C-4

“Get out of my face, Isolde,” I snarl, my voice laced with human grit as I shove past her in the stone corridor of the Royal Lodge Quarter, my heavy skirts sweeping against her polished leather boots.

Every step aches in my ankle, but my plus-size frame carries a deliberate weight that no wolf in this mountain territory can shake. I am a bloodless human living in the heart of the Moonfang Province, surrounded by lethal predators, yet I refuse to bow. Isolde Ashbourne’s eyes flare with venom, her face still bruised from her recent humiliation before the elders, her wolf sulking deep beneath her skin. She snaps her jaw shut, retreating into the shadows of the lodge.

By the time the sun hits its zenith over the Frostfang Refuge, the mountain air turns thick and heavy.

I sit at my dark oak desk inside the lodge archives, reviewing the seasonal harvest yields for the Whitlock Moonfang Dominion. My fingers are stained with dark berry ink, my eyes burning from hours of reading parchment. The heavy fur curtain masking my doorway swishes open with a sharp, sudden breeze. High heels never announce visitors in these parts; only the silent, bone-crushing tread of trained pack enforcers signals an arrival.

I do not look up until the women weaving wool at the nearby benches let out hushed, breathless squeals.

“Elowen Whitlock,” Osric Fenwick says, his deep, gravelly voice slicing cleanly through the sudden feminine murmurs. “High Alpha Thorncroft demands your presence at the lower gate immediately.”

I feel dozens of sharp wolf eyes burning into my back. I set my quill down slowly, smoothing the fabric over my lap, refusing to show a single tremor. “Tell Enforcer Fenwick that High Alpha Thorncroft can wait until I finish auditing these territorial records.”

Osric takes a broad step into the light, his amber eyes flashing with dangerous impatience. “The High Alpha does not wait, human.”

“Then he is welcome to leave,” I reply, my voice smooth and ice-cold.

Osric’s jaw clenches, his broad shoulders stiffening beneath his leather armor. Caelan Thorncroft and Osric Fenwick have ruled the Alpha Dominion District with an iron grip for over a decade. They expect humans to cringe, to drop to their knees at a mere command. I pick up my ledger, rising with slow, unbothered grace.

“I will fetch my winter cloak,” I state, turning my back on the most dangerous enforcer in the province.

Osric blinks, completely caught off guard by my flat defiance. He doesn't dare lay a hand on me—not here, not after Caelan’s explicit orders. I drape my heavy wool cloak over my shoulders, step past him, and lead the way down the winding stone stairs toward the iron gates.

A massive timber carriage stamped with the silver crest of the Thorncroft Alpha Dominion waits in the mist. Osric bows his head slightly and vanishes into the thick pine treeline, leaving me alone at the door.

I climb inside. Caelan sits on the padded leather bench, illuminated by the dim, eerie glow of a blue rune lantern. He is clad in black velvet and silver-studded armor, his towering, muscular frame taking up nearly the entire cabin. He is staring intently at a rolled parchment map of the Silver Tide Haven territory.

“You are interrupting my official duties for the Whitlock Moonfang Dominion,” I say, breaking the thick silence as I take the seat opposite him.

Caelan’s massive, scarred fingers freeze over the parchment. He rolls the map closed with a crisp snap and lifts his gaze to mine. The raw intensity in his stormy gray eyes sends an unwanted jolt of heat straight to my core, my pulse hammering wildly against my ribs.

“You are coming with me to the Moon Treasury Quarter,” he says, his voice a low, possessive rumble that vibrates straight through the floorboards. “You will eat, and then you will return to your work.”

The carriage lurches forward, iron wheels grinding against the mountain cobblestones. Thirty minutes later, we arrive at a secluded timber pavilion built over the roaring river—a place where high-ranking pack alphas dine far away from lower-caste eyes. Caelan’s personal guard has cleared the entire terrace.

The moment we take our seats at a heavy oak table, servants hurry out, placing steaming platters of heavily spiced game and roasted mountain roots between us.

Caelan reaches across the table with a silver knife, carving thick, succulent slices of peppered stag and piling them onto my plate until the wood groans under the weight.

“Eat,” he commands softly, his dark eyes tracing the curve of my lips. “It is the fire-spiced game you used to crave when you lived in the Royal Alpha Quarter.”

I stare at the mountain of rich, heavily seasoned meat, a bitter smile touching my mouth.

“Human digestion cannot tolerate such heavy spices after years of simple living, High Alpha Thorncroft,” I say, my voice completely devoid of warmth. “My body accepts only mild broths and soft roots now.”

When Briar was born four years ago with fragile human lungs, I stripped every pungent herb and wild garlic from my hearth so my milk would not distress her. I adapted to the blandness. It became my life while he was busy ruling his dominion.

