001.

LIAM’S POV. 

Power wasn’t handed to me through sheer luck.

 I was bred for it, trained for battles and raised like a weapon. That’s what it meant to be a Moonfang, what I was raised to be—the Heir to one of the oldest, strongest Packs in Silvercrest. And at Silvercrest College—the elite school for children of influential Packs—I was expected to carry that name like a crown…or a blade. 

The marble beneath my boots echoed as I made my way through the arched halls of Silvercrest College. My father used to say that legacy had a sound—deliberate, sharp, never hurried. I’d learnt to walk in that manner. 

“Morning, Moonfang,” someone called as I passed. 

I nodded curtly, tight-lipped. Greetings were formalities that distract from purpose. I needed my mind clear and free of distractions, considering today’s auspicious event. 

Finally stopping at the front of the Great Hall, I pursed my lips into a thin line. I took a step further, clearing my head as I made to enter the Great Hall when a voice came from behind, stopping me in my tracks. 

“You weren’t just about to ditch me to attend the Alpha King’s symposium, were you?” 

That was Bethel, my cousin. I turned around to her pouty face and folded arms as she strode down to me. 

I was, in fact, about to ditch her, but she didn’t need to know that. Diverting the topic to ignore her question, I countered. “You weren’t in your room,” I retorted calmly, “I believed you lost the zeal to attend the Annual Alpha King’s Symposium.”

“Well, I’m here now,” she shuffled past me and went into the Great Hall. 

I made my way to the front row with Bethel and finally took a seat. 

In the Great Hall, sunlight filtered in through the tinted glass, painting the room in shades of crimson and gold. The Alpha King of Silvercrest, Luca Silvercrest, made his way into the hall and began his speech in earnest. 

The Hall buzzed with thrill, the smell of antiquity and old history wafting through the air. And a certain scent of spice, sandalwood and gourmand. 

A disorganized combination, but even in these hallowed halls of Silvercrest, disorder had a name: Zelest Hawthorne.

His laughter often preceded his appearance, a brash announcement of his presence. I didn’t expect the seat beside me to creak under someone else’s presence as the scent of gourmand and spice hit me again, clouding my thoughts. 

A distraction. A deviation from my main purpose in the Great Hall. I ignored his overbearing presence and focused on Alpha Luca. 

“Moonfang,” he said like it tasted bad in his mouth. 

“Hawthorne,” I fired back almost immediately, matching his arrogance with aloofness. 

Only then did I realize how distracted I was to have replied instantly. 

I didn’t need to look at him to see the lazy smirk dancing on Zelest’s face as he leaned back like the chair owed him.

“This is going to be fun.” He added with a smirk before leaving his seat. “Enjoy the speech.”

My jaw tightened at his cockiness. Zelest and I almost never cross paths. On special occasions such as this, our interactions were a series of cold exchanges. We were of different worlds: rival packs, we never needed a reason to hate each other, our ancestral history gave us a reason for that already. 

The symposium came to an end almost immediately, and I realized I’d been unable to grasp anything substantial, courtesy of Zelest's mastery of annoyance and distraction. 

“You might break your digits,” Bethel stated beside me with a scoff and I realized my knuckles had gone white from clenching too tight.

“Well, tonight—”

“No.” I debunked her advancement instantly. She wanted me to party with her. 

The ideology of partying never resonated with me, I saw no sense in dancing to noisy music in a room full of people, heated with bodily heat and reeking of sweat and alcohol. 

“Come on, it’s your twenty-first birthday! You’re allowed to have fun,” Bethel whined continuously as we walked out of the Great Hall. 

“If that’s how you have fun, I’d suggest you seek help,” I responded calmly while Bethel chuckled at my response. 

“Who knows if the Moon goddess would finally mate you to a pretty Beta at the party? That’d make your succession even faster and make your position in the Pack more secure,” Bethel explained, her tone, calm and convincing. Her words hit me too fast like a brick to my chest, throwing me off guard. 

Bethel waltzed off without hearing my response, her red hair being the last to see as it disappeared from my sight. “I have Combat Theory class now, see you tonight at eleven, Geraldine’s!”

She was right about one thing: being the Heir, the Pack has to be sure I’m able to procreate and keep the lineage alive. But, I turned twenty-one in a few hours and I was yet to have a mate, threatening my position. I needed to protect my position at all costs. 

I soon cleared my mind as I attended my next lecture, Bethel’s words lurking around in my head.

                               **********

My whole life, I’ve been sure of what to do. And yet, I stood, conflicted about entering Geraldine’s or returning to my room and preparing for tomorrow. 

“Not so fast.” Bethel pulled me back out of nowhere as I made to leave. “You actually came. And in a…suit. Fancy dress to turn twenty-one in.” She said with a chuckle. 

I gave in, embracing the heavy metal beat in the hotel. I watched people rock each other to the song and although I was there, it didn’t mean I wanted to dance. 

“Well, if you won’t dance, have a drink,” Bethel cheered as she brought a bottle near my lips. The acrid taste registered in my mouth as it burnt my throat but I chugged it down. “Yay!”

I stood near the grand staircase, my gaze scanning the room filled with faces—some familiar, some unfamiliar. The weight of expectation pressed on me; tonight, I wanted to meet my mate.

Suddenly, the murmurs of the crowd shifted. The doors swung open, revealing Zelest Hawthorne, clad in a black leather jacket that complemented his disheveled appearance. Hair as dark as midnight with cold silvery eyes. A shame such a face had to be the subject of mischief. 

"Nice party," Zelest drawled, a smirk playing on his thin lips. "Shame about the guest list."

My jaw tightened. "You're not invited."

"Clearly," Zelest replied, stepping closer. "But I couldn't resist crashing."

As Zelest approached, a sudden, overwhelming scent enveloped me. My heart raced, and the room seemed to fall into a hazy blur. His usual gourmand scent had a tinge of sandalwood and citrus. 

Our eyes met, and realization dawned on me. 

"No," I whispered.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Zelest muttered.

I stood, frozen like a fool as my wolf roared “Mate!” inside me. Fate had played a cruel joke on me. The person I hated most was my mate. 

And to make things worse—he was a man.