The Blackridge pack house was loud with New Year's Eve celebration. Music pounded through the walls. Wolves laughed and drank in the main hall. I stood at the edge of the crowd, holding a glass of champagne I hadn't touched, scanning the room for Roman.
My mate. My Alpha. The wolf I'd left my royal birthright for five years ago.
He wasn't here.
I set the glass down on a side table and moved toward the corridor. The noise faded behind me as I walked deeper into the pack house. My wolf stirred under my skin—restless, uneasy. I'd spent five years keeping her quiet, dimming her power so it wouldn't overshadow Roman's Alpha aura. But tonight, she pushed forward with an insistence I couldn't ignore.
Something was wrong.
I followed Roman's scent through the hallway. Pine and earth, familiar as my own breath. But as I got closer to the east wing, another scent layered over his. Sweet. Cloying. It curled at the edges like something spoiled.
My steps slowed.
I knew that scent. Dahlia Fox. A she-wolf from a rival pack who'd been circling Blackridge's territory for months, always at the gatherings, always watching Roman with a calculating smile I'd told myself meant nothing.
I stopped in front of a closed door. The scents were strongest here. Through the wood, I heard voices. Low. Intimate. Then Roman's voice, rough and ceremonial: "I claim you as mine."
My hand was on the doorknob before I decided to move.
The door swung open.
Roman stood in the center of the room, his hand on Dahlia's neck. Her head was tilted back, throat exposed. His canines were extended, poised to mark her. They both froze when they saw me.
For a moment, no one moved.
The scent of her—layered over his skin, in his hair, soaked into the air—burned through me like liquid silver. My wolf surged forward with a fury so ancient and blinding that my vision went white at the edges. But I didn't shift. I didn't scream. I went very, very quiet.
Roman pulled his hand back from Dahlia's neck. "Kendall. This isn't—"
"Don't." My voice was low enough that he flinched. "Don't say a single word."
Dahlia pressed herself against the wall, eyes wide. She looked at Roman like she expected him to fix this. He didn't move.
I took a breath. My wolf was howling inside me, clawing to get out, but I held her back. Not yet. Not like this.
I pressed my fingertips together, a habit I'd had since childhood when I was thinking through a problem. But there was no problem to solve here. The answer was already in front of me.
"I, Kendall Bishop of Silvercrest," I said, each word placed with surgical precision, "reject you, Roman Evans, Alpha of Blackridge, as my mate."
The bond snapped.
It felt like a bone breaking inside my chest. Roman gasped and dropped to his knees. His hands hit the floor. His aura—the commanding Alpha presence that had filled every room he entered—flickered like a candle in wind. Dahlia made a small, choked sound and scrambled further back.
I didn't look at either of them again.
I turned and walked out. My legs felt steady. My hands didn't shake. Behind me, I heard Roman call my name, his voice ragged and desperate. I didn't stop.
Miles was asleep in his room upstairs, curled around his worn stuffed wolf. I lifted him carefully, and he stirred but didn't wake. I grabbed the bag I always kept packed—old instinct from my years at the Silvercrest court—and carried my son down the back stairs to the garage.
The snowstorm had started. Fat flakes swirled in the headlights as I buckled Miles into his car seat. He blinked up at me, half-asleep.
"Mama?"
"We're going to see Grandpa," I said softly. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart."
He nodded and closed his eyes, clutching his stuffed wolf.
I drove through the storm. The roads were empty. The snow fell harder as I left Blackridge territory behind and crossed into Silvercrest land. By the time I reached my father's pack house, the sky was starting to lighten.
King Bishop opened the door himself.
He looked at me—rejection still raw in my eyes, his grandson asleep against my shoulder—and his expression didn't change. He simply stepped aside.
"Welcome home," he said quietly.
I walked inside. The warmth of the pack house wrapped around me like a blanket I hadn't realized I was freezing without. My father closed the door and guided me to the sitting room. He didn't ask questions. He made tea.
I sat on the couch with Miles still in my arms and felt something inside me unclench for the first time in five years.
My father handed me a cup. I took a sip. It was exactly how I liked it. He'd remembered.
Before I finished the tea, he pulled out his phone and sent a single message. Within minutes, Soren Vale—my father's Beta—appeared in the doorway.
"Your Majesty?"
My father's voice was calm and absolute. "Sever every alliance between Silvercrest and Blackridge. Immediately. Completely."
Soren nodded once. "Consider it done."
He left without another word.
I looked at my father. He met my eyes.
"You're home now," he said. "And no one will touch you or my grandson again."
I believed him.
