Chapter 2

Sloane's POV

Six years ago, I was stupid enough to believe in forever.

I met Dorian Blackwell during my exchange year at his pack’s high school. He was a year above me—tall, quiet, with that arrogant jaw that made every girl in the hallway forget how to breathe. I didn’t expect him to notice me.

But he did notice.

We fell in love with the way teenagers do—fast, stupid, and certain it would last.

Neither of us had shifted yet, and one night in his dorm room, legs tangled under a pine-scented blanket, we made a promise: no matter who the Moon Goddess paired us with, we'd choose each other.

A year later, Dorian's wolf came in strong enough to hand him the Alpha seat. My awakening came too.

It gave me nothing.

I was wolfless. No inner wolf, no shift, no howl.

And then the Moon Goddess delivered her cruelest joke — Dorian and I were fated mates.

I told Dorian the truth. His wolf, Ash, had already claimed me in every way that mattered. But Dorian? Dorian was an Alpha’s son. He had a future to protect. A legacy. A pack that would never accept a wolfless Luna.

He hesitated.That hesitation broke me more than any rejection ever could.

My parents hosted a coming-of-age ceremony for me anyway, because they loved me too much to let my wolfless status ruin the tradition. So I returned to my pack to recover and attend the coming-of-age ceremony.I wore a white dress and smiled for photographs and tried not to think about Dorian.

But Dorian showed up.

For one stupid, hopeful second, I thought he’d come to apologize. To choose me.

"I, Dorian Blackwell, reject you as my mate."

In front of my family. In front of everyone, he rejected me.

The pain still found me in quiet moments — an ache behind the ribs that never fully healed, because I was wolfless, and the severance ritual couldn't cut a bond that only one side carried properly. It just frayed.

Five years since that night. And now the boy who'd broken our promise was about to become the fiancé of the woman whose floor I mopped.

Nobody would want to reunite with an ex like this — in a servant's uniform, crouching in his future fiancée's closet. And Colette was a cruel boss. If I interrupted their little moment together, she’d probably dock a week’s pay.

I just had to wait. They'd leave for dinner. I'd slip out.

"Oh," Colette said, "perhaps you'd like to see my newest dress? "

Their footsteps came closer.

I pressed deeper into the hanging gowns and crouched low, my knees hitting the carpet.

They stopped right in front of me.

Colette's perfume hit first.Then another scent underneath. Pine. Something my body recognized before my brain caught up.

Through the hem of a floor-length dress, I could see their shoes. Colette's pointed stilettos. Dorian's dark leather oxfords, angled slightly away from hers.

I didn't breathe.

"We don't often get to be alone in such a private space," Colette murmured. Her voice dropped to something honeyed. "Have you ever kissed someone in a wardrobe?"

I bit the inside of my cheek.

Yes, I thought . He has. Multiple times. With me.

“Aren’t we here to look at your clothes?” Dorian said flatly.

Colette cleared her throat. "Oh — right, yeah." She started rifling through the rack. "I know it's here somewhere... pink diamond detailing along the neckline... where is it?"

I looked down at the beaded fabric bunched in my fist. Pink diamonds glinted along the neckline. I was holding it. I hadn't finished hanging it up.

"Honestly," Colette huffed. "Those maids are always moving my things around. Let me check over here."

Her heels clicked closer. She was coming to my side of the rack.

I shrank back against the wall. Colette's fingers started flipping through the dresses right above my head — manicured nails raking between satin and silk. Her fingertip grazed my hair.

Her movements got rougher, more impatient.One more second and she’d see me—

I squeezed my eyes shut. This was it. This was —

"Colette." Dorian's voice, flat. "Your makeup. It's smudged under the left eye."

Her hand froze.

"Oh — Goddess." A mortified pause. Then her heels, sharp and fast, clicking out of the wardrobe. "Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back."

The room went quiet.

I stayed frozen for a long, shaky moment. Then I let out a breath, sagging against the wall. Counted to twenty. Thirty. The wardrobe was perfectly still no footsteps.

Nobody.

Then I planned to sneak out of the walk-in closet and pretend none of this had ever happened.

A hand shot through the hanging clothes and ripped them aside.

Every garment flew back at once — and light flooded in so fast I threw both hands up to shield my face.

A grip clamped around the back of my neck. Not gentle. The kind of hold that lifted me to my toes like I weighed nothing.

Through the cracks between my fingers, I saw his face.

Dorian. Inches away. His jaw locked, his lips parted.

His eyes were red.

Not the dark amber I remembered. Red, burning, inhuman — the wolf behind the man staring straight at me.

He leaned in, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath against my throat.

Before I could react, he leaned in. His nose traced the side of my throat, slow, and a low sound came from his chest — half growl, half purr. He inhaled deep enough that I felt his ribs expand against my arm.

"Mark," he muttered. The word barely formed — guttural, more wolf than man. "No mark... "

I felt the edge of his teeth against my skin.

Oh Goddess！

"Dorian!" I gasped.

He went rigid.The red bled out of his eyes. His jaw snapped shut. For a second, he just stared at me, dazed, like a man waking from a dream.

His grip loosened — finger by finger, like something inside him was fighting to hold on.

Teeth retracted. Breathing went ragged.

He let go. Crouched in front of me, one hand braced against the shelf behind my head, and when he looked up, his eyes were brown again.

"Take your hands down." His voice was hoarse. "I've already picked up your scent. Covering your face doesn't help."

I kept my palms pressed over my eyes. My pulse was hammering in my teeth.

"You have the wrong person," I said.

Silence. Then a laugh — short, clipped.

“Then how do you know a stranger’s name is Dorian?”

My cheeks burned.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

I was always like this around werewolves — exposed, obvious, never able to bluff my way through. But especially around Dorian. Five years of distance, two years of learning to disappear, and he undid all of it in thirty seconds.

I had nowhere left to hide. Slowly, I lowered my hands.