CHAPTER 4

He held me with a crushing intensity. There was no need for grand declarations or whispered vows; that simple, heavy embrace spoke of a bond deeper than any spoken word.

After a long silence, while I was still tucked into his side, he made a move to sit up. As he began to swing his legs off the bed, I reached out and pulled him back. Connor looked down at me, his gaze flickering with curiosity.

In that moment, I felt like a pup clinging to its alpha, unwilling to let the warmth of the den fade.

He reached over to flick on the bedside lamp, the amber glow illuminating the room as he gently traced the line of my spine. A faint, doting smile played on his lips. "Aren't you going to wash away the scent of the night?"

"I just want you to hold me," I murmured, burying my face back into the hollow of his neck. "I don't want to break the tether yet."

"Weren't you the one who insisted I stay behind in New York?"

I only wanted to spare him the exhaustion of the journey. And perhaps, I didn't want to face the weariness myself.

We both understood the reality of our roles. But Connor, who had turned the protection of his mate into his singular mission, was never going to let me face the London pack alone. He didn't reveal his hand, though. He simply let the secret simmer, waiting to catch me off guard with another surge of devotion.

That night, sleep was a stranger. we stayed locked together, our whispers filling the room until the moon dipped below the horizon.

Before I knew it, the sun was high, and Zephaniah’s transport was idling outside to take Lisa and me to the clouds. Even as I stood by the door, I clung to Connor’s silks, stalling. "Wait for me..."

He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek as he smoothed back my hair. The heavy silver band on his finger caught the morning light, a silent promise of where he belonged.

At the Downtown Civic Registry, panic flared in Lisa’s scent. She had realized, too late, that her travel documents were still back at her den. Her grandfather was likely out on his morning hunt, and there was no way she could make the trek back and forth in time for the flight.

I thought of the geography of the city; her place wasn't far from the Vale Media headquarters. I told her to howl for Jordan. Lisa hesitated, her fur bristling at the thought, but the pressure of the assignment won out. She dialed the number with trembling fingers. "Jordan."

"Speak," came the deep rumble on the other end.

"I... I left my passport behind. Could you possibly divert to my den? The spare key is tucked inside the mailbox, and the papers should be right on my furs."

Jordan was buried in scrolls; Walter Vale had a mountain of inheritance documents waiting for his seal. If it had been anyone else, Jordan would have snarled at the distraction. But because it was Lisa...

He found he couldn't say no, no matter how much it threw off his schedule.

"Stay put," he commanded. Knowing the departure time, he raced across the city, his predatory focus narrowed on the task. He found the key and slipped into her private space.

The den was much as it had been when I lived there, but without Lisa present, the intimacy of the room made Jordan’s pulse quicken. As he pushed into her sleeping quarters, he found the documents exactly where she said. But scattered nearby was a chaotic pile of silks and lace—the intimate garments she had been too frantic to tidy.

Jordan felt the heat rise to his face as he grabbed the passport. In the code of the North, a warrior only laid eyes on such things if the female was his chosen mate.

Flustered, he turned too quickly and slammed his knee into a heavy wooden chair. A low grunt of pain escaped him, but he didn't slow down.

When he finally reached the terminal, he was favoring his left leg, though he leaned against his vehicle with a practiced air of cool indifference.

"I am deeply sorry for the trouble," Lisa stammered, taking the papers.

"It is handled," Jordan replied, his voice gruff as he watched her. "Hunt well in the East."

Lisa was too caught up in the rush to notice the shadow of pain in his eyes as she hurried toward the gate. It was only when she was gone that Jordan rolled up his trousers to find a jagged scrape where the wood had bitten into his skin.

He cursed softly under his breath. What an absolute fool.

High above in the departure lounge, Zephaniah and I had watched the entire exchange from the glass.

"It looks like the big wolf caught his paw in a trap," Zephaniah joked, sipping his black coffee.

"When two stubborn souls collide, the sparks usually burn the house down," I laughed. Isn't that the essence of the bond? It turns even the sharpest warriors into idiots, making them bleed just to see a female smile. It was a sweet, sharp thought.

I kept a low profile to avoid the prying eyes of the pack, but as we moved through the crowd, I spotted a familiar, wiry figure. It was the scout from Blossom Media—the one who had caught the scent of Connor and me moons ago.

I had a hunter’s memory for those with ill intent. I remembered the predatory glint in his eyes. He approached with a shallow bow, handing over a card. "Miss Hart, do you recall our previous encounter?"

"Blossom Media," I stated flatly, not even glancing at the card.

The scout’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, surprised by my accuracy. "I didn't expect to see you migrating. Heading for the JK hunt in London, I presume?"

I gave a curt nod.

"The mate from last time didn't join the pack today?" He scanned the area for a trace of Connor’s scent. Finding nothing, he smirked. "I suppose our paths will cross in London, then."

"What was that?" Zephaniah asked the moment the man vanished. "What mate is he talking about?"

"When the Vale Media Group was under fire, I went to the coast with Connor. He saw me stepping out of the car, but he never realized the male was the High Alpha himself," I explained. "I fear this week in London won't be a quiet hunt. There will be eyes in every shadow."

"Let them watch," Zephaniah grunted. "Connor isn't here to be caught." He was more concerned about Sloane’s hidden claws than a stray paparazzo.

I never imagined that this small, hungry studio would become the shadow that followed me for the rest of the season.

"Has the female reached London?" In the high tower of H World, Sloane paced like a caged leopard, her eyes fixed on Holden.

"She should be touching down shortly," he replied.

"The scouts are in place?"

"I’ve hired the elite trackers from the South Korean territories. If Ava so much as twitches a claw out of place, it will be immortalized in high definition," Holden said, adjusting his cuffs with an air of unbearable arrogance. He lived for the theater of the kill.

