Ryker Vance POV:
The moment we stepped into the upper-floor dining hall, a hush fell over the room. It was the middle of the midday meal, and the long, polished tables were filled with the pack's elite—high-ranking warriors, their mates, their families. Forks stopped halfway to mouths. Conversations died. Dozens of pairs of eyes, sharp and questioning, fixed on us. On me, and on the slender Omega trailing in my wake.
I ignored them. Their opinions were meaningless, the buzzing of insects. My only focus was the faint tremor in Elian's hands and the hollow look in his eyes. He was starving. Not just hungry from a missed meal, but the deep, gnawing starvation of long-term deprivation. I remembered it now, from the before. The way he was always last in the Omega mess line, often left with scraps.
I led him directly to the Vance family's customary table, a large oak monstrosity near the hearth that was always left vacant unless my father or I were present. Elian froze at the sight of it, his feet rooted to the floor. It was a seat of power, a throne room in miniature, and he looked at it like it was an execution block.
A server, a young beta with nervous eyes, approached our table hesitantly. "Future Alpha," she murmured, her gaze flicking nervously to Elian. "Will you be dining?"
"We both will."
Drake appeared at my side, his face a mask of disbelief. "Ryker, what in the Goddess's name are you doing?" he whispered, his voice harsh.
I didn't answer him. I pulled a handful of my own meal credit chips from my pocket—heavy clay tokens earned through rank and duties—and pressed them into his hand. "Trade me. I need more than the standard Alpha allotment."
He stared at the chips, then back at me. "This is a warrior's ration for a week."
"Trade me," I repeated, my voice flat. He swallowed hard and handed over his own pouch without another word.
I turned back to the server. "A double portion of the roasted venison. Root vegetables. And a bowl of the bone broth. The thickest you have." I slid a small mountain of chips across the table. Her eyes widened at the payment. She scurried away toward the kitchens.
The food arrived quickly. A heavy ceramic plate piled high with steaming meat and glistening carrots, and a deep bowl of broth so rich it was almost a stew. The scent of rosemary and thyme filled the air. It was a meal fit for a warrior returning from a border skirmish. The server set it in front of Elian.
He just stared at it. His hands were clenched in his lap, trembling so hard I could see the movement from across the table. He looked from the plate to the watching faces in the room, his own face pale with terror. He was convinced this was a trap, a cruel joke for which he would be severely punished.
I leaned forward, pitching my voice into a low murmur that wouldn't carry. The command was there again, but this time it was a gentle nudge, not a shove. "Your body needs this." My wolf was restless, wanting to snarl at the onlookers, wanting to force-feed our mate to make him strong. I kept it leashed. "Eat."
He flinched, a full-body tremor, as the soft command settled over him. His eyes squeezed shut for a second. Then, slowly, with a hand that shook violently, he picked up the fork. He cut a small piece of venison, lifted it to his lips, and took the first bite.
His shoulders began to shake. A single, choked sob escaped him, so quiet I almost didn't hear it. He didn't cry, but the raw, overwhelming emotion was plain to see. He ducked his head, hiding his face as he began to eat. Ravenously. He didn't stop until the plate was clean and the broth was gone, a desperate, frantic need driving him that broke my heart all over again.
When he was finished, a bit of color had returned to his cheeks. He still wouldn't meet my eyes, but the terror had been replaced by a dazed confusion. I stood, and he immediately scrambled to his feet.
In the corridor outside the dining hall, the noise and the stares fell away. I stopped him before he could try to bolt back to the Omega quarters.
"You won't be going back there," I said. It wasn't a question. "The full moon holiday begins tomorrow. You'll be spending it with me. At one of the private pack cabins."
He went pale again. "Future Alpha, I can't. It's not… it's not appropriate. I have duties—"
"I told you, your duties are handled." I cut him off, my voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "Your only duty is to get well." He opened his mouth to protest again, but the fight seemed to drain out of him before the words could form. Overwhelmed by the food, the attention, and my sheer insistence, he gave a tiny, defeated nod.
"Wait here," I told him, my hand gesturing to a stone bench against the wall. He sat without a word.
I found Drake lingering near the hall's entrance, looking like he'd seen a ghost. I strode up to him. "Which of the hunting cabins is the most secluded? The one by Black Creek or the one on the Northern Ridge?"
That was the final straw. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my bicep, and spun me to face him. His blue eyes were blazing with a frantic concern. "Are you insane?" His voice was a harsh whisper. "First the training ground, then the dining hall, now this? A private cabin? For the full moon? What is this really about, Ryker?"
I met his gaze without flinching. There was no point in hiding it, no point in delaying. Drake was my best friend, my future Beta. He needed to know the truth, the whole impossible truth, starting with the one fact that mattered above all others.
"I'm claiming my mate."
He stumbled back a step, letting go of my arm as if he'd been shocked. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The playful, confident warrior I'd known my whole life was gone, replaced by a man staring at a reality that had just been shattered.
I left him there, frozen in the hallway, his face a mask of pure shock. Down the corridor, Elian sat on the bench, small and still, waiting for me. I walked toward him, and as I reached him, I gently placed a hand on the small of his back, a gesture of possession and protection. He flinched but allowed me to guide him down the corridor, away from the heart of the Packhouse.
The only sound was the soft scuff of our boots on the stone floor, an impossibly quiet start to a pack-shattering storm.
