The glowing red letters on my phone screen blurred. *A second mate.*

I hurled the device onto the mattress. It bounced against the pillows, but the headline remained burned into my retinas.

This was just like every other time. The pack, my parents, the universe—they always strapped me to Scotty Montgomery and expected me to just take it.

It started early. Every group project. Every seating chart. From elementary to high school, if a teacher said the word "partners," I already knew my fate.

"Are you going to open the book, or just inspect the ceiling tiles?" I asked. I slammed the massive history encyclopedia onto the library table. Dust plumed into the fluorescent light.

Scotty didn't flinch. He kicked his feet up onto the mahogany surface, crossing his ankles. "I'm supervising."

"The assignment is on the Industrial Revolution. We both need to write a thesis."

"You write it. I'll present it to the class tomorrow."

I shoved his boots off the table. They hit the floor with a heavy thud. "I'm not doing your work, Scotty. The rubric says we both have to contribute to the research."

"I am contributing," he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I'm providing moral support."

"You're providing a headache."

"Just read the book, Camille. We both know you love playing the good student."

"And you love playing the lazy Alpha."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yes, I do. Because if we fail, your parents will cut your allowance. My dad will just buy the school a new library wing. So, start reading, Millie."

"Stop calling me that."

"Stop whining and grab a pen."

I gripped the edge of the table. "You're completely useless."

"I'm efficient," he countered. He tapped his screen, loading up a mobile game. "Wake me up when you have an outline."

I hated him then, but I hated him more during physical education.

While the other wolves relied on their enhanced agility, I tripped over my own feet.

"Pick up the pace!" Scotty shouted.

We were tethered together by a thick nylon rope for the obstacle course. The mud sucked at my sneakers. My lungs burned with every inhale.

"I'm trying!" I yelled. I swiped a mixture of sweat and dirt from my forehead.

He yanked the rope. The force jerked me forward, sending me stumbling to my knees. "Try harder. You're dragging my time down."

I scrambled back to my feet, my palms scraped and stinging. "Then unclip the carabiner and run by yourself!"

"If I cross the finish line without you, Coach fails us both." Scotty halted. He turned around, his chest barely rising. "Why are you so slow? Even the omegas are lapping us."

"I don't have a wolf to give me stamina!" I snapped. My voice cracked, echoing off the gymnasium walls.

His jaw hardened. The mockery faded from his eyes, replaced by a flat, unyielding glare. "Then use your human legs and move. I don't lose, Camille."

"I can't run any faster."

"Then I'll drag you." He turned his back to me, clamped his hand over the rope, and sprinted.

"Scotty, stop!" I shrieked.

He ignored me. The rope went taut. I spent the next half mile fighting to stay upright, choking on the dust he kicked up, my knees banging against the wooden hurdles. When we crossed the finish line, I collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air.

He stood over me, not even out of breath. "Next time, don't eat breakfast."

I threw a clump of mud at his leg. He sidestepped it easily.

By high school, the pattern was set in stone. Computer science, junior year.

I sat next to him, a blank notebook open on my desk. "Okay, the prompt says we need to build a basic encryption loop. I read the chapter last night. I think we should start with—"

*Click. Clack. Click.*

Scotty's fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard. He didn't even glance at me.

"Scotty, wait. What are you typing?"

"The code," he muttered. His eyes remained locked on the glowing monitor.

I reached out, trying to pull the keyboard toward the center of the desk. "I need to see it. We're supposed to pair-program."

He swatted my hand away. "Don't touch the hardware."

"Let me type the next sequence. The compiler is going to reject that syntax."

"The syntax is fine."

"You missed a semicolon on line forty-two."

He ignored me. He hit the enter key with a loud smack. The screen flashed bright green. *Assignment Submitted.*

I gaped at the monitor. "What did you just do?"

"I finished it."

"Class started ten minutes ago! I didn't write a single line."

"Did you want to type? Here." He shoved the keyboard toward me. "Type a poem."

"This isn't a joke, Scotty."

He slammed his laptop shut and shoved it into his leather bag. "I put your name on the header. You get an A. Say thank you."

