Even after three cycles of the moon spent as mates, they didn’t always share the same den at night.
Lucien had once growled, low and unwavering, that he didn’t like having anyone curled up beside him.
Sylvara had long since understood—it wasn’t merely “someone” he wanted space from. It was always her.
She also knew he had always been cautious with Tahlia. He likely rehearsed every word, every justification for the young wolf, but when Sylvara agreed without protest, it had thrown him off balance.
“Fine,” she said softly, voice smooth as velvet, “there’s far too much of my things in your den anyway. I’ll take it all out myself.”
It hardly mattered whether she left her belongings today or a month from now.
The moment her words left her lips, Lucien opened his mouth to argue—an instinctive retort hovering just out of reach—but Tahlia’s sweet, calculated interjection cut him off.
“Thanks, Avy,” she said innocently.
Sylvara offered no reply. She bent low, arms thin but steady, lifting a heavy crate and maneuvering it toward the stairs.
The box was far too full. Her foot slipped against a hidden shard of glass on the floor, and she fell. Her knee slammed against the tiles, slicing into flesh, shards biting cruelly.
Pain seared through her body, a blaze that made her spine stiffen and sweat bead along her neck. She bit her lip hard to keep silent, refusing to cry out.
But Lucien didn’t notice. Tahlia had already tugged him away, leaving Sylvara alone on the floor, trembling as the ache burrowed deeper. One drop of blood fell, then another, tiny droplets staining the cold stone.
In the Winslets’ realm, Lucien would have carried Tahlia’s burdens without hesitation.
“Our little Yannie,” he would have said, warm and indulgent, “deserves to be treated like a princess.”
Sylvara, in contrast, had once been the daughter of a lowly maid. She hauled, scrubbed, and labored while no one lifted a finger. No one cared if she bled or fell.
Now, as the daughter of a pack elder and as Lucien’s mate, nothing had changed.
Everyone still aligned with Tahlia—without question, without pause.
Sylvara had learned to live with it.
The afternoon passed slowly, her hands and arms aching as she sorted through every chest, shelf, and trunk. By the time the sun began to slip below the horizon, her possessions were packed onto a waiting carriage.
“You didn’t have to discard so much,” Lucien said, frowning as he surveyed the load. “Yannie is only staying temporarily. Once she leaves, you’ll return. What’s the point of all this?”
To him, something felt off—she was too composed, unnervingly calm these past few nights.
“They’re relics,” Sylvara replied evenly. “Time to let them go.”
“You’ve never been wasteful,” he observed.
No, she hadn’t. Her life had been one of scarcity, of making everything she owned endure.
Yet she smiled faintly. “They’ve been with me a long time. Sometimes, you need to clear space. Out with the old, right?”
Just like people, she thought silently.
Her explanation sounded reasonable. Had he pressed further, he would have appeared petty. He let the matter drop.
“There’s an auction tonight,” he added, shifting the subject. “The organizers specifically invited me. You’ll attend. With Yannie.”
Sylvara opened her mouth to refuse, but he cut her off with a low, sharp bark of authority.
“You’re my secretary. I cannot appear without one.”
She stared at him. A dozen bitter retorts pressed at her tongue—like, and bringing Tahlia is acceptable?—but she said none. She simply inclined her head. One last duty before vanishing from his life.
Night fell, and inside the auction hall, bright enchanted lamps cast the space in daylight brilliance.
All who mattered were present—wolves and humans alike, polished, practiced, and powerful.
The Thorne Pack had risen swiftly these past two moons, and Jade, the host, stepped forward to greet them with a practiced smile.
“Alpha Thorne. Your seats await. Right this way.”
She gestured toward two adjacent chairs. “I understand congratulations are due. Your mate’s seat is ready beside you.”
For a heartbeat, the three froze.
Lucien’s mate bond had been private, sealed from the pack and outsiders alike. No one was meant to know.
Sylvara glanced at him, waiting. Two women. One additional seat.
The choice was inevitable.
“I am not married,” he said evenly, voice low, controlled. “I don’t know where that rumor began.”
The host blinked, puzzled. “And these two?”
Lucien advanced, taking Tahlia’s hand first.
“This is Tahlia, daughter of the S. Winslet Co., and an important wolf in our allied pack.”
“Ah, Tahlia Winslet,” Jade said politely, acknowledging her.
Then, with a reluctant curl of his lips, Lucien added, “And the one beside you? My secretary.”
Sylvara did not flinch. She had anticipated this brutal announcement. But knowing the cold truth did not dull the sting that pressed in her chest.
She stood tall, swallowing the burn, her dignity intact.
Lucien and Tahlia seated themselves as Sylvara remained behind, a lone sentinel in the chill of the grand hall.
Perhaps it was the crisp night air, perhaps the spectacle of the event, but a stabbing pain cut into her abdomen, sharp and unrelenting.
She pressed a hand to her belly, moving swiftly toward the restrooms—her retreat disguised as necessity, though in truth, she was fleeing.
