CHAPTER 2

The sight of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder sent a frost through my veins that no wolf’s fever could thaw. I finally understood why Andrew hadn’t even flinched when I threatened to break our bond back at the estate. Why would he care about a stray when his True Mate—the one the pack actually wanted—had finally come home?

Andrew strode toward me, his golden eyes scanning my pallid face. He tracked the scent of my distress, his brow furrowing. "You look like you’re about to shift out of season, Lanka. Are you ill?"

Serena Wolfe followed him, her hand reaching out to clasp mine with a practiced, sisterly concern. "Your skin is like ice, Lanka. Please, don’t tell me you’ve misunderstood. Today is my birth-dawn, and after four years in the Northern Territories, my family insisted on a Moon-Feast. I had a sudden spell after the ceremony, so Andrew had to bring me to the Silverline."

I jerked my hand back so violently her fingers were left grasping at nothing. I saw Andrew’s gaze darken, a low vibration of disapproval thrumming in his chest.

Bitterness surged in my throat, acrid as wolfsbane. I shared a birth-dawn with Serena. It wasn't that Andrew had forgotten the day or failed to prepare a tribute; it was simply that he had chosen who was worth his protection.

Swallowing my pride, I forced a stiff smile. I reached up, my fingers brushing his temple as I plucked the festive wolf-ear headband from his head.

"This doesn’t suit an Alpha," I said, my voice eerily calm. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the trinket into the biological waste bin.

Serena’s polished smile faltered.

"Lucas is sick," I said, shoving the medical reports into Andrew’s chest. "Pediatric wing. He needs a scan."

I didn’t wait for his reaction. I bolted. My steps were uneven, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. As I reached the exit of the hall, I couldn't help but steal one last glance.

Andrew was already guiding Serena toward the elevators. From start to finish, he hadn't looked back at me—not even once.

Blinded by tears, I spun around only to collide head-on with a couple entering the wing. I sprawled onto the linoleum, the sharp voice of a woman snapping above me.

"Watch where you're going, boy! Honestly, have you no respect?"

"Leave it, Maren. Serena is waiting for us," the man muttered.

I looked up through the haze of pain, recognizing the anxious silhouettes of the Hawthorne parents—the people I once called Mother and Father—as they hurried past me without a second glance.

The memories hit me like a physical blow. I remembered being a pup, cradled in Damon Hawthorne’s arms during a midnight fever. I remembered Lydiasa holding my hand, promising that she would never let go.

Then the truth came out. We were the "True" and "False" heirs, switched in the nursery. The moment the blood-rites revealed the error, the Hawthornes swapped us back like defective merchandise. At six, I lost the only parents I knew and was handed over to the Monroe family—a pair of low-ranked, abusive shadows.

At eight, I was nearly beaten to death by my "father." At ten, my older brother carried my bloodied body to the gates of the Wolfe Crest Estate, begging for sanctuary. Andrew had walked out into a blizzard to scoop me up, bringing me into the warmth of the pack.

Sixteen years ago, Serena appeared and I lost my home. Now, she was back to take the rest.

I limped down the dark streets of the city, my shoulder throbbing. The late summer breeze felt like a knife against my skin. I passed a group of young omegas laughing near a theater, their energy vibrant and free.

I stopped, staring blankly. I was six years younger than Andrew. I had pushed myself to the limit to catch up to him, mastering the traditional war-dance of our people by fifteen. I graduated early, but when the masters offered me a place in the Great Archives, I declined.

For four years, I had done nothing but wait for Andrew Wolfe to look at me. I had clung to the hollow shell of a mating bond, day after day, year after year. Now, at twenty-two, I felt like an old soul whose fire had been extinguished.

A taxi pulled up, the driver honking to snap me out of my trance. "Need a lift, kid?"

I stepped off the curb, leaning toward the window. "I don’t have any credits on me. But will this do? It’s platinum, set with a star-diamond."

I reached up and unclipped a small earring, handing it over. Even in the dim light, the gem sparkled with an undeniable pedigree. The driver’s eyes went wide. "Hop in."

As the car pulled away toward Oakridge Heights, the driver kept glancing at the jewel. "That place is for the High-Alphas. You must be loaded. How much is this thing worth?"

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window. "Six figures."

"Yeah, right," the driver chuckled. "You’ve got a sense of humor, kid."

I didn't answer. My mind was miles away, back when I was twelve. I’d wanted my ears pierced, but the trauma of my childhood made me terrified of needles. I’d chickened out three times, watching other pups with envy.

Andrew had been away at the Astoria Academy, but he’d heard. He came home for the Winter Solstice with a piercing gun, claiming it was just a "toy" for his training. He tricked me into sitting still, brushed my hair aside, and—bam, bam—it was done before I could scream.

I’d chased him through the snow, swinging my fists and shouting, "I hate you, Andrew!"

He’d laughed, catching me in his arms under the pale winter sun, tenderly wiping away my tears. "Little Lanka, always such a drama queen."

Later, he’d commissioned Matthew Hawthorne to design a custom pair of earrings just for me. I’d worn them for ten years. I thought letting go of something that had become part of my flesh would be agonizing. It wasn't. It just felt like nothing.

On a massive screen at a street corner, a gossip feed showed Serena at the terminal, being grilled by reporters.

"Is there someone special, Ms. Wolfe?"

"Yes," she smiled. "We were separated by a misunderstanding four years ago, but true bonds always find their way back."

She turned to the man standing beside her in the shadows of the hanger. The reporter shoved a mic forward. "Mr. Wolfe, are you the one she's talking about?"

Andrew signaled his enforcers to step in, his hand possessively on Serena’s waist as he whisked her away.

I looked away. How lovely. The mate is always the last to know when the Alpha strays.

"Hey, kid," the driver said suddenly. "There’s a black Bentley tailing us. Someone you know?"

I looked back. The license plate was unmistakable. In a heartbeat, the Bentley roared forward, tires screeching as it drifted across the road, pinning the taxi against the curb.

The driver slammed on the brakes. I lurched forward, saved only by the seatbelt. Then came the tapping on the glass. Deliberate. Rhythmic. It was the sound of a predator claiming his kill.

I gripped the seatbelt until my knuckles turned white, refusing to look. Andrew’s eyes locked onto the driver, an Alpha glare so predatory the man scrambled to unlock the doors.

The door swung open. Andrew leaned in. With a sharp click, he released my seatbelt, his hand pressing into the leather beside my head.

"Lanka," he sneered, his face so close I could smell the cedar on his breath. "Playing runaway? Is this fun for you?"

Since that night four years ago, he hadn't called me "Lanka" with anything but coldness.

"Playing runaway beats being your side-show," I rasped.

Without a word, he hauled me out of the cab.

"Let go!" I struggled.

"Quiet!" His grip on my hip was like a brand.

"What happened to your foot?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave as he saw the blood-stained bandage. He didn't wait for an answer, stuffing me into the backseat of the Bentley and sliding in beside me.

The door slammed, the cabin thick with his oppressive Alpha scent. He reached over, brushing my hair back to look at my ear. His eyes sharpened.

"Where are the earrings?" He pinched my earlobe, his thumb twisting the skin.

"Ouch! I lost them," I winced.

Andrew’s hand moved to my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Lost them? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Tears blurred my vision, but my voice didn't shake. "Lost means I don't want them anymore. Andrew Wolfe, I’m done. I’m not playing. Give me the divorce."