“It’s just a photograph,” Clarisse said quietly, her voice carrying a finality that brooked no argument. “We don’t need to keep taking more of them.”

Alpha Paul, never one to easily accept rejection, tilted his head and suggested gently, “The sky’s clear tonight, though. If you want, we could snap a few more later. It’s been ages since we left the pack grounds. Might do us some good, a little change of scenery.”

He added quickly, his tone laced with hope, “And Lira could come too. She’s been wanting to explore the northern forest for so long.” He spoke as if a casual excursion could somehow maintain the fragile equilibrium between them.

The mention of Lira—sweet, naive Lira—caused a flicker of something on Clarisse’s face, almost a faint smile, though it carried more resignation than amusement. She let the moment pass, offering no reply, and Paul interpreted her silence as acquiescence, a fleeting reprieve from the tension that hung over them like a storm cloud.

They started walking toward the den, a sense of tentative relief evident in their movements, but Paul froze abruptly when his eyes caught the stack of boxes neatly arranged by the door.

“What’s all this?” he asked, genuine confusion flickering across his features.

Clarisse avoided his gaze, eyes sliding past the boxes. “I resigned from the pack’s intelligence division,” she stated plainly. “General Nathan already approved it.”

Shock and disbelief crossed Paul’s face. He knew the significance of her position—the countless battles she had fought to maintain it, refusing to let even her health impede her commitment. His mouth opened, then closed, as though words had deserted him.

He remained rooted in place, flustered, struggling to find a response. A faint trace of panic danced in his eyes. He moved his lips, about to speak, but before he could, Lira’s soft, nervous voice floated down from upstairs, delicate as fine porcelain.

“Alpha? The lights are out in our room… it’s so dark. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

Paul’s expression softened immediately, the tight line of his jaw easing as concern replaced frustration. Without hesitation, he sprinted upstairs, his steps purposeful and urgent. Clarisse watched him go, noting the intensity in his movements, the way his presence seemed to fill the space he left behind. Dust swirled around the scattered boxes in his wake, the room settling back into silence as if holding its breath.

Once he had disappeared from view, Clarisse pulled her phone toward her and dialed a familiar number. After a few rings, a warm, comforting voice answered. Amira. Not just a healer, but a motherly presence who had guided and nurtured Clarisse during her early years, offering the care and stability that had been absent in her life.

“Clarisse?” Amira’s voice carried the gentle strength that had always calmed her as a child.

Clarisse’s own tone softened in response. “I wanted to let you know… I’ll be leaving soon. I’m going to join my mate—my parents arranged the match.”

There was a pause on the line, heavy with unspoken emotion. When Amira finally spoke, her voice carried a touch of sorrow. “And Alpha Paul… have you told him yet?”

“No,” Clarisse replied, her voice even and steady. “He’ll find out in due time. For now, I need things to remain uncomplicated. Please, Amira… don’t say a word to him.”

A slow sigh came through the line, and Clarisse could almost picture Amira shaking her head, torn between understanding and sorrow. “You’ve always been his anchor, Clarisse. He’s watched over you like no one else. I thought… I always thought… it would be different.”

A faint, wistful smile brushed Clarisse’s lips. “There’s no need for pity, Amira. We were never fated mates, not really. He’ll understand eventually.”

Another pause, softer this time, filled with a quiet longing. “Promise me you’ll come see me before you go. This feels so sudden, and… who knows when we’ll cross paths again?”

“I promise,” Clarisse replied, warmth threading through her voice. “I have something for you anyway. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

They exchanged a few more brief words before ending the call, leaving Clarisse in the hush of the room. But her solitude was fleeting; her mind link buzzed again, this time with the authoritative voice of General Nathan, crisp and decisive.

“Clarisse, your contributions in the intelligence division have been invaluable. As recognition, I’ve commissioned a crystal trophy in your honor. It has already been delivered to your residence.”

The mind link ended abruptly, leaving Clarisse a moment to consider his words before a knock at the door pulled her attention forward. She opened it to find Lira standing there, a small box in her hands containing the crystal trophy. Her expression was a mixture of gratitude and something subtler, something Clarisse chose not to name.

“It’s yours,” Lira said softly, extending the box toward her.

Lira held the crystal trophy carefully in her hands, her expression shifting between hesitation and a near-petitioning vulnerability. Yet, behind the gentle mask of innocence, Clarisse glimpsed the unmistakable glimmer of cunning in her eyes.

“Clarisse,” Lira began softly, almost too sweetly, her voice carrying a hint of feigned vulnerability, “General Nathan asked me to deliver this to you before I return to the residence we both share. It’s incredibly valuable… something special you truly deserve. You’ve earned it—you’re… remarkable.”

Clarisse arched a brow, sensing Lira was merely setting the stage for her real intention. The air between them tensed, electricity prickling at her skin, as Lira pressed on, biting her lip and drawing in a shaky breath.

“I know this trophy isn’t really mine,” Lira continued, tilting her head and letting her lashes sweep upward, “but could I… borrow it for just a few days?”

Clarisse felt her wolf flare within her, the fierce protector coiling in her chest at the audacity of the request. Borrow it? After all the years she had dedicated to her work, the sleepless nights and sacrifices, the thought of Lira taking even a piece of her recognition was infuriating. The notion struck her as an insult, an utter disregard for loyalty, diligence, and honor.

