Chapter 2

Kade's eyes met Luara's at the door, and for a second everything around them seemed to disappear. The world fell silent, as if even the moon had held its breath.

“Luara...”

His voice came out low, almost a plea, as if the name was stuck in his throat and it hurt to say it. Kade's eyes said something Luara knew well — pain, guilt, and the desperate urge to run to her.

But Luara no longer believed.

Kade took a step, a tiny, instinctive movement. Then Selena, like poison, whispered close to his ear:

“Kade.”

Her voice was low, but her control dripped like acid, and her hand held him tight—an invisible leash. His expression closed again, cold, hard, and impenetrable.

Kade looked away, as if Luara were nothing.

An invisible crack echoed inside her. Nyssara, who had been roaring in despair seconds before, let out a sad howl, the most painful Luara had ever felt.

“He turned his face away, Luara...” whispered Nyssara, collapsing. “He erased us.”

But Luara didn't cry. She clenched her teeth. Her heart was bleeding, yes, but her anger came hot, fierce, and alive. Her breathing quickened, her hands trembled, and her stomach twisted as if something had died inside her.

And then she laughed.

Loud, loose, incredulous. A laugh that echoed through the hall and tore through the silence like a blade.

Everyone turned around. Kade didn't move a muscle.

“Ah... now I understand why I wasn't invited,” said Luara with a sharp smile on her lips. Her voice sounded clear, bitter, laced with venom and pain.

Beta Aron appeared at that moment, stepping out of the crowd with a tense expression on his face.

“Luara, dear... let's go home. We'll talk later.”

Luara took a step back, as if he had hit her.

“You were part of this,” she said, her voice failing as she struggled to contain her anger. “You knew.”

Silence. Her father's gaze wavered—only for a second, but it was enough.

Luara felt something inside her break forever.

She took a step forward, and the entire hall seemed to hold its breath. Her eyes burned, not with tears, but with fury. Her heart pounded so loudly that it drowned out the whispers around her. Nyssara, once wounded, now roared inside her.

Luara fixed her eyes on Kade.

“I, Luara Silvares...”

The growl came before she could finish—low, threatening, tearing from Kade's chest. He took a step forward, his dark eyes flashing with rage and despair.

“No.” The word escaped through his teeth, a brutal whisper, a warning, a plea.

But Luara didn't stop.

“...reject you, Alpha Kade, as my mate.”

The silence that followed lasted less than half a second.

Kade fell to his knees, as if the floor had collapsed beneath him, as if the torn bond had emptied him inside. A guttural growl escaped his throat, the sound of a soul tearing apart.

Selena recoiled as if struck by lightning. Some guests let out muffled exclamations.

Luara turned her back and left, walking with clenched fists, shoulders straight, pride intact—but her soul crumbling.

Ten steps in the darkness were enough for her pride to crack. The pain came whole and wild, as if the bond still bled inside. She staggered, almost fell, but did not cry. She couldn't.

The gates of the ceremony were left behind, her father's calls were ignored, and her mother's voice was lost amid the roar that echoed inside her.

She ran, shedding her human form without hesitation, her bare feet touching the cold forest floor as her body expanded, stretched, broke apart, and was reborn in fur as white as snow.

The wolf.

Magnificent, wild, and wounded.

The night swallowed her figure as she darted through the woods, her eyes burning red, as if crying blood. Luara ran for hours, perhaps days. There was no time where she was.

She had severed her bond with Kade. And with the pack.

Not even her parents could find her now; not even the mental lament of family ties could reach her.

Luara faded away. She disappeared from the world.

And in every howl stuck in her throat, there was a bitter certainty: she would never be the same again.

Her body fell to its knees in the mud—naked, fragile, exhausted.

The transformation had been slow, as if her flesh resisted the return. Every bone cracked like glass being forced back into place, and every inch of skin burned with cold and memory.

Luara gasped, resting her trembling hands on the soggy ground. She coughed, the taste of earth and blood still in her throat.

She didn't know how much time had passed — days, weeks, perhaps. The sky seemed different, the air different, the bond with the pack was broken, and without it there was no compass, no call, no roots.

Luara struggled to her feet. Her legs wobbled, her feet failed her, her body no longer felt like her own, as if she were still half wolf, half nothing. She had to lean on a tree trunk to keep from falling again.

That's when she saw the box.

Covered with leaves and branches, half buried, like so many left behind by wandering wolves. An ancient custom: keeping clothes hidden in the forest for when they needed to return to human form.

She crawled over to it, her dirty hands pulling the lid off hastily. Inside were sweatpants, a worn gray T-shirt, and a loose-fitting sweater. Nothing matched, everything smelled of others, but she didn't hesitate.

She dressed with trembling hands, feeling each piece like improvised armor. The elastic on the pants was loose, the sweater covered half her hands. It didn't matter—she needed to get out of there, fast.

She didn't recognize that part of the forest. The territory didn't belong to the Crescent Moon. There were no familiar marks or boundaries. She was trespassing and had no idea who ruled there.

Her feet still unsteady, she found the dirt road. She walked without knowing where she was going, feeling the world spin and her stomach growl with hunger.

That's when she saw the bar.

Isolated, rustic, made of dark wood with dirty windows, a faded sign flashing red. Wolves there. Lots of them. She could feel it in the air.

She had no money, no name, no pack. But she went in anyway.

Low music echoed in deep beats. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and meat permeated the atmosphere. Wolves laughed loudly at a pool table; others drank in silence, staring at their glasses as if they were mirrors.

And then, the smell reached her.

Luara stopped. Her heart stopped with her. The world froze for a second, as if reality had sucked all the air out of the bar.

It wasn't Kade, but it was the scent of a mate—that kind of fragrance impossible to describe, alive, raw, wild, that grabbed her chest from the inside and made her lungs burn, forcing Nyssara to rise with a silent howl.

Her blood vibrated, her skin prickled, and the wolf inside her trembled—hungry, confused, desperate.

“What...?” Luara whispered, voiceless.

It wasn't possible. But it was real.

The Moon Goddess had given her another chance—a new bond. A new mate.

Luara was about to back away. Maybe run. Maybe vomit. The violent sensation in the center of her chest—heat, hunger, dizziness—was too intense, too absurd. The bar spun, the voices faded, and his scent dominated everything.

And then she saw him.

At the back of the bar, leaning against the counter, a half-empty glass in his hand, his dark brown eyes fixed on her like silent blades.

Gamma Rayder.

She knew him, but never like this, never with his eyes wide as if she were an impossible vision. The glass slipped from his hand and fell to the floor with a dull thud.

Rayder didn't blink.

She had seen him before at Alpha and Beta meetings. He represented the Iron Wolf Pack, one of the most respected and feared men in the north. Always silent, always in the shadow of his Alpha, robust, his face marked by years of battle, broad shoulders, tense jaw, and the look of someone who knew how to kill and protect. Fifteen years older, a veteran wolf. They had never exchanged a word.

But now the whole world was reduced to that moment: his wide eyes, his ragged breathing, the scent that collided with hers like lightning in an open field.

Rayder took a step.

Luara felt her skin burn. Rayder's eyes scanned her as if seeing her for the first time—or the last.

And then, from his lips, the word tore through the air, low and hoarse, like a prayer uttered through clenched teeth:

“Mine.”