"I don't want a free grade. I want to learn the material. How am I supposed to pass the final exam?"

"Cheat," he suggested flatly.

He stood up, slinging his backpack over his broad shoulder. "Go home and code it yourself. I have pack training in twenty minutes, and I'm not wasting my time pretending you can keep up with me."

"You arrogant jerk," I hissed.

"See you tomorrow, partner." He walked out of the lab.

I didn't take it sitting down. I marched straight to the teacher's desk.

Mr. Harrison didn't look up from his grading. "Yes, Camille?"

"I need a new partner for the semester project."

"No."

"Mr. Harrison, he refuses to work with me. He just does it all himself and leaves."

The teacher set his red pen down. "You and Scotty Montgomery are my highest-scoring pair."

"Because he cheats the system! He won't let me touch the assignments."

"He writes flawless code. And in history, you write flawless essays. The two of you balance each other out."

"We don't balance each other out. We hate each other."

"Put me with Liam. Put me with anyone else. Even Elena."

"Elena is failing math. You are excelling."

"I am excelling because I do the work of two people in half my classes, and Scotty does the work of two people in the other half. We aren't collaborating!"

Mr. Harrison sighed, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses. "In the real world, Camille, you don't always get to choose your partners. The pack elders specifically requested you two be grouped together. It builds unity."

"It builds resentment!" I slammed my palm on his desk. "He treats me like a burden."

"Then prove him wrong." Mr. Harrison pointed the red pen at me. "You two work perfectly together, Camille. End of discussion. Go back to your seat."

The memories swirled in my head, fueling the fire in my chest.

*You two work perfectly together.*

A lie. A decade-long lie orchestrated by our parents to force this exact moment. A corporate merger masked as a mating.

And now, this second mate nonsense.

I stopped pacing my bedroom. The velvet box holding the Luna's crest sat at the bottom of my trash can. I grabbed my phone off the wrinkled bedsheets.

I didn't care what time it was. I pulled up his contact and hit dial.

It rang twice.

"Miss me already?" Scotty's voice slithered through the speaker, thick with amusement.

"Who is she?" I demanded.

Silence stretched over the line.

"Who is the second mate, Scotty?"

He chuckled, a low, scraping sound. "Pack your bags, Camille. You're going to find out very soon."

The line went dead.

"Drop the bags."

I tightened my grip on the plastic handle of my suitcase. Scotty Montgomery stood by the massive marble kitchen island. He held a glass of amber liquid, his dark eyes tracking my every move from across the vast living room.

"I can carry my own things," I said.

He set the glass down. The ice clinked sharply against the crystal. "Suit yourself."

He walked around the island.

I watched his heavy boots cross the hardwood floor. He was closing the distance. Five meters. Four meters. Three.

As soon as he crossed the two-meter mark, the reaction hit me like a physical blow.

My heart slammed against my ribs in a frantic, erratic rhythm. A sudden wave of heat rushed straight to my cheeks, burning my skin as if I had stepped into an oven. A thin layer of sweat prickled between my shoulder blades, dampening the fabric of my sweater.

I took a quick step backward.

Scotty stopped. He frowned, his gaze dropping to my feet. "What are you doing?"

"Just finding my footing," I lied.

He took another step forward.

I shuffled back again.

This was the pattern. I had noticed it at the dinner table on Friday when his knee brushed mine. I noticed it during the car ride, whenever he leaned over to speak to my father. Whenever Scotty breached that invisible two-meter boundary, my body went into full rebellion.

For days, I blamed my fury. I hated him. It made perfect sense that my blood boiled when he was near. But anger was supposed to make me want to fight. Anger made my fists clench and my jaw tight.

Anger didn't turn my knees to jelly. Anger didn't make my limbs feel heavy and utterly useless. This was something else entirely.

"Are we playing a game, Camille?" he asked.

"No."

"Then stand still."

"I'm fine right here."

He crossed his arms. The black fabric of his shirt stretched taut across his chest. "You look ridiculous standing by the elevator. Come here."

"Tell me where my room is, and I'll go."