Caelan’s throat works as he swallows hard, his broad chest heaving beneath his silver armor. Pain flashes briefly across his harsh, handsome features before his jaw sets like granite.

“Take it away,” he rasps to the waiting steward. “Bring clear fowl broth, winter greens, and barley bread. Now.”

Within minutes, the table is reset. I pick up my silver spoon and eat in quiet, methodical bites, ignoring the suffocating aura of the wolf sitting across from me. Caelan does not touch a single bite of his own food. He simply sits there, looming and lethal, watching every swallow I take, his gaze burning with a raw, desperate hunger that makes my skin prickle with dangerous heat.

When I set my spoon down, I wipe my mouth with a linen cloth. “I have consumed my fill. I must return to my hearth.”

“I am taking you back,” Caelan says, standing up immediately and wrapping his dark fur cloak around his broad shoulders.

The ride back to the Royal Lodge Quarter passes in total, heavy silence. He watches my profile in the shadows. Just as the carriage slows near the gates, he leans forward, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Do not concern yourself with Isolde Ashbourne or the Ashbourne Pack enforcers. I will crush them if they step near your door. You only need to focus on your work.”

I turn my head, meeting his intense stare with cold indifference. “That is entirely unnecessary, High Alpha Thorncroft. I do not require your protection, nor will I ever owe you a debt.”

Caelan lowers his head, his dark lashes casting long shadows over his high cheekbones. He accepts the rejection like a blow to the chest, but he does not step back.

I gather my skirts and step out into the crisp night air without offering a farewell.

By the fifth bell of the evening, tension crackles like lightning inside the main hall of the lodge. Dorian Wolfhart arrives at the iron gates accompanied by a dozen heavily armored justices from the Grand Alpha Tribunal. Minutes later, the iron-hooved war steeds of the Ashbourne Pack thunder into the courtyard, bringing High Magistrate Rowan Ashbourne and his daughter.

Dorian steps into the torchlit hall, his dark cape sweeping behind him as his golden Alpha eyes sweep over the gathered crowd. He catches my eye near the stone pillars and gives me a single, decisive nod.

Isolde Ashbourne stands beside her father, her face draining of all color as she realizes the trap closing around them. Rowan Ashbourne steps forward, attempting to assert his authority as a magistrate of the Moonfang Province, but Dorian unrolls a massive, gold-sealed parchment before the entire assembly.

“By decree of the Grand Alpha Tribunal and the Whitlock Bloodline,” Dorian’s voice booms through the vaulted hall, echoing off the stone rafters, “Rowan Ashbourne is hereby stripped of his rank, his territorial holdings, and his seat on the Silvermoon Healing Council for high treason, illicit bribery, and the systematic oppression of the human populace!”

Isolde lets out a sharp, ear-splitting shriek, grabbing her father’s arm in sheer terror as armored enforcers from the Guardian Pack Command march forward, heavy silver chains rattling in their hands.

I stand near the shadow of the archway, my arms folded tightly over my chest, watching the Ashbourne dominance crumble into dust.

Across the wide hall, Caelan Thorncroft leans against a massive stone pillar. His lethal frame is shrouded in darkness, but his stormy gray eyes never leave my face. The scent of pine, crushed snow, and heavy storm-ozone fills the hall—intoxicating and possessive—reminding me that while one enemy has fallen, the powerful Alpha who shattered my heart is still hunting me.

When the hall finally clears of the shouting crowd, I retreat to my private cottage at the edge of the lodge grounds.

My uncle Dorian meets me at the wooden porch, his impressive stature blocking the moonlight. “The Ashbourne line will no longer threaten you or the child, Elowen. The tribunal has locked them in the lower dungeons.”

“Thank you, Uncle Dorian,” I murmur, offering him a tired, faint smile. “Will you stay for night-meats and tea? Briar is fast asleep inside.”

Dorian chuckles softly, his golden eyes warming. “I must return to the Grand Alpha Tribunal chambers to finalize the seizure of their lands, but I am glad to see you standing tall. You are a Whitlock, Elowen. Never let these wolves make you feel lesser because you lack a coat.”

He touches my shoulder gently before turning to leave, taking his guard with him into the dark woods.

I step inside my warm, candlelit home. The fireplace crackles steadily, casting soft golden light across the polished timber floors.

A quiet pitter-patter of bare feet sounds from the hallway. Briar stands there, rubbing her sleepy eyes, her dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. She looks up at me, her small face radiant in the hearthfire light.

“Mommy?” she whispers, clutching her soft wool blanket. “Is the noisy wolf gone?”

I walk over, scooping my four-year-old daughter into my arms and holding her plush, warm body tightly against my chest. “Yes, my sweet girl. The bad wolves are gone.”

Briar rests her head on my shoulder, looking toward the heavy front door. “Mommy, I saw the big gray wolf from the news in our courtyard earlier. The one with the shiny silver crest.”