A sharp, dangerous smile crept across Clarisse’s face, a thin line of teeth bared in controlled fury. “You truly have no shame, do you?” she said, her voice icy and cutting. “If you want a crystal trophy that badly, why don’t you earn it yourself? Ask the intelligence division—maybe, with enough effort and dedication, you could have one of your own someday.”

She reached toward the trophy, expecting Lira to comply with at least a flicker of respect. Instead, Lira’s fingers clenched the box tighter, her face contorting in feigned shock and wounded pride.

“Why are you being so cruel?” Lira whispered, her tone carefully crafted to sound hurt. “I wasn’t trying to steal it. I just… wanted to keep it with me for encouragement. To remind myself of what’s possible.”

Clarisse’s patience had worn thin. Her fingers curled tightly around the air as she demanded, “Give it to me, Lira. Now.”

Lira’s grip only strengthened, the box pressed against her chest as if her life depended on it. Rage coiled inside Clarisse, raw and dangerous, surging like a storm ready to break. In the scuffle, the trophy slipped from Lira’s hold and hit the floor with a muted thud.

The crystal shattered instantly, splintering into countless shards that glittered momentarily before settling into stillness, jagged and cold. Silence fell, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint settling of the debris.

At the doorway, a shadow moved. Clarisse glanced up to see Alpha Paul stepping in, his confusion morphing quickly into horror as he took in the scene. Lira, ever dramatic, let out a tiny gasp, pressing her hands against her leg where a fine line of blood trickled from a shard’s nick.

Paul’s gaze darkened, first on Lira’s wound, then piercing Clarisse with quiet accusation. Without a second thought, he knelt beside Lira, lifting the hem of her skirt gently to inspect the cut. The sight of the crimson line tightened his jaw in worry as his eyes flicked to Clarisse with unspoken reproach.

“Are you okay?” he murmured to Lira, hardly acknowledging Clarisse as he leaned closer, his focus entirely on the slight injury.

Before Lira could answer, Paul swept her into his arms with protective urgency. “I’ll have someone escort you to the healer,” he murmured, his tone soft but commanding. Lira nodded silently, allowing a pack warrior to lead her away.

Then Paul turned, his expression now stormy, filled with disappointment and anger. “Clarisse… how could you?” he asked, his voice low, sharp, and laced with accusation. “You knew she’s carrying my child. What if something had happened to her… or to my heir?”

Clarisse’s jaw tightened as her eyes froze on his. She wasn’t startled; she had anticipated his blame. “I know, Alpha,” she said, voice controlled, brimming with restrained fury. “But that doesn’t give her the right to barge in and claim what belongs to me.”

Paul’s expression twisted with a mixture of anger and disbelief. “She is carrying my heir, Clarisse! You knew that! You should have been more careful.” His tone was sharp, accusatory, the weight of disappointment heavy in each word.

Without another word, he spun on his heel and strode out, leaving Clarisse alone in the aftermath, her wolf’s fury thrumming like a heartbeat beneath her ribs. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she stared down at the remnants of the crystal trophy—once a symbol of her years of service, now reduced to jagged fragments across the floor.

Paul expected her to apologize? To the woman who had taken what was hers and destroyed it in front of him?

Her fists clenched tightly, breath sharp and ragged. Pain flared in her own leg, far worse than Lira’s shallow cut. The shattered crystal had pierced her calf deeply, slicing through muscle and leaving her skin raw and bleeding. Her lycan blood, though potent, lacked the stability to heal such a wound. Unlike Lira, whose cut would mend in minutes, Clarisse’s injury would fester without proper care.

Gritting her teeth, she bent to retrieve the shards, careful not to cut herself further. Each piece was cold, sharp, and unyielding, but she would handle it herself—she needed no one’s pity or misplaced protection.

As twilight faded into night, she cleaned the wound with steady hands and wrapped it in bandages, refusing to flinch despite the sting. Once finished, her phone buzzed, and her mother’s name appeared on the screen.

“Hi, Mom,” she said softly.

Her mother’s warm, loving tone filled her ears. “Clarisse, I sent over some options for your Mateship Ceremony dress. Look through them and tell me which ones you like. I want nothing less than perfection for you, darling.”

Clarisse’s chest tightened at the affection in her mother’s voice. Scrolling through the photos of delicate gowns, each more stunning than the last, she felt a lump in her throat.

“Mom…” she murmured, fatigue and frustration lacing her tone.

Her mother’s voice softened instantly. “What is it, sweetheart? Are you alright?”

Swallowing hard, she pushed aside the bitterness rising within. “I’ll be ready soon, Mom. Just a week more, and it will all be over. How are the preparations coming along?”

Her mother’s tone brightened, excitement palpable. “Everything’s going perfectly. Soon, you’ll start a new life, Clarisse. A life full of hope.”

Before Clarisse could answer, the familiar sound of footsteps echoed through the house. Paul’s approach was deliberate, each step making her wolf stir uneasily, her instincts flaring.

He paused as he caught the tail end of her conversation. “Mateship Ceremony?” His voice was sharp, tinged with shock.