The bond broke at 10:14 on a Tuesday morning, ten years ago. I can still feel the exact angle of the light through the banquet hall windows when Cassius Vane looked at me and said the words that sent my wolf silent.
Today, the elders' council chamber has the same cold light.
"Charli Maren." Elder Garrett's voice cuts through the room like a blade on stone. "You are twenty-nine years old. Wolfless. Unmated. Your mother's Luna seat has remained unfilled since her death, and the bloodline territory rights attached to it are in jeopardy."
I sit with my spine straight and my hands folded on the council table. My thumbnail presses into my palm hard enough to leave a mark. It's the only tell I allow myself.
"We are aware," I say. My voice comes out level. Precise.
Elder Maris leans forward. Her eyes are not unkind, but they are not soft either. "The pack cannot afford to lose those territory rights, Charli. Your mother earned them. They belong to her bloodline. But pack law is clear—unmated wolves cannot hold Luna seats past thirty."
"I understand the law." I keep my gaze steady on the center of the table. Lilian sits two seats to my right. I can feel her watching my hands.
Elder Garrett places a folder on the table between us. "You have until your thirtieth birthday. Eight months. Find a mate and complete a bonding ceremony, or the seat and the rights revert to the pack council for reassignment."
Eight months. The number sits in my chest like a stone.
"The ceremony must be public," Elder Maris adds. "Witnessed by the pack. A proper mating bond."
I nod once. "Understood."
Elder Garrett's expression shifts—something that might be pity if he allowed it to fully form. "Charli, we know your... situation is difficult. But this is not negotiable. The pack comes first."
My situation. That's what they call it now. Wolfless. Rejected. Near-Omega despite the Beta-level work I do that keeps half their alliances intact.
"I said I understand." The words come out sharper than I intend. I pull them back, soften my tone. "I'll handle it."
Lilian makes a small sound beside me—not quite disagreement, not quite support.
The elders exchange glances. Elder Garrett closes the folder. "The clock starts today. Eight months, Charli. Don't waste them."
I stand. The chair scrapes against the floor. "Is there anything else?"
"No." Elder Maris's voice follows me toward the door. "We hope you find someone suitable."
Suitable. As if anyone suitable would want a wolfless she-wolf with a decade-old rejection scar and a contract deadline.
I walk out of the council chamber with my head up and my pace steady. Lilian catches up to me in the hallway.
"Charli—"
"Not now."
"You're going to do something reckless."
I stop walking. Turn to face her. "I'm going to do something practical. There's a difference."
Lilian crosses her arms. Her Beta aura presses against the space between us—not aggressive, just present. "You have that look. The one you get when you're about to solve a problem by pretending it isn't a problem."
"It's not a problem." I resume walking. "It's a contract negotiation."
"A mate bond is not a contract negotiation."
"It is if both parties agree it is."
Lilian catches my arm. Her grip is firm but not harsh. "Charli. Listen to me. You don't have to do this alone. There are wolves in Silverfang who would—"
"Who would what?" I pull my arm free. "Mate a wolfless near-Omega out of pity? Take on my mother's seat as charity? No. I'll handle this my way."
Her expression shifts—something softer, something that looks too much like the grief I can't afford to feel. "Your mother wouldn't want you to—"
"My mother is dead." The words come out flat. Final. "And I'm running out of time."
I leave her standing in the hallway.
Back in my quarters, I pull out my desk files and start calculating. I need a mate who needs something I can provide. Someone who won't ask questions. Someone who understands that this is business.
Duskhollow Pack. Small. Impoverished. On the edge of dissolution. I've seen their resource requests crossing my desk for months.
I draft the message carefully. Formal. Professional. A proposal for a resource-exchange contract: Silverfang's material support in exchange for a public mating ceremony and a twelve-month bond. No marking. No expectations beyond appearances.
I read it three times before sending it.
The reply comes faster than I expect. Wyatt Caine. Twenty-two years old. Duskhollow's representative. He agrees to a meeting.
I don't let myself think about the age gap. I don't let myself think about anything except the terms.
When he arrives at Silverfang two days later, he's smaller than I expected. Soft-eyed. His wolf feels barely present—weak, or maybe just quiet. He sits across from me in the conference room with his hands folded and his posture slightly apologetic.
"Thank you for considering this," he says. His voice is warm. Gentle. Unthreatening.
I slide the contract across the table. "Read the terms carefully. This is not a real bond. It's political theater. Twelve months. Public ceremony. Separate quarters. No marking. Silverfang provides full resource support to Duskhollow on schedule. At the end of the term, we dissolve it cleanly."
He doesn't look at the contract. He looks at me.
"I agree," he says.
"You haven't read it."
"I don't need to." His eyes are very steady. "If these are your terms, I accept them."
Something in his tone makes my chest tighten—something I can't name and don't want to examine.
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He tilts his head slightly. "Because Duskhollow needs help. And because you need a mate. It's a fair exchange."
Fair. As if fairness has anything to do with mate bonds.
I pull the contract back. "The ceremony is in two weeks. Be ready."
He nods. Stands. Extends his hand.
I shake it. His palm is warm. His scent—cedar and something rain-soaked—lingers in the room after he leaves.
I don't let myself think about it.
I have eight months. This will work. It has to.
