?”

Sylvara’s eyes fell.

The sculpture had been one of a kind, carved after a trip to the highlands—a blend of both her and Lucien’s likenesses, infused with wolf-bond magic.

Now, it was reduced to fragments.

Years ago, she would have scolded Tahlia, perhaps even snapped, but now… she simply looked up and said, “It’s okay.”

A flicker of something—pride, envy, or satisfaction—passed over Tahlia’s face, gone before Sylvara could decipher it. “Aww… you’re so gracious,” she said sweetly.

Then Tahlia turned to Lucien without missing a beat. “With a sister like that, I’m sure she won’t object to my next little request either.”

Lucien didn’t even glance at Sylvara. His eyes focused on Tahlia as he spoke, authoritative and calm.

“Yannie’s back in North Carolina. Her parents aren’t in the territory, and she’s uneasy staying alone. In the meantime, she can stay here.

“And—your room faces the sunrise. She’s always been sensitive to the cold. Make sure she gets it.”

Sylvara’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing, letting the alpha of the house make his decisions as the new hierarchy of tensions quietly settled around them.

Even after three cycles of the moon spent as mates, they didn’t always share the same den at night.

Lucien had once growled, low and unwavering, that he didn’t like having anyone curled up beside him.

Sylvara had long since understood—it wasn’t merely “someone” he wanted space from. It was always her.

She also knew he had always been cautious with Tahlia. He likely rehearsed every word, every justification for the young wolf, but when Sylvara agreed without protest, it had thrown him off balance.

“Fine,” she said softly, voice smooth as velvet, “there’s far too much of my things in your den anyway. I’ll take it all out myself.”

It hardly mattered whether she left her belongings today or a month from now.

The moment her words left her lips, Lucien opened his mouth to argue—an instinctive retort hovering just out of reach—but Tahlia’s sweet, calculated interjection cut him off.

“Thanks, Avy,” she said innocently.

Sylvara offered no reply. She bent low, arms thin but steady, lifting a heavy crate and maneuvering it toward the stairs.

The box was far too full. Her foot slipped against a hidden shard of glass on the floor, and she fell. Her knee slammed against the tiles, slicing into flesh, shards biting cruelly.

Pain seared through her body, a blaze that made her spine stiffen and sweat bead along her neck. She bit her lip hard to keep silent, refusing to cry out.

But Lucien didn’t notice. Tahlia had already tugged him away, leaving Sylvara alone on the floor, trembling as the ache burrowed deeper. One drop of blood fell, then another, tiny droplets staining the cold stone.

In the Winslets’ realm, Lucien would have carried Tahlia’s burdens without hesitation.

“Our little Yannie,” he would have said, warm and indulgent, “deserves to be treated like a princess.”

Sylvara, in contrast, had once been the daughter of a lowly maid. She hauled, scrubbed, and labored while no one lifted a finger. No one cared if she bled or fell.

Now, as the daughter of a pack elder and as Lucien’s mate, nothing had changed.

Everyone still aligned with Tahlia—without question, without pause.

Sylvara had learned to live with it.

The afternoon passed slowly, her hands and arms aching as she sorted through every chest, shelf, and trunk. By the time the sun began to slip below the horizon, her possessions were packed onto a waiting carriage.

“You didn’t have to discard so much,” Lucien said, frowning as he surveyed the load. “Yannie is only staying temporarily. Once she leaves, you’ll return. What’s the point of all this?”

To him, something felt off—she was too composed, unnervingly calm these past few nights.

“They’re relics,” Sylvara replied evenly. “Time to let them go.”

“You’ve never been wasteful,” he observed.

No, she hadn’t. Her life had been one of scarcity, of making everything she owned endure.

Yet she smiled faintly. “They’ve been with me a long time. Sometimes, you need to clear space. Out with the old, right?”

Just like people, she thought silently.

Her explanation sounded reasonable. Had he pressed further, he would have appeared petty. He let the matter drop.

“There’s an auction tonight,” he added, shifting the subject. “The organizers specifically invited me. You’ll attend. With Yannie.”

Sylvara opened her mouth to refuse, but he cut her off with a low, sharp bark of authority.

“You’re my secretary. I cannot appear without one.”

She stared at him. A dozen bitter retorts pressed at her tongue—like, and bringing Tahlia is acceptable?—but she said none. She simply inclined her head. One last duty before vanishing from his life.

Night fell, and inside the auction hall, bright enchanted lamps cast the space in daylight brilliance.

All who mattered were present—wolves and humans alike, polished, practiced, and powerful.

The Thorne Pack had risen swiftly these past two moons, and Jade, the host, stepped forward to greet them with a practiced smile.

“Alpha Thorne. Your seats await. Right this way.”

She gestured toward two adjacent chairs. “I understand congratulations are due. Your mate’s seat is ready beside you.”

For a heartbeat, the three froze.

Lucien’s mate bond had been private, sealed from the pack and outsiders alike. No one was meant to know.

Sylvara glanced at him, waiting. Two women. One additional seat.

The choice was inevitable.

“I am not married,” he said evenly, voice low, controlled. “I don’t know where that rumor began.”

The host blinked, puzzled. “And these two?”

Lucien advanced, taking Tahlia’s hand first.

“This is Tahlia, daughter of the S. Winslet Co., and an important wolf in our allied pack.”

“Ah, Tahlia Winslet,” Jade said politely, acknowledging her.

Then, with a reluctant curl of his lips, Lucien added, “And the one beside you? My secretary.”

Sylvara did not flinch. She had anticipated this brutal announcement. But knowing the cold truth did not dull the sting that pressed in her chest.

She stood tall, swallowing the burn, her dignity intact.

Lucien and Tahlia seated themselves as Sylvara remained behind, a lone sentinel in the chill of the grand hall.

Perhaps it was the crisp night air, perhaps the spectacle of the event, but a stabbing pain cut into her abdomen, sharp and unrelenting.

She pressed a hand to her belly, moving swiftly toward the restrooms—her retreat disguised as necessity, though in truth, she was fleeing.