The sound of snow crunching beneath my feet echoes through the mountain path as I trudge along. Above, the haunting hoot of an owl mingles with the distant voices of people reveling in the valley below. Envy wells up within me as I think about them celebrating the very thing that has tormented me, causing three mental breakdowns and a constant knot of dread in my stomach.

I release a heavy sigh, forcing myself to slow my pace. I can't change what's already in motion, but I'll certainly delay it for as long as possible. Perhaps the alternative isn't as terrible as it seems. Remaining invisible and unnoticed might just be preferable to being tethered to a narcissistic individual.

As I reach a high point on the trail, I step off the path, and a moth emerges from a patch of tall, lifeless grass. It flutters briefly in front of my face, then ascends into the vast, star-studded night sky until it becomes too minuscule to discern. Likely, it's seeking refuge elsewhere. I can't help but envy its freedom; it can escape from its troubles, while I remain trapped.

Through a break in the trees, I gaze down at the clearing where the pack members are gathering. Their bonfire burns brightly and stands tall, disrupting the prevailing darkness and casting a warm, inviting glow upon the cold landscape. Even from this distance, I can observe the snow sparkling in the radiance of the firelight.

On any other winter night, this scene would be beautiful, but tonight, it appears grotesque to me.

...

Four days earlier...

"Which one, or perhaps this one?" I found myself pondering the curious lives of squirrels in our neighborhood. Did they live close enough to consider themselves neighbors, just a couple of trees apart? What happened if a squirrel built a nest in a tree already claimed by another? Did they enAdkins in territorial disputes or find a way to coexist peacefully?

"Mackenzie? What's your take?" I solicited her opinion.

"They probably get along," I speculated, chuckling. "Maybe they even visit each other's nests to borrow acorn dust, like squirrel cocaine."

Suddenly, a sharp smack to my leg startled me. "OW! What the hell?!" I protested, rubbing my stinging thigh and shooting Martha a withering glare. What had I done to incur Her Highness's displeasure now?

"You're not even paying attention! You're lying there staring at the ceiling like a washed-up cucumber," she accused, her tone indignant. Admittedly, I hadn't been giving her my full attention, but in my defense, she often carried on conversations with herself, needing only an occasional nod or grunt of acknowledgment.

I realized she was standing in front of me, holding two dresses in her hands—one silver and one black. After a quick game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, I pointed to the black one to avoid further abuse.

My choice seemed to perk her up instantly. "Great, I thought so too," she concurred, carrying the dresses back across the room, hanging the silver one in the closet, and draping the black one over the back of an armchair.

"You know, I really wish you'd come to this party with me," she implored while settling at her vanity. She opened a small glass bottle and began applying skin-colored paint that perfectly matched her cocoa-toned skin. "Making some friends and talking to someone besides me would do you good for once."

"I'm starting to regret agreeing to this much," I grumbled in response. Martha was the only person I truly considered a friend, and although we'd known each other for as long as I could remember, we'd only become close about a year and a half ago.

"Oh, please. Your grumpy self loves me, and you know it," she teased, her words muffled as she puckered her lips to apply dark purple lipstick.

I didn't waste any time in rejecting her suggestion. "Not a chance."

"Come on, it'll be fun," she continued to coax me. "I've heard the Oarcan boys are quite the sight to behold—tall, sleek, water dripping from their silky hair, down their chiseled abs, and right to their—"

I gagged, and not just figuratively. I actually gagged. When that didn't deter her, I launched into an exaggerated coughing fit to drive the point home. The last thing I needed was to hear about Martha's extensive, and often disturbing, fantasies, especially her fixation on the Oarca pack males.

"You can act grossed out all you want now," she quipped, pausing from her makeup application to glance at me in the mirror, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "One day, Mackenzie Adkins, you'll find someone attractive. And when you do, I'll be there to rub it in your face."

I rolled my eyes. I was skeptical, to say the least. Martha fully embraced her sexuality, while I had little interest in the matter. Yet somehow, we managed to get along despite being polar opposites.

"Yeah, whatever," I replied, standing up and grabbing my black jacket. "I'll see you later."

Martha raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, the other barely visible under her makeup. "Where are you going?"

"I have to help clean up for the party," I answered with bitterness in my voice. "Another celebration for that mightier-than-thou asshole, I'm assuming. Who knows what it's for this time." Just the thought of dealing with Francisco made my blood boil, and the idea of spending the rest of the day with him made my hair stand on end.

Martha laughed, finding my disdain for Francisco endlessly entertaining. I, on the other hand, didn't share her amusement. Just the sight of him made me homicidal.

"Feel free to come with me," she chimed cheerfully, wiggling her one visible eyebrow.

I snorted and turned to leave. "Laugh it up, Martha. You're next on the list."

...

The sun's warmth envelops my back, creating an illusion of mild autumn rather than early winter.

"You missed a spot," Francisco nags for what feels like the millionth time from below.

My patience teeters on the brink of collapse. "Can't you see I'm not finished?" I shoot a fiery glare in his direction, where he stands, holding the ladder steady and offering critiques on my every move. Even the sight of his head, covered in moderately long, brown hair, irritates me.

I've never had any fondness for Francisco. He's the sort of person who could provoke a Buddhist monk into taking a swing at him. I'm not entirely sure why fate continually pairs me with him, whether it's for pack errands or border patrols.

"No, but you should get it before you forget. Right there, up in the corner." His innocent and utterly oblivious tone only serves to intensify my annoyance.

I squeeze the sponge tighter, causing water to spill over my arm. "Shouldn't you be busy with the ribbons or something?"