"We need to discuss tomorrow's press conference first."

He advanced again. Two long strides.

I retreated instantly. My sneakers squeaked loudly against the polished wood.

"Stop walking away from me," he snapped.

"Then stop walking toward me!"

"This is my apartment."

"And this is my personal space."

He scoffed, dropping his arms. "We're getting married tomorrow. Personal space is dead."

"It's a business arrangement. My space remains mine."

"Not in this pack."

"I don't care about this pack's archaic rules," I fired back. "My father sold me for a corporate merger. Don't pretend this is some romantic union."

"I never said it was romantic." He tilted his head. "But you will act like a proper Luna in public."

"I will act like a board member."

He didn't pause this time. He kept coming.

I backed up faster, dragging the heavy suitcase behind me. The wheels rattled over a thick Persian rug. I abandoned the luggage and kept moving backwards.

"Scotty, stay right there," I warned, raising a hand.

He ignored me.

I took another step back and hit solid plaster. A framed painting dug sharply into my shoulder blade. I had run out of hallway. It was a dead end.

He closed the final gap.

Scotty planted both hands on the wall, caging me in. He leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from mine. The scent of cedar wood and sharp peppermint invaded my senses, completely suffocating my logic.

My entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked up.

"Got you," he murmured.

"Move," I demanded. My voice lacked its usual bite. It sounded entirely too fragile.

"Why are you shaking, Millie?"

"I am not shaking."

"Your hands are trembling." He glanced down at my clenched fists. "And your face is completely red."

"The heating in this building is set too high," I shot back, keeping my eyes fixed on his collarbone.

He ducked his head, forcing his face into my line of sight. "Look at me."

I glared up at him. "Back off."

"Not until you tell me what your problem is."

"My problem?" I shoved hard against his chest. It felt like pushing a solid oak door. He didn't budge an inch. "You posted about a second mate on the pack forum!"

"I didn't post anything," he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. "A reporter leaked a rumor."

"A rumor you haven't denied."

"Because the pack's gossip isn't my concern."

"It is my concern!" I shouted, the proximity making my head spin wildly. "My foundations rely on public image. If the pack thinks I'm some discarded, wolfless failure before I even move in, my donors will pull their funding."

"Your charities are fine."

"You don't know that!"

"I do know that, Camille. I manage the accounts."

"You manage your father's money. Not mine."

He leaned even closer. The tip of his nose almost brushed mine.

My legs felt like water. I gripped the hem of my sweater, digging my nails into my palms to stay upright. The physical weakness terrified me.

"You don't care about the humiliation," he whispered, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "You care about the control. And right now, you have absolutely zero."

"Get away from me."

"Make me."

I shoved him again. He caught my wrists with one hand, pinning them effortlessly against the wall above my head.

A sharp gasp escaped my lips. The heat rolling off his body was unbearable.

"You feel it, don't you?" he asked softly.

"Feel what?" I choked out, twisting my wrists against his grip.

"The bond."

"I don't have a wolf," I spat. "There is no bond."

He pulled back just enough to study my face. "Then explain why your pulse is beating out of your neck."

"I despise you. It's a natural stress response."

"Right." He freed his other hand from the wall and dragged his thumb across my lower lip.

I flinched, but I didn't push him away. My muscles refused to obey my brain. The touch sent a jolt of electricity straight down my spine.

"You're terrified," he said, a cruel smile forming.

"Of you? Never."

"Of yourself. Because no matter how much you hate me, your body knows exactly who I am."

"You're an arrogant jerk."

"And I'm your Alpha."

"Not mine."

He released my wrists and took a single step back. The sudden absence of his heat left me shivering.

"Go unpack," he ordered, his voice suddenly cold and detached. "The guest room is the last door on the left."

I rubbed my wrists, staring at him in confusion. The whiplash of his mood change left me dizzy. "That's it?"

"That's it. Get dressed nicely."

"Why?"

He turned and walked back toward the kitchen island, picking up his glass. "Because we have company coming over in an hour."

"Who?"

He took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement over the rim of the crystal.

"The second mate."