The air in the Great Hall is thick with the scent of damp stone, burning pine, and a hundred nervous bodies packed too tightly together. It's a familiar smell, the smell of every pack gathering I've ever been forced to attend from the shadows. But tonight, it's different. Tonight, hope has its own fragrance—a sharp, electric tang like the air before a storm—and it almost chokes me.
I keep my eyes fixed on the floor, on the worn heels of the she-wolf in front of me. It's safer this way. Looking up only invites trouble, a sneer from a higher-ranked female, a dismissive glance from a pack warrior. I am Elara. An Omega. The lowest of the low, the living, breathing symbol of an afterthought. My dress is the color of mouse-brown hair, woven from the roughest wool, a stark contrast to the silks and deep velvets worn by the others. They are here as contenders. I am here because my presence is mandatory.
Still, a stupid, stubborn ember of hope glows in my chest. Tonight is the Luna Ceremony. The one night when the Moon Goddess can overrule the rigid lines of pack hierarchy. The one night when a fated bond—pure, divine, absolute—can make an Alpha see past rank and station. Can make him see me.
My hands are clammy, and I wipe them on the coarse fabric of my dress. For years, I have survived on this single, fragile dream: that my mate is out there. That he will find me, and his love will be the shield I've never had. He will look at me and I won't be the pack defect, the wolfless Omega who is always a little too slow, a little too quiet. I will be his. I will be loved. It's a foolish, childish fantasy, but it's the only thing that has kept my spirit from being ground to dust.
The great oak doors at the end of the hall groan open. A hush falls over the chattering crowd, so sudden and complete it feels like a physical blow.
He is here.
Alpha Damien Blackwood steps into the hall, and the air crackles with his power. He is not a man who walks into a room; he is a king who claims his space, his gravity pulling all attention, all light, towards him. He is tall, broader than any two warriors put together, with hair as black as a wolf's pelt and eyes that hold the unforgiving glint of winter ice. Power rolls off him in palpable waves, an aura of authority so intense it makes my teeth ache. He is terrifying. He is magnificent. And he is the secret hope of every unmated female in this hall.
His Beta and Gamma flank him, but my eyes can't leave Damien. He moves with a predator's grace, his gaze sweeping over the assembly, acknowledging no one and everyone at once. He stops before the raised dais at the front of the hall and turns. The ceremony begins.
His voice is a low rumble that vibrates through the stone floor. "Tonight, we honor the traditions of our ancestors. We honor the Moon Goddess who grants us our strength. We seek her blessing in the forging of our future."
His eyes begin to scan the lines of unmated she-wolves. He moves slowly, deliberately. His gaze passes over the first girl, then the second. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. He gets closer. The scent of him—pine, cold night air, and something uniquely his, something like ozone and power—reaches me. It's intoxicating.
He is five feet away. My breath catches in my throat. Goddess, please. Let him see me. Please.
He is three feet away. My vision narrows, the faces of the other girls blurring into a watercolor smear.
He is directly in front of me.
And then it happens.
It is not a thought. It is not a feeling. It is a cataclysm. A silent, golden chord snaps taut between us, a hum of pure energy that jolts me from the tips of my toes to the roots of my soul. My entire world, for all eighteen years of its existence, has been a scattered, discordant mess. In this single, blinding instant, it all snaps into perfect, resonant harmony. Every broken piece of me finds its place. The universe sings a single, perfect note, and that note is his name.
Mate.
The word is not a whisper in my mind; it is a shout in my blood. A triumphant, ecstatic roar. Joy, so pure and potent it feels like pain, floods every inch of my being. I can't breathe. I can't think. There is only him, the other end of this soul-deep connection. This bond that the Goddess Herself has forged.
Without my permission, my body moves. I take a single step forward, breaking the rigid line of the Omegas. My hand rises, my fingers reaching for him, my entire being crying out to close the distance.
Damien stops. His wintry eyes lock onto mine. And for a heart-stopping second, I see it. I see the flash of raw shock, the wild, untamed recognition of his own wolf seeing its other half. He feels it. He knows. My soul soars.
But then, just as quickly, it's gone.
The primal recognition is slammed down, replaced by a mask of cold, hard assessment. His eyes narrow, his gaze turning from one of connection to one of inspection, like a butcher appraising a piece of meat. He isn't looking at his mate; he is analyzing a potential weakness. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my plain dress, my downcast eyes, my trembling form. And he feels what I have always known, what the pack has always scorned me for. He feels for the spirit of my wolf, and he finds… nothing. A void. A flaw.
A sneer, sharp and cruel, twists his handsome mouth. It's a tiny movement, but it cuts me deeper than any knife.
The golden cord between us begins to tremble, the beautiful music turning into a high, panicked whine. No, my soul screams. This can't be.
He raises his voice, pitching it to carry across the silent, watching hall. It is no longer the voice of an Alpha addressing his pack; it is the voice of a judge passing an immutable sentence.
"I, Damien Blackwood, Alpha of the Blackwood Pack," he declares, each word a block of ice, "accept the wisdom of the Moon Goddess. She shows us our strengths, and she reveals our flaws." His cold eyes are locked on mine, pinning me in place. "And I will not tolerate a flaw in the heart of this pack."
The whispers start, a wave of hissing incomprehension from the crowd. My blood runs cold. I can't feel my limbs. This is a nightmare. I will wake up.
"This bond is a mistake," he continues, his voice devoid of all emotion. "A weakness our enemies would exploit. A genetic dead end that would poison the bloodline. The Blackwood line will not be weakened by such a pathetic mate."
And then, he says the word. The single word that will unmake me.
"I reject you."
The golden chord between us doesn't just snap. It vaporizes. It shatters into a billion pieces of agonizing, glittering dust. The pain is physical, a monstrous tearing sensation deep inside my chest, as if my soul is being ripped in two. A strangled cry escapes my lips.
But he isn't finished.
He takes a step toward me. I am frozen, paralyzed by the sheer, unmaking agony of the broken bond. He raises his hand, the one that should have held mine, that should have cherished me. I see the glint of his claws as they slide free from his fingertips—long, sharp, and silver in the torchlight.
"So that all may see the price of weakness," he says, his voice now a low, menacing growl, "I will mark you."
His hand moves in a blur.
Searing, white-hot fire erupts across my cheek. The sound of tearing flesh is sickeningly loud in the silent hall. The pain is absolute, a supernova of agony that eclipses even the death of my soul. I smell my own blood, coppery and sharp, as it wells up from the wound. My hand flies to my face, my fingers coming away wet and crimson.
The strength leaves my legs. My knees buckle, and I collapse onto the cold stone floor, a discarded, broken thing.
Through the haze of my tears and the blinding pain, I see him. He looks down at me, his face an unreadable mask of cold duty. There is no remorse. No flicker of regret. Only the chilling finality of a decision made and executed.
He turns his back on me then, leaving me in a pool of my own blood and shattered dreams, and walks away without a second glance.