LOGINOrphaned in a border attack and raised by the Crescent Moon Pack, she’s spent her life trying to earn her place—not just as a werewolf, but as one of them. When the powerful Shadowclaw Pack comes to negotiate a tense truce, she meets him—their cold, formidable Alpha. They are fated mates. But he takes one look at her and refuses the bond. She’s from the wrong pack... the one he’s spent his life fighting. And claiming her would mean betraying his own. But the bond doesn’t care about blood feuds, and neither do the growing feelings neither of them can deny.
View MoreRisa couldn’t breathe.She lay on her cot, staring at the beams above, and every inhale snagged in her chest. The barracks should have been safe—wolves sleeping steadily around her, the warm scent of woodsmoke and leather in the air—but she felt trapped. Every breath carried whispers. Every shadow carried suspicion.Liora’s eyes most of all.She didn’t need to hear the words spoken aloud. She felt them in the air, heavy as storm clouds: She knows. She’s watching.And Cael—Cael’s silence was worse. He looked at her too long, too steady, not with anger but with that cold, assessing weight that had made Shadowclaw bow to him. His wolf saw her. And Risa’s own wolf cowered.She stumbled through drills the next morning. Dropped her blade twice, missed a block, and clipped her own wrist. Maren barked her name sharp as steel. The others smirked, murmured, and shook their heads.She forced a laugh. A joke. A shrug. But her throat was dry, and her hands shook even as she sheathed her weapon.Wh
The scent hadn’t left him.All through drills, all through the council’s chatter, all through the quiet moments where he should have been focusing on Crescent’s needs, it haunted him. Ash. Stone. Iron. Faint, clinging, unnatural in the way it threaded through Liora’s cloak and hair.It wasn’t Crescent. It wasn’t Shadowclaw. It was older.And it had purpose.He remembered the pact-stones south of the river, their glyphs worn but not forgotten. As a boy, he had passed them on hunts and patrols, never sparing more than a glance. His father had taught him they were relics of wolves too weak to last. Symbols crumble. Strength endures. That had been the lesson.But the scent clinging to Liora’s cloak was the same as those stones.Which meant someone was weaving the old symbols into something new.Hale.Of course, it was Hale.Patience was his blade, manipulation his grip. If he had marked Liora, it wasn’t by accident. It was to tether her—to remind Cael with every breath that Hale’s hand
Cael had kissed her before.By the river, under the pull of moonlight, when the bond was still new and burning hot. That kiss had been wildfire—reckless, sharp, the kind that stole breath and demanded surrender. He had felt her wolf then, crying out in recognition, fierce and wild as his own. It had rattled him to the core.But tonight was different.Tonight, when her mouth met his, it wasn’t a blaze—it was an anchor. Steady. Rooted. He breathed her in—pine and steel and the faint edge of something he couldn’t name, something sharp on his tongue—and it struck him harder than any wound: this was home. Not a place. Not a pack. Her.He remembered the first time he’d noticed her scent in Crescent’s camp—fainter then, threaded with the uncertainty of a wolf who didn’t quite believe she belonged. Now it filled him whole, threaded into his veins until he couldn’t separate where his wolf ended and hers began.But he also remembered her silence.“Risa,” he had said, and though her lips had not
The spruce hollow still clung to her thoughts like sap.All day, her fingers remembered the feel of the ribbon—rough, waxed, marked with something that lingered even after she’d pulled away. She had scrubbed her hands at the cistern, even brushed the cloak along the stone edge of her bed, but she could not rid herself of the sense that it had left something behind.Her wolf paced. Not poison. Not wound. But something.Liora said nothing. Not to Elias, not to Cael. Especially not to Cael. His gaze was already too sharp on her, already searching for answers she wasn’t ready to give.Patience. Elias had taught her long ago that the first instinct was to strike—but the better instinct was to wait for the strike to expose itself.And yet, as she moved through Crescent’s yard that morning, the silence pressed hard. Every step felt heavier, every glance longer. Risa was unraveling in full view now—fumbling her blade again, snapping at a younger wolf, clutching her satchel like it contained h












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