"I'm just trying to help, okay? This party is for you, you know." He points to yet another spot on the second-story window, which I've been cleaning for half an hour because it's impossible to satisfy his exacting standards.

"For me? What do you mean for me? It's for Wyatt, just like everything else," I mutter, attacking the window with a vengeance.

Wyatt is the Alpha's son, and on top of turning 18, he's poised to inherit the title. Like all Alpha offspring, Wyatt is thoroughly spoiled, and every pack activity revolves around him. Once, his father even had us throw a dinner party to celebrate his first chest hair. I couldn't eat a thing that night without the absurdity of it all making me sick to my stomach.

"You haven't heard? Wyatt picked you as his Luna."

At that moment, my foot slips off the ladder, and I plummet downward. My stomach scrapes against the steps before my hands manage to grip where my feet once were.

"WHAT?!" I sputter, struggling to regain my footing.

"I thought you would've known by now," he says with a casual shrug.

"No. There's nothing to know because it's not happening." I state firmly and start descending the ladder.

"What are you doing? Mackenzie, we're not done! Mackenzie!" His cries fall on deaf ears because there's no way I'm returning to that task or allowing this to happen to me.

A lump lodges itself in my throat, and I'm seething with anger, my jaw quivering when not clenched. My stomach is twisted into knots, but not the excited kind—instead, they're the type that hints at an impending bout of nausea.

I march toward the Alpha's house with determination, my sights set on a certain ego-inflated soon-to-be Alpha. My swift, furious pace attracts concerned stares from pack members as I traverse our small village. I try to ignore them as I make a beeline for the house. In retrospect, everyone has been treating me differently lately. I've been on the receiving end of dirty looks and sidelong glances all week, and I'm only just beginning to notice.

Their thoughts can only fall into one of two categories: "Why her?" or "Thank the gods, it's not me."

My cheeks blaze with embarrassment and a painful sense of ignorance. It turns out that everyone else was well aware of my fate, leaving me in the dark until now. But that changes at this moment.

With unwavering determination, I push open the door to the Alpha's house, not pausing for a moment, and make my way toward the stairs, knowing his office is up there. I march down the hallway, my footsteps echoing, until I'm abruptly brought to a halt by the sound of heated voices.

"That lunatic is still out there! How can I assume control of him lurking, waiting to pounce?" I recognize the whiny yet self-satisfied voice of the infamous Wyatt Swelter.

Since I need to speak with him anyway, loitering by the slightly open door shouldn't be that wrong, should it? I've never been one to shy away from eavesdropping, so what's different now?

That's my rationale as I stealthily creep closer to the door, pressing my ear against the wall to let my heightened hearing work its magic.

"He's less likely to be a nuisance if we have two leaders. You already have a Luna in mind, right?" Alpha Matias's composed voice reaches my ears.

"I want Mackenzie," Wyatt promptly responds, causing me to struggle to suppress a gag. At the mere mention of my name, color drains from my face. "She's the one, and I've grown tired of waiting for both her and my title."

A deep hum follows, a sound Alpha Matias often makes when contemplating something. "Then wait no longer. We'll move the wedding up to Thursday. Since there's no mate bond to bind you, vows will suffice. Plus, it'll give you more time to get to know her. Perhaps even—"

"There won't be a wedding," I declare firmly, bursting into the room on a whim. There's no way I can stand out there, silently listening as my future is decided for me. I refuse to be a passive observer in my own life any longer.

Two pairs of eyes swivel in my direction. One belongs to Wyatt, a light blue that complements his neatly combed black hair. The other pair, a darker blue, belongs to his father, whose once-jet-black hair is now peppered with gray—a testament to the stress that accompanies his position.

"Pardon me?" Alpha Matias rises from his leather office chair, standing tall with squared shoulders. One thing is undeniable: he's accustomed to looking down on people, not the other way around. He levels that same disapproving gaze he's perfected over the years, capable of making even the proudest wolves feel shame.

I swallow hard, struggling to keep my attitude in check. I've spoken out against him one too many times and witnessed the consequences. Yet maintaining this newfound resolve is proving to be an immense challenge.

"I won't marry him or anyone else," I seethe again, planting my feet firmly. Surely, he doesn't think he can force me into this. There must be a line he won't cross. There has to be. He's held control over my life for so long, but this... this is too much. I refuse to accept it.

To my right, Wyatt lets out a frustrated moan. "Why can't you just cooperate for once?" he whines, glaring at me. "I thought we were past this. I can give you everything you want! Who turns down the title of Luna?" He turns to his father, pleading yet demanding with his eyes for support.

He hasn't grown up at all. He's still the same child who threatened to throw a tantrum if denied dessert or who menaced me with finger amputation if I dared to touch one of his forgotten toys.

"You can't give me anything, or you wouldn't have treated me like this my entire life," I shoot back, feeling a growl building deep within my chest. Wyatt has always regarded himself as royalty, with everyone else beneath him. But in my eyes, a king without a crown isn't a king at all.

Alpha Matias growls in response to my defiance. "Mind your tongue," he snaps before turning to his son, oozing confidence. "She'll obey me."

He settles back into his chair, leaning back and studying me with a calculating gaze that reminds me of a snake slithering in the grass, its beady eyes fixated on its prey.

"Wouldn't you, Mackenzie?" he asks in that sickly sweet, ominous tone. I loathe that voice, that tone, with every fiber of my being. It turns my stomach more than the thought of a future with Wyatt.

I clench my jaw, my fists tightening. "And if I don't?"