My heart stutters violently against my ribs. “You saw High Alpha Caelan?”

Briar nods sleepy, her voice dropping. “He was standing by the big oak tree. He looked sad, Mommy. Is he going to catch the bad guys too?”

I tighten my grip on her, my throat closing up with suffocating emotion. Caelan has been stalking the perimeter of my home. He knows. Or at least, his dark instincts are clawing at the edges of the truth.

“No, Briar,” I whisper, smoothing her dark hair. “He is not here for that. Let us get you back to bed.”

I tuck her into her small bed, singing a quiet northern lullaby until her breathing evens out into deep sleep.

The house grows deathly quiet. I walk back out to the main living room, unable to settle my frayed nerves. The midnight air outside grows bitterly cold, the cicadas of late summer giving way to the biting mountain winds of the approaching frost.

A heavy, deliberate knock echoes through the solid wood of my front door.

My blood turns to liquid ice. I creep toward the entrance, my fingers wrapping around a silver duster blade hidden beneath the hallway table.

“Who is it?” I demand, my voice hard.

“Open the door, Elowen,” Caelan’s deep, command-laced voice rasps through the heavy oak.

I pull the door open just a crack, keeping the heavy iron latch secured. Caelan stands on my porch under the dim light of the hanging rune lamp. His dark hair is wind-mussed, his massive shoulders draped in a heavy velvet coat that reeks strongly of spiced mead and dark timber-ale. His stormy eyes are wild, bloodshot, and laced with an agonizing, raw pain I have never seen on his legendary face.

Before I can react, he shifts his weight, the massive strength of his body forcing the door open against my grip. He steps into the entry, his terrifying presence instantly consuming the small room.

“You have been drinking,” I snap, taking two rapid steps backward, my blade slipping into the folds of my gown. “Get out of my house, High Alpha. If my child wakes—”

In a single, lightning-fast blur, Caelan closes the distance between us. His large, warm hands frame my jaw, pinning me gently yet securely against the hard wooden wall. The heat radiating off his massive body is suffocating, washing over my full curves like an open furnace.

“Caelan, let go of me!” I hiss, trying to push against his stone-hard chest.

He refuses to budge an inch. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, his breath hot and heavy against my skin, smelling of rich mountain wine. A rarely seen, devastating sorrow shatters the cold mask of the High Alpha.

“Four years, Elowen,” he growls, his voice cracking with a fierce, agonizing emotion that vibrates against my collarbone. “Four years I believed I could purge you from my blood. I thought I could rule the Thorncroft Alpha Dominion and forget the human woman who ruined me. But it only grows deeper. It roots in my soul like a poison I cannot drain!”

My breath hitches in my throat. The sheer raw intensity in his voice threatens to tear down every wall I have painstakingly built around my heart.

“You are drunk,” I whisper, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. “You will regret this when the sun rises over the Silvermoon Capital.”

“I am not drunk enough to forget your scent,” Caelan snarls softly, his dark head dropping into the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, his sharp wolf teeth brushing over my sensitive pulse point, sending a violent shockwave of electric heat straight down to my thighs. “I numb myself with wine every single night because when I sleep, I see you leaving my den. I see you walking away with my blood in your veins.”

He wraps his massive arms around my waist, lifting me slightly off my feet and pulling my plush hips flush against his hardened, muscular frame. The thick swell of his physical desire presses hard against my belly, possessive, dangerous, and demanding.

My mind screams at me to fight him, but my body betrayingly arches into his scorching touch. The primal, raw Alpha heat rolling off him triggers a instinctual hunger deep inside my core, making my breaths come in ragged, shallow gasps.

“Caelan... stop,” I gasp, my hands gripping his broad shoulders, my fingers digging into the heavy fabric of his coat.

“Tell me you do not feel it,” he growls against my skin, his hands sliding down to cup the full curve of my hips, squeezing with brutal, possessive force. “Tell me your human heart does not beat for me, Elowen. Tell me, and I will tear this province apart searching for a way to let you go.”

He lifts his head, his stormy gray eyes locking onto mine with lethal, unyielding intent. He reaches into his heavy coat and pulls out an official, gold-stamped scroll from the Grand Alpha Tribunal, dropping it onto the table beside us.

I glance down at the exposed parchment. My eyes widen in absolute horror as I read the high bold lettering stamped at the top: MATE CLAIMING AUTHORIZATION & PATERNITY SUMMONS.

Caelan’s thumb traces my jawline, his lips hovering mere inches from mine. “I did not come here tonight just to beg for your hearth, Elowen. The Tribunal has verified the bloodline. Tomorrow at dawn, the Whitlock Moonfang Dominion surrenders your hand to the Thorncroft Pack—or I declare war on the entire province.”