Chapter Five: Mate Denied

Natasha stood frozen for a long moment after Damien’s silhouette disappeared through the velvet curtain. The cold night air clung to her skin, but the heat radiating from her chest—from the bond she refused to name—made her feel feverish. Her wolf, a restless presence she’d always kept tightly leashed, whined like a wounded pup. Mate. The word slithered through her mind, dripping with longing. She crushed it. She’d never be some alpha’s prize, no matter how her soul howled.

She forced her fists to unclench, inhaled the scent of frost and distant pines, and stepped back inside. The ballroom swallowed her again—candlelight, perfume, and the low hum of politics. She returned to her spot near a marble pillar, accepting another glass of wine from a passing servant. She held it like a shield. Her eyes swept the room, but not toward Damien. She’d glimpsed his dark hair near a cluster of elders, his posture carefully relaxed. Her wolf tugged at her ribs, desperate to close the distance. Natasha sipped her wine and let the bitterness coat her tongue. Never.

An hour crawled by. She fielded a few more attempts at conversation—a beta from Silverwood complimented her dress; she thanked him with cold neutrality. Another alpha, this one younger but just as puffed with self-importance, asked if she’d enjoy a hunt someday. “I hunt alone,” she said, and his interest withered. Through it all, her wolf whimpered, a constant ache, and somewhere across the room, she sensed an answering thrum. Damien’s wolf was likely doing the same. Trapped. Caged. Starving for a single glance. She refused to give it.

Her sister Elara floated through the crowds like moonlight on water. Alphas and betas circled her, enchanted. Natasha felt a twist of something bitter—not envy, but exhaustion. This was the life their mother would have wanted for her. She’d never fit it. When Aldric, their father, finally signaled the end of the evening, Natasha nearly sagged with relief.

The carriage ride home was quiet at first, the clop of hooves on cobblestone the only sound. Natasha sat beside Elara, her father across from them, his expression unreadable. Her wolf was still keening, a low, mournful note that made her jaw clench. She stared out the window at the passing shadows.

“Well,” Aldric said, breaking the silence. “The night was fruitful. I received seven formal proposals for you, Elara. Three alphas, four high-ranked betas. The Alpha of Ironfang himself inquired, though I suspect you’d prefer someone less… crude.”

Elara blushed, her smile gentle. “And Natasha? Did anyone ask for her?”

Natasha’s head snapped toward her sister, a warning in her eyes. Aldric sighed. “Two offers. One from Beta Harren of Riverrun. A good man, steady. The other…” He paused. “Alpha Aldous expressed interest, but I will not entertain it after what I witnessed tonight. Damien’s intervention was noted.”

Natasha’s heart lurched at Damien’s name. Her wolf yipped, hopeful, and she wanted to gag it. “I’m not interested in any of them,” she said flatly. “Harren’s a decent fighter, but I’m not a broodmare to be traded.”

Aldric’s gaze softened. “No one is forcing you, daughter. But you are of age. The pack expects it. Your mother would have wanted—”

“I know what she would have wanted,” Natasha cut in, her voice sharper than she intended. The wolf inside her subsided into a miserable whimper. She felt the phantom tug of the bond, pulling her back to that balcony, to Damien’s ice-blue eyes. She crushed it again. “I’ll consider my options when I’m ready.”

The carriage fell silent. Elara placed a hand on Natasha’s knee, but Natasha just kept staring out the window, counting the miles between herself and the one soul she couldn’t stop aching for.

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Damien’s carriage was larger, heavier, the Shadow Fan pack’s insignia gleaming on the doors. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather and frustration. Marcus, his beta and closest friend, sat opposite him, sharp-eyed as always. Two elders flanked the seats, their formal robes rustling with every jolt of the wheels.

“You handled the Aldous situation well,” Elder Voran began, his voice gravelly with age. “Though inserting yourself into a Crescent Moon matter could have been misconstrued.”

“It was a matter of decency,” Damien said, his voice carefully neutral. His wolf was still thrashing, snarling at the distance growing between him and Natasha. Mate. Claim. Protect. The beast’s urges were a drumbeat against his skull. He forced his hands to remain still on his thighs.

Elder Hesta, a sharp-eyed woman with silver-streaked hair, leaned forward. “Decency. Of course. But let’s turn to the purpose of the evening. We’ve assessed several potential Lunas. The firstborn of Silverwood—graceful, politically advantageous. The second daughter of Emberclaw, though her temper is notable.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “And there’s Elara of Crescent Moon. She’s everything an alpha could want—poised, beautiful, and her pack’s alliances are strong. Several alphas were vying for her attention. If you’d shown any interest, Damien, you might have secured a powerful match.”

Damien’s wolf snarled, a possessive rage that nearly made him bare his teeth. That sweet-faced sister is not my mate. Her scent is all wrong. “Elara is… pleasant,” he managed, each word feeling like a lie dipped in acid. “But I’m not choosing a Luna based on a single dance.”

“You’re not choosing a Luna at all!” Voran snapped. “You ignore every candidate. The pack needs stability, an heir. The elders have been patient, but tonight you were distracted. We all saw you on that balcony.”

Damien’s eyes flashed, crystal blue turning arctic. “You saw me stop a drunk alpha from assaulting a woman. Is that a fault?” Hesta lifted a placating hand. “No one faults your honor, Alpha. But there were whispers. Some claimed you looked at the younger Crescent Moon wolf—Natasha—with more than protective instinct. A third-born warrior, not a Luna. She would bring little advantage.”

“She would bring nothing,” Damien said coldly, the lie tearing through his chest. His wolf howled in protest, clawing at his ribs. “She’s of no consequence to me.” Every instinct screamed to refute those words, to claim her here and now, but he locked it all behind a wall of iron. “Continue your list.”

Marcus watched him with a knowing look but said nothing. The elders launched into a detailed analysis of a beta’s daughter from Stormhold who had “acceptable lineage” and a “warm disposition.” Damien listened, or made the sounds of listening, while his soul bled across the miles toward a carriage he couldn’t see. His wolf whimpered, a broken, desperate sound, and the moon watched it all in silence.