Chapter 1

Zena's POV

17 years of living like a princess, 17 years of hearing my father call me his little future alpha… and 17 years of my mum holding my head close to her chest to comfort me.

Those memories still live on.

A tear escapes my eyes and drops on the ground. I grit my teeth a little.

Those good times are over. Mum and dad are no more.

The marble floor is so cold it burns my knees.

I focus on that pain because the alternative is focusing on the laughter.

The cruel, tinkling laughter of the she-wolves whose dirty champagne flutes I am collecting. They'd purposely dropped their tray on the ground.

"Watch your fingers, servant," one of them cooes, her stiletto heel landing an inch from my hand. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper.

My father's voice echoes in my memory: ‘A future Alpha doesn't react to provocation. They must observe, learn, and choose their moment.’

I am not an Alpha's child anymore. But his lessons are all I have left.

Six months. That's how long it has been since the Nightstorm Pack raided our borders. Six months since I watched my parents fall to their death, since I was dragged from our burning packhouse by my hair.

The captured survivors from conquered packs aren't slaves, oh no. That would be barbaric. We are simply... required to work.

The irony isn't lost on me. I attended this very hall two years ago for the Inter-Pack Alliance Summit. Back then, I sat in the VIP section discussing trade agreements with Alpha Nightstorm himself.

Now I am on my hands and knees, picking up broken glass while his daughter watches with amusement.

But tonight is different. Tonight is the Ascension Ball.

The Alpha Prince's twenty-first birthday. It is the night he'll be officially presented as heir, and supposedly, according to every whisper in the pack, the night he'll find his fated mate.

"How's the floor tonight, Zena?" Rose asks, her voice dripping with fake concern. "I hope the champagne didn't stain your... oh wait. You're not wearing anything worth staining, are you?"

Her friends laugh.

"She’s quiet," one of the friends observes. "Is she mute?"

"No," Rose says thoughtfully. "She's just smart enough to know that speaking without permission is punishable by... what is it, Zena? Extra latrine duty? Or is it the kennels with the actual dogs?"

I remember the kennels. Three nights in the freezing cold listening to the hunting hounds howl. I promised myself then that nothing would ever be worse than that.

"Leave her," Rose decides. "She's no fun when she doesn't fight back. Come on, let's find better entertainment."

I make my way to the kitchens, pulling glass from my palm with tweezers in the pantry. The head cook finds me wrapping my hand in cloth.

"No time for that," she snaps, thrusting a tray of champagne flutes at me. "The VIP guests are arriving. Take this to the grand ballroom and don't—and I mean DON'T—speak to anyone. Understood?"

"Yes," I repeat.

The grand ballroom is overflowing with the elite of the Nightstorm Pack and their allies.

A warmth starts in my chest, spreading outward like someone has poured hot honey through my veins.

My wolf, Skye, who has been silent since the attack, stirs for the first time in months. She stretches, yawns, and then... sings.

Mate, she whispers. Mate is here.

The tray slips. I catch it, but two flutes topple, champagne fizzing across the polished floor. And then I look up.

He is walking through the crowd toward me, and the world narrows to just him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and piercing silver eyes. The Alpha Prince. Mack Nightstorm.

His eyes find mine, and I watch the exact moment it hits him. The widening of his pupils. The slight parting of his lips. The way his stride falters for just a heartbeat before he recovers.

"Mack?" Rose appears at his elbow, her hand touching his sleeve. "Brother? What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer. He just keeps staring at me.

"Step forward," he commands.

I obey, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to see the conflict in his expression.

"You," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, "you are my fated mate."

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Rose's face goes white, then red. I hear whispers coming from all corners.

"Do you know what my father taught me about leadership? He said 'Your mate will be your greatest strength or your fatal weakness. Choose wisely.' "

He steps closer, his voice dropping so only I can hear.

"You're a reminder of every enemy we've crushed. Every battle we've won. I will not tie my future to a conquered wolf. I will not elevate a servant to Luna. I will not accept a mate who brings nothing but a defeated legacy."

Skye howls in my mind angrily.

"Therefore," Mack announces, his voice ringing through the silent ballroom, "I, Alpha Prince Mack Nightstorm, reject you, Zena Ashton of the fallen Crescent Ridge Pack, as my fated mate."

The rejection hits like a physical blow. The bond snaps with a violence that drops me to my knees. I hear my tray clatter beside me.

"As you have no pack, no status, and now no claim to any protection through our bond," he continues, "you are hereby declared a rogue. You will leave Nightstorm territory by nightfall. If you are found within our borders after sunrise, you will be hunted and killed."

“Rogue,” I repeat in my head as I feel my heart pound in my chest.

Rogue? This is even worse than rejection itself.

Skye growls with fury. She is deeply upset and I manage to control her a little.

It turns out the alpha prince is just a replica of his evil father.

At that moment, i swear revenge in my heart. The nightstorm pack had brutally murdered and made me a slave.

I am about to accept the rejection. "I..."

His thundering voice cuts me off and i stagger backwards a little.

"Guards," Mack says, already turning away, "escort her to the border. Make sure she doesn't take anything that isn't hers." He pauses, looking back at me one last time. "Though I doubt she has anything worth taking.”

I ball my fist. Not only have I been rejected by my mate publicly, I am also going to be kicked out of the pack.