2: Emma

The customary moment of deference ended, and heads began to lift. My own remained bowed, my body locked in place as I fought for control. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, each beat sending that intoxicating scent deeper into my awareness.

Mate.

My wolf stirred within me, pushing forward with desperate joy, with hunger, with recognition so profound it threatened to overwhelm my human consciousness. I pushed back, forcing her down with the discipline of years. Not here. Not now.

When I finally managed to lift my gaze, my eyes moved of their own accord, drawn across the room as if pulled by invisible threads. They found him instantly, as though every other person had faded to shadow.

The King was scanning the crowd, his amber eyes intense with purpose. His nostrils flared slightly, and I knew with bone-deep certainty that he was tracking the same scent that had upended my world moments before. His gaze swept the room once, twice, and then locked with mine across the expanse of polished marble and gathered dignitaries.

Time suspended itself. The space between us seemed to compress and expand simultaneously. His eyes widened fractionally, the only break in his regal composure. I watched, unable to look away, as realization dawned in those amber depths.

His lips moved silently, shaping a single word I could read even from this distance: mate.

The blood drained from my face. My glass slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, the crystal shattering against the floor in a spray of champagne and glittering shards. The sound broke the spell, drawing attention. Faces turned toward me, curious, concerned, calculating.

"Emma?" Elijah's voice reached me as if through water. His hand gripped my elbow, steadying me. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't speak. The room had begun to spin gently, the lights from the chandeliers stretching into streams of gold. Across the room, the King had taken a step in my direction before being intercepted by a member of his council. His eyes never left mine.

"Emma." Elena's voice now, sharper with concern. She moved to block my view of the King, her face coming into focus before me. "You've gone white as your wolf. What is it?"

I swallowed, my throat desert-dry. "My second chance mate is here," I managed, the words barely audible.

Elena's expression transformed, joy blooming across her features. "But that's wonderful! Who…"

I shook my head, cutting her off. My legs felt unsteady beneath me, my skin both too hot and too cold.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Elena pressed, confusion replacing her smile.

"No," I whispered. "No, it's not."

Elijah's gaze had followed mine, his expression sharpening as understanding dawned. He said nothing, but his grip on my arm tightened slightly; support, not restraint.

I took a step back, then another. The scent continued to envelop me, growing stronger as my awareness of it increased. My wolf pawed restlessly at the edges of my consciousness, urging me toward rather than away.

"I need air," I said, the words strangled. Without waiting for a response, I turned and moved toward the nearest balcony doors, slipping through them and into the blessed coolness of the night.

The balcony extended in a graceful arc, its white marble balustrade gleaming in the moonlight. Below, the Royal City spread out in concentric circles of light and shadow, its architecture both beautiful and alien to my forest-trained eyes. I gripped the cool stone with both hands, leaning forward and drawing deep breaths of night air into my lungs.

It didn't help. His scent had followed me, had embedded itself in my senses in a way that told me no distance would diminish it now. The bond had begun to form the moment I'd caught his scent, despite every defense I'd built over the years.

"This can't be happening," I whispered to the silent city below. "Not him. Anyone but him."

The implications crashed through me in waves. The King of the Lycans. The ruler of a species that had looked down on werewolves as lesser creatures for centuries. A monarch whose political position was already precarious for his progressive stance toward my kind. And me, a werewolf, the sister of a pack alpha, bound by duty and loyalty to my people.

It was politically impossible. Culturally unprecedented. Personally terrifying.

And yet my wolf knew with unshakable certainty: mate. The rarest of gifts in our world; a second chance at the bond I'd lost years before. The completion my soul had stopped hoping for.

I closed my eyes, fighting for composure. One breath. Two. Three.

"It won't matter," I told myself firmly. "We can ignore it. People have rejected mate bonds before." The words tasted like ashes as I spoke them.

Behind me, the balcony door opened softly. I didn't need to turn to know who stood there. The scent intensified, wrapping around me like an embrace. My wolf surged forward again, and this time I barely contained her.

I turned slowly, my back pressed against the balustrade as if it could somehow support the weight of this moment.

King Theodore stood framed in the doorway, moonlight silvering the edges of his dark hair. His eyes, those remarkable amber eyes, held mine with an intensity that stole what little breath I had managed to reclaim. Up close, I could see flecks of gold in their depths, could read the complex emotions warring behind his regal composure.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The night air hummed between us, charged with potential and impossibility in equal measure.

"Mate," I whispered finally, the word both a question and a reluctant acknowledgement.

His shoulders straightened, his chin lifting slightly. When he spoke, his voice was deeper than I had imagined, resonant with certainty and barely contained emotion.

"Mate," he echoed, the single word carrying the weight of conviction that shook the foundations of my carefully ordered world.