Seth

The Alpha meeting had been as if the Obsidian Wilds ran loose on Lycandra. Pun intended.

Every smug bastard in that chamber had strutted their Luna like a prize mare at auction. Hands curling around throats, fangs brushing glowing marks, claws dragging lazy warnings across delicate skin—all of it a performance. The crescent floor panels thrummed faint silver at every display, the runes woven by the Valorian fae during the Accords pulsing as if the Moon Goddess Herself was applauding their little show. A thousand-year-old system of magic reduced to a cheer squad for dick-measuring contests.

Scar—the beast inside me—was feral the whole time. Snapping. Pacing. Howling.

He wanted what they had. What we needed.

My chest ached with it, hollow and sharp, like someone had carved me out from the inside and left the edges raw. I didn’t need to glance at my brothers to know they were the same. Callum’s knuckles were white where he gripped the table, control fraying thread by thread. Jax sat predator-still, too silent, emerald eyes edged with wolf-black, his Blaze crouched and waiting. Rory’s knee bounced under the polished mahogany, fingers drumming a rhythm of impatience that made me want to flip the whole damn table myself.

And me? I wanted to rip out the throat of every Alpha who dared kiss his Luna in front of me.

The whole ceremony was smoke and words. None of it mattered. What mattered was her. Finding her. Claiming her.

By the time the incense of wolfsbane stopped burning the back of my throat, I needed an outlet. And, like always, I picked the fastest fix.

Ivy.

She was eager—too eager. Perfume cloying, sweetness smeared like cheap honey, clinging to me before we even cleared the Packhouse doors. Her hands trembled at my chest, her lips dragged over my jaw, her tongue flicked against my pulse point as if Scar would confuse desperation for fate.

He didn’t.

Still, I shoved her against the rune-carved wall. Kissed her hard enough to make her whimper. My hands ripped her dress, dragged it up over her hips. Her gasp when I palmed her through lace was needy, pathetic. She begged when I shoved my fingers inside, curling deep.

“Ride it,” I growled. Scar’s growl echoed mine, the room vibrating with the command.

She did. Grinding down, sobbing my name like it meant something.

It didn’t.

Not her.

Every flutter of her heat around me was answered by Scar’s snarl—wrong, wrong, wrong. I spun her to the bed, forced her onto her knees. My cock ached, pulsing as I fisted myself and then slammed into her in one brutal thrust.

Her scream cracked the wards etched into the beams, silver lines flaring in warning. Her nails shredded the sheets, her body clinging, desperate. I fucked her harder, faster, chasing a high that refused to come.

Empty. Hollow.

The wards thrummed low, like they pitied me.

I snarled, shoved deeper, pounded until release tore through me—sharp, bitter, unsatisfying. It spilled hot across her back instead of where she wanted it.

I didn’t care.

I tossed a towel. “Not tonight, Ivy.”

Her pout was instant, breathless. “But—”

She reached for me again, lips swollen, eyes glazed with that hungry, wrong hope.

I snapped.

“Leave.” The growl that ripped out wasn’t mine. It was Scar’s. The sound cracked the air, flared the runes bright silver until the Packhouse itself warned her: run.

She ran.

And I sat there, still hard, still furious. Empty.

Then I smelled it.

Roses.

Tuberose.

Sweet, wild, sinful—laced with lightning.

My body locked so violently I thought my spine would shatter. Blood turned molten. Skin too tight. My cock throbbed painfully, harder than it had ever been in my life. Scar’s howl split my skull.

MATE.

The wards agreed. Silver light shot across the beams, crawling the walls like veins of moonfire, pulsing recognition. The Packhouse itself—our ancestral fortress woven from wolf, fae, and draconic magic during the Accord—recognized her.

My chest heaved. Breath ragged. Every instinct screamed one thing: move. Find her. Claim her. Never let go.

I staggered forward, blind with it. And then—

I saw her.

Holy. Fucking. Moon.

She stood framed in the doorway like the Goddess had hand-carved her out of every fever dream I’d ever buried. Silver hair tumbled in waves, catching the sconces until it glowed like spun starlight. Her dress clung indecently, baring thighs, hugging hips, daring me to rip it away just to see skin beneath.

Made for me. For us.

Her lips parted, chest rising fast like she felt it too—the tether snapping, searing, binding. Scar shoved so hard I nearly dropped to my knees with the force of it.

The wards hummed louder, syncing with my pounding heart, the whole damn house leaning toward her. My vision tunnelled. All I saw was her. All I smelled, all I wanted, was her.

My mouth dried, blood burning wildfire. In my head, I saw that dress in a crumpled heap, her body slick with sweat, her voice shredded on my name as I drove into her until nothing existed but the bond.

It clicked. For the first time in my life, everything clicked.

It wasn’t Ivy. It wasn’t anyone.

It was her.

Only her.

Ours.