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.

She hadn’t even begun her blood cycle—so why did her belly flare with such sudden, searing pain?

Sylvara pushed herself to rise, every step a sharp ache, and made for the door. But it wouldn’t budge. Locked. From the outside.

Then came the grating, triumphant voice of Tahlia echoing through the enchanted seal.

“You pathetic shadow,” Tahlia sneered. “How’s it feel, wearing the scraps of a love that was never yours?

“Lucien has always belonged to me, from the very start. And now that I’ve returned, you’d best step aside.

“And here you are tonight, daring to show up and steal my spotlight?”

Sylvara doubled over, clutching her abdomen, cold sweat running in rivulets down her temples. Her voice was faint, strained, yet edged with defiance. “Tahlia… if you want him, take him. I… I don’t care anymore.”

Tahlia’s laughter was sharp, icy. “Ha! You expect me to believe that?

“You stole my mother’s favor back then… and now you try to take my mate too? Who do you think you are?

“You’re staying in here tonight. No one is coming to rescue you.”

With deliberate flourish, Tahlia dragged a carved wooden sign—“Restricted Area. No Wolves Beyond This Point”—and set it against the enchanted barrier door.

Because certain relics on display tonight were protected by lunar sigils, all attendees had been required to surrender their comm-amulets before entering. No outsider would dare approach. No one but Tahlia would think to check.

Shivering and weak, Avy sank to the stone floor, pressing herself against the wall as pain radiated through her body. Gathering the last of her strength, she slammed her fists on the heavy door and shouted, voice hoarse with desperation.

“Help… anyone… please… help me…”

But the warning runes on the sign kept passersby away; no one dared break the rules. No one came.

She had no sense of how long she wailed, how many heartbeats passed before the agony overcame her, and darkness finally claimed her.

When the auction ended and Sylvara had still not returned, Lucien’s frown was one of casual curiosity rather than concern.

Tahlia batted her lashes innocently. “Mondy, maybe she’s upset because I took her seat?

“If I’d known she’d sulk over it, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Hearing her pretend remorse, Lucien’s brows knitted. “You’re the Winslet heiress. Do you think a secretary belongs in your place?

“Forget it. Let her stew. She’s been puffed up with pride lately. Maybe a night of cool reflection will do her good. Let’s return to the den.”

Out of his sight, Tahlia’s lips curved in triumph. Sylvara, I told you—you can’t beat me. Not my mother, not my mate.

That night, Sylvara did not return to the pack stronghold, yet not once did Lucien inquire after his mate.

The next morning, during her routine rounds, a cleaning apprentice unlocked the restroom door where Sylvara had been trapped.

There she crouched, shivering in a corner. Her robe was soaked through, her body trembling from hours spent against the cold stone.

The apprentice rushed to her side, alarmed. “Mistress… how did you get locked in here? You look faint… should I summon the healers?”

Sylvara’s damp lashes lifted, eyes barely focusing. She forced herself upright, pressing arms against the floor.

“Thank you… but… it’s not necessary,” she murmured.

The sharp pain in her belly had softened, but the room remained bone-chilling from the night’s lingering cold.

She had expected at least one sign of concern from Lucien—he would have smelled her scent missing from the den, or come searching. But clearly, she had overestimated him again.

She remembered vividly how, the last time Tahlia had vanished for a mere ten minutes, Lucien had nearly raised an alarm across the pack.

Yet now, after a full night of silence, he had not lifted a claw to check on his mate.

So this is what love looks like, Sylvara thought bitterly, and this… this is what indifference feels like.

She steadied herself against the wall and moved, slow step by slow step, toward the exit, finally catching a carriage to the outskirts of the city.

In the warmth of the vehicle, she retrieved her comm-amulet and checked the messages. Not a single one from Lucien.

Instead, Red’s words burned across the screen:

[Sylvara, I can’t wait the full moon. One week. I’m coming to claim you in a week.]