"Give them whatever they demand! I want her broken!" Sloane snarled. "And find me new blood to train. Yael alone isn't enough to hold the territory."

After the long flight across the Great Sea, our pack arrived in the heart of London. Before stepping into our transport, I caught the scent of the Blossom Media scout again. There was something off about him—he wasn't a clinger, but he radiated a cold, focused danger.

I tossed his card into the nearest bin, marking him as a threat to be avoided.

Ten minutes after reaching the hotel, my device hummed. It was Connor. After assuring my husband that the migration was successful, I settled into the chambers organized by the agency.

"The JK selection is in two suns," Zephaniah briefed me. "We need to go for the vetting. Even with Sloane’s word, the spot isn't guaranteed."

"Handle the logistics," I said.

"Ava, what do you truly think of Sloane’s 'mercy' in giving you this hunt?" Zephaniah asked, voiced low.

"JK is an apex label. Only a fool would refuse the territory," I replied with a cold smile. "But for her to offer such a prize... the blood she wants in return must be significant."

"I’ll keep our perimeter secure," Zephaniah vowed. "Rest. The time-shift will dull your instincts if you aren't careful."

I lay on the bed, but sleep wouldn't come. My mind was racing with the weight of the international stage. This wasn't a local runway; this was where the world’s Alphas watched. If I could seize the finale, I would be untouchable.

I was so close to standing on the same mountain as Connor.

As if our pulses were synced, my phone buzzed again. It was him. I couldn't help but giggle into the receiver. "Did you scent my thoughts?"

Back in New York, the moon was high. Connor was pacing the empty halls of the Vale Hills Estate. "Mrs. Vale, if you are away for a full week, the silence of this house will drive me mad. I want you here; I want to feel your heartbeat against mine."

"President Vale, from tonight on, I am the property of the runway. You’ll have to endure the solitude."

Endure?

Connor Vale had never been a male of patience.

While he spoke softly to me, coaxing me toward sleep, he was simultaneously messaging Jordan to book the next flight to London. He would fly across the world just for a single hour with me before returning for a mandatory council dinner.

Jordan stared at the command. The High Alpha was willing to spend twenty hours in the air for a fleeting glance of his mate. Was this what the bond did to a man?

"Connor... wait for me," I whispered into the pillow as I drifted off. "I’m almost at your level."

Connor listened to my sleep-heavy mumble, his resolve hardening. He had vowed that wherever I ran, he would be the ground beneath my feet. Twenty hours was a small price for a moment in my light.

The next evening, Zephaniah and I arrived at the JK set—a hauntingly beautiful cathedral on the London outskirts. The theme was Soul and Rebirth. The garments were a stark contrast of obsidian and bone-white, adorned with mandalas and feathered wings.

The atmosphere was electric. There was no room for the petty squabbles of the local packs here; there were only elite hunters focused on the craft. It felt like being back in my early days in the French territories.

While Zephaniah negotiated with the house, I was pulled into the back to be fitted. I stood before a massive mirror in only my basic silks. For a model, this was the moment of truth.

The lead designer, a bearded man with a wild, artistic aura, scanned my form. His eyes locked onto my legs, recognizing the power and grace in my stride. He clapped his hands, barking at his assistants to bring the finale piece instead of the opening.

It was a gown of translucent black gauze and intricate mesh, designed to look like a soul struggling against its cage. Dark mandala flowers bloomed from my shoulder down to my hip.

The shadows... the struggle... the raw power.

The moment the silk touched my skin, my aura shifted. I looked like an ancient force finally breaking its chains.

"That is the hunger I sought!" the designer shouted. "You are the finale!"

It was a triumph I hadn't dared hope for. But there was a catch—the finale required a partner. I was to walk with a male model.

During the practice run, I met him: a towering wolf standing nearly 1.9 meters, with eyes the color of a stormy ocean and a swagger that bordered on insolence. He was young and knew he was beautiful.

As we posed, shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the stage, he did the unthinkable. He reached down and pinched my thigh, his eyes glinting with a challenge.

I turned on him, my gaze a frozen blade.

"Forgive me," he smirked, his voice a low drawl. "Your legs are far too exquisite. I felt the urge to mark them."

"If you continue this, I will assume the British packs have no manners," I warned. We broke the pose and paced back down the stone aisle. He didn't look deterred; he just kept that arrogant smirk fixed on his face.

As I stepped off the stage, Zephaniah threw a coat over my shoulders. "What happened out there? The male... did he cross a line?"

"It’s nothing," I said, dismissing the pup’s foolishness. In the chaos of the backstage, such friction was common, though no less annoying.

As we headed for the exit, my hunter’s instinct flared. I caught the unmistakable glint of a lens from behind a stone pillar.

"Someone is stalking us with a camera," I whispered to Zephaniah.

He followed my gaze, his face darkening. "Get to the transport. I’ll flush them out."

I watched as Zephaniah dove toward the shadows of the pews. A figure darted away—professional, fast, and clearly trained in the art of the escape. Zephaniah returned, breathless and empty-handed.

"I lost them. They knew the exits too well."

"Forget it," I said, trying to shake the feeling. "There are dozens of designers here; they were probably hunting for the secrets of the collection."

But we were wrong. It was one of the trackers Holden had hired. He sat in a nearby alley, scrolling through his shots with a predator’s grin.

He had caught it perfectly: the high-definition image of me "flirting" with the male model, his hand firm against my thigh.

By the time the moon rose in New York, Holden was looking at the image on his screen.

This is only the first day, Ava...

By the time you return to your den, you will find your reputation has been torn to pieces.