Chapter 4

I pack my life into the trunk of my car, each item a piece of the eight years I'm leaving behind. My hands shake as I fold the last of my clothes—the blue dress I wore to my first pack gathering with Christian, the sweater I wore when he first introduced me as his chosen mate. I should throw them away, but I can't bring myself to destroy them. Not yet. My wolf whimpers as I close the trunk, her grief a physical ache in my chest.

I take one last walk through the Shadowpine territory. The pack house rises before me, its stone facade both beautiful and cruel in the morning light. I bypass the main entrance, heading instead to the design studio I built from nothing. My sanctuary. The room still smells of pencil shavings and fabric samples, of dreams carefully planned and meticulously executed.

My portfolio is heavy as I lift it from the desk, filled with designs for spaces that will never be mine to enjoy. I run my fingers over the blueprints spread across the drafting table—plans for a nursery that will now welcome another woman's children. A nursery I designed for a future that was never meant to be mine.

On impulse, I roll up the nursery blueprints and walk to Christian's office. He's not there—probably comforting Faye in what should have been our home. I place the blueprints on his desk, a silent screw you that he'll understand when he finds them. Let him see what he threw away.

The drive out of Shadowpine territory is a blur of green forests and winding roads. My wolf howls in mourning, a sound of such profound loss that I have to pull over twice just to breathe. Eight years. Eight years of devotion, of proving myself worthy despite being a late bloomer, all for nothing. The sensible choice. The practical choice. Never the one he truly wanted.

By the time I reach the neutral territory where the Regional Alpha Design Conference is being held, my eyes are red and swollen. The grand hotel looms before me, its marble facade promising distraction, work, a future that doesn't include Christian Hayes. I check my reflection in the rearview mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, but still standing. Still breathing.

I clutch my portfolio to my chest like armor and step into the bustling lobby. Designers, architects, and pack representatives from across the region fill the space with animated conversation. I should be excited. This is my world, my talent, my chance to rebuild. But all I feel is numb.

Lost in thought, I round a corner too quickly and slam into a hard, towering chest. Strong hands catch my arms instantly, steadying me before I can stumble. 'Careful, little wolf,' a deep voice rumbles, and something electric arcs between us.

I look up—and up—into golden eyes that seem to see straight through me. The man holding me is impossibly tall, his presence commanding in a way that makes the air around us feel charged. Power radiates from him in waves, and my wolf suddenly goes completely still.

The moment his skin touches mine, something explodes between us. It's like lightning, like fire, like every nerve ending in my body suddenly waking up. My wolf throws her head back and roars one word: 'MATE.'

His eyes flash brighter gold, and he inhales deeply, his nostrils flaring as he catches my scent. 'Finally,' he growls, the sound vibrating through my bones.

I know who he is now. The Lycan King. Sullivan Ford. And he's looking at me like I'm the answer to a prayer he's been holding for years.

He doesn't waste time with questions or explanations. With a gentle but firm grip on my elbow, he guides me away from the stunned crowd that witnessed our collision. 'Come with me,' he says, and somehow it's not a request.

He leads me to a private VIP lounge, closing the heavy door behind us. The room is opulent but intimate, designed for private negotiations between powerful wolves. I stand in the center, trembling, as Sullivan studies me with those golden eyes.

'I'm not going to pressure you,' he says, his voice softer now. 'I can see you're running from something. Or someone.'

He paces slowly, giving me space while somehow making it clear I'm not leaving this room until he's said his piece. 'I have a proposition for you. Professional, at first. The Silvercrest Pack needs someone to redesign the royal wing. It's been neglected for years.'

He stops pacing and looks at me directly. 'You need sanctuary, and I need your talent. It's a simple exchange. No strings, no expectations.'

But we both know it's not that simple. The mate bond hums between us, undeniable and overwhelming. My wolf is pushing me toward him, desperate to complete what fate has started.

'I'll go with you,' I hear myself say, the words both terrifying and inevitable.