Ronan Draven

I have to be wrong about this one.

I took one look at Grayson’s worried expression and placed my hand over his.

“My darling, something has come up with some patients. I need to finish logging the trauma real quick so that the other doctors can have complete information to work with.”

I hated how the lie came so easy.

Grayson sighed. The relief was obvious on his face.

“It's okay, I'll take my leave. I'll see you later tonight?”

“Yes.” I smiled, hoping it didn't look as fake as it felt.

He kissed me on the forehead and sauntered out of my office.

My half-drunk chocolate tea was forgotten in a moment and I opened my laptop. I wasn't happy to lie to Grayson but where would I begin the explanation from? Three years together, and I had never once told him that I had killed two men. That one of them had been the most feared Rogue Alpha in the region.

The first name I typed into the search bar was Ronan Draven. Pages of results appeared. I went down the rabbit hole—news archives, Draven Pack records, old business articles. The deeper I searched, the worse it became. There were childhood images of Ronan Draven beside his father, former Alpha Lucien Draven. His teenage photographs, a few school records of his outstanding academic performance. There were also bloodline announcements. Everything proved the same thing: Ronan Draven was real. He had always been real. He wasn't Varek pretending to be Ronan.

Ronan Draven existed long before I ever met Varek and that made it worse.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen until the words blurred. 

If Ronan is real—if he's been real this entire time—then what did Varek do? How did he wear Ronan's face? And why?

Before I left the office that evening, I got an invite to attend a formal reception at Thornwood's modern Pack Council complex. I was going because it would take my mind off things.

By five the following evening, I had managed to convince myself I could get through the reception without making a fool of myself.

I spent most of those twenty-four hours pestering Elara with questions until she got tired of answering me.

Grayson had wanted to come with me but he had some unavoidable estate business to deal with. He kept grumbling about how his family wouldn't let him enjoy his fiancée.

“I'll be here when you return.” I laughed but it sounded hollow even to my own ears.

At six p.m., I drove my SUV into the car park, peeked in the mirror to be sure my makeup was still in place then stepped out. I paused in front of the Pack Council Complex. The glass walls caught the dying light of the sun. There were security scanners at every entrance. Luxury vehicles were lined up beside mine. Ancient pack insignias carved into contemporary architecture—the old world and the new world pressed together, pretending they belonged together.

A cool mist passed over me at the security entrance, carrying the faint medicinal smell of the Council’s standard scent neutralizer for formal gatherings.

I strolled into the hall and people were already discussing succession law while checking phones and drinking cocktails.

Isn’t it too early to be discussing succession?

But in this world, politics is power. Someone is always trying to overthrow another. Every smile had a strategic calculation beneath, waiting for one mistake.

I smiled at a few people and took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Soft music drifted through the hall. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since I entered when the Draven delegation arrived.

Damon first—tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding attention without effort. Several senior officials followed. Elowyn Holt with representatives from her neutral pack, her silver hair catching the light like moonlight on water.

And finally Ronan.

My body reacted before my thoughts could catch up, and Elara became restless beneath my skin.

Ronan spoke to other leaders. His posture was relaxed but controlled. His expression was pleasant but unreadable. He moved through the crowd like he owned it. Like power is simply part of his DNA.

It was the same voice I heard four years ago and he carried the same controlled stillness I remembered from four years ago.

I searched for a seat and dropped into a chair before my legs would give way. I could imagine the headlines: 

Thornwood Medical Practitioner Swoons at the Sight of Ronan Draven

How embarrassing.

I wanted to look away, but every time I tried, my attention drifted back to him, watching his every move from across the room.

Ronan laughed at something Damon said. He accepted a drink from a passing server. He did everything a visiting Alpha was expected to do, and he did it perfectly.

I let my gaze drift for what couldn't have been more than a minute. When I looked up again, he was standing directly in front of me beside the Head of Surgery, Dr. Kane Richardson.

“Ronan Draven, this is Ivy Sinclair.”

Dr. Kane continued to speak but I couldn't hear the words. All I heard was the roar of blood until I heard his voice again.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sinclair.”

He extended his hand without breaking eye contact.

“Ronan Draven.”

His voice was calm. It should have been the harmless greeting of one stranger meeting another at a formal reception. It was anything but.

I forced my hand forward and took his.

“Ivy Sinclair.”

His grip was perfectly polite. The handshake of a man who has shaken a thousand hands. The touch of someone who has learned to be appropriate. To be proper. To be nothing at all.

I waited for recognition but none came.

I felt foolish. Everything was not as I imagined. But I couldn't understand Elara. She kept pacing.

Varek was a ghost. He was dead. Every official report I had found said so.

Then Ronan placed his thumb against the pulse of my wrist.

Looking into my eyes he whispered, “You look like you've seen a ghost, Miss Sinclair.”