Emerald

The morning sun broke over the Frost pack lands, illuminating a Midway that was already bursting with color and life. The official sign-in booths flanked the main gates, surrounded by visiting vendors eagerly setting up their intricately carved wooden stalls. Beyond the gates, a line of SUVs, trucks, and buses stretched for almost a mile down the mountain road, packed with visiting wolves thrumming with nervous, competitive energy.

 

Standing at the front gate, Alpha Kamlin of the River Pack shook Zyan’s hand, then turned to clasp Maddox’s forearm. "I see the young pup has officially taken over the Alpha duties," Kamlin noted with a respectful nod.

Maddox beamed, clapping a hand onto Zyan's shoulder with unabashed pride. "He's doing one hell of a job, isn't he? I'm proud to see him leading our pack, Kamlin. He's earned every bit of it."

 

The chaotic rhythm of arrivals continued as the Silver Paw pack’s huge caravan pulled up to the gates.

 

Alpha Cobb stepped out, followed by a handful of his elites and a young woman Zyan had never seen before. She kept her head down, her posture tight and guarded, as if she were trying to shrink into herself.

"This is our niece or adopted daughter, Emerald," Alpha Cobb introduced her casually.

 

At the sound of her name, Emerald finally looked up. And the axis of Zyan’s entire world violently snapped.

 

The soft breeze drafting through the open gates shouldn't have been strong enough to knock the breath from his lungs, but it carried a scent that hit him with the devastating force of a physical blow.

 

The intoxicating, sun-warmed sweetness of summer. Vanilla. Bright citrus.

It didn't just fill his nose; it coated his throat, sank directly into his blood, and hijacked his heartbeat. His breath hitched, trapped behind his teeth.

 

Ky, the dominant beast inside him, lunged to the surface with such terrifying violence that Zyan’s knees actually buckled.

 

Thats our mate.

 

It wasn't just a thought. It was a roar—primal, possessive, and absolute—vibrating down to the marrow of his bones. Zyan’s heart stopped dead in his chest for one agonizing second before his pulse exploded into a frantic, roaring rhythm. The bustling setup of Midway, the noise of the crowds, the scent of a hundred other wolves—it all vanished. His vision tunneled, narrowing until the universe consisted entirely of the young woman standing beside Alpha Cobb.

 

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her gaze had flicked toward the bustling Midway behind them. But then the wind shifted, carrying his scent back to her, and her entire body went rigid. It wasn't just a flinch; it was a physical recoil.

 

Her wide, beautiful eyes snapped back to his. And then—the recognition hit her.

 

It wasn't the soft, stunned surrender that Reagan had shown when her bond had finally snapped into place. No. The look that shattered Emerald’s features was pure, suffocating terror. It was the look of a prey animal realizing it was cornered. All the color drained from her cheeks, leaving her as fragile as spun glass.

 

The spike of fear in her scent hit Zyan like a blade, sharp and immediate. He felt it twist in his gut, a cold agony laced through with helplessness.

 

But Ky didn’t care about fear. Ky only cared about the bond.

 

Zyan fought to keep himself anchored, hands curling into tight fists as he struggled to hold his wolf back, desperate not to make things worse. He took a single, tentative step forward—

—and Emerald scrambled three steps back.

 

“No,” she choked out. The word was a shattered, breathless plea, barely audible over the noise of the arriving packs, yet it rang in Zyan's ears like a gunshot. She shook her head frantically, her whole body trembling. “No, no, no. Please. Not now. Not here.”

 

Before Zyan could gather himself—before he could even form the words to try and reassure her—she spun on her heel.

 

Her hand shot out, desperately snatching a folded sheet of paper from the top of her uncle’s clipboard. The booth assignment list.

 

Then, without a backward glance, she turned and ran.

 

It wasn’t a shy retreat, nor a nervous shuffle. It was the desperate flight of someone being hunted—she ran through the Midway with the reckless, blind speed of a someone escaping a burning building, her braid whipping behind her as she darted between vendor tents and startled, shouting pack members.

 

Zyan stood rooted to the spot, chest heaving with ragged, uneven breaths. Every inch of distance she put between them felt like a physical tearing of his own flesh. Ky was losing his mind, snarling and thrashing against the inside of Zyan's ribs like a caged storm.

 

Beside him, Maddox turned, his brows pulling together in sudden concern as he registered the terrifying stillness of his son. “Zyan? Son… you good?”

 

Zyan didn’t answer. He couldn't force his throat to work.

 

Because all he could hear was Ky’s relentless, furious demand echoing through his skull, threatening to completely strip away his humanity.

 

She’s our Mate. Go after her. Don’t let her slip away.

And all he could see was the girl who smelled like vanilla, citrus, and salvation disappearing into the trees, clutching a piece of paper like a lifeline as she ran from him as fast as her legs could carry her.

 

Emerald didn’t stop running until her lungs burned and her vision blurred. She blindly navigated the outer edges of the Midway, finally reaching the farthest, most isolated cabin on the Frost property—the one her uncle had circled on the booth assignment sheet.

 

She shoved the wooden door open, stumbled blindly inside, and slammed it shut behind her.

The moment the deadbolt clicked into place, the last thread holding her upright snapped. Her legs gave out completely. She slid down the rough wood of the door, her knees pulling tight to her chest as she hit the floor. Her hands were trembling so violently that she had to press her palms flat against the cold, dusty floorboards just to ground herself, just to prove she was real.

 

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking into a ragged, pathetic sob. “Not again. I can’t— I can’t do this again. Please.”

 

But Liora wasn’t listening.

 

Her wolf—who had been a silent, withdrawn, and completely unreachable hollow space inside her chest for the last eight months—was suddenly violently, breathtakingly awake. Liora wasn't just pacing; she was thrashing against the confines of Emerald's mind, frantic, starved, and completely intoxicated by the lingering scent of woodsmoke and earth that still clung to their nostrils. The smell that was all him.

Mate. Liora’s voice echoed, a deafening, desperate demand. He’s our mate. He’s safe. He’s strong. He’s—

“Stop!” Emerald choked out, ripping her hands from the floor to press the heels of her palms bruisingly hard against her temples. “Please, Liora, stop it! I can’t— I can’t go through this again!”

 

Liora let out a low, vibrating growl, but it wasn't aimed at Emerald. It was a sound of fierce, protective desperation. He is not Stephen.

 

Emerald squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head as tears hot enough to scald tracked down her cheeks. But closing her eyes only trapped her in the dark with the memories.

 

They crashed over her, suffocating and vivid.