I sat in my Subaru Outback—the dented 2019 model with 127,000 miles that I'd bought myself, not the pristine Audi Q7 that Rowan had insisted on gifting me for our second anniversary—staring at the text message until the words blurred.
*Delete that video, little wolf. Or I'll show your pack what you really are.*
My thumb hovered over the screen. The stranger—D.K.—somehow had my number. Somehow knew I'd recorded them. But it was that last part that made my wolf pace restlessly under my skin. *What you really are.* What did that even mean?
I screenshot the message, then switched my phone to airplane mode. In the sudden silence, with only the distant hum of Austin traffic filtering through my windows, my brain did what it always did when the present became unbearable.
It dragged me back.
Three years ago. Today's date, actually—our anniversary. South Congress, that little stretch of vintage shops and overpriced boutiques where tourists went to feel authentically Austin. I'd been sitting in Cosmic Coffee, the one with mismatched furniture and baristas who knew everyone's order by heart, trying to convince myself that being a lone wolf wasn't the worst fate in the world.
I'd been wrong about a lot of things back then.
After my father died and Silver Hollow Pack was absorbed by the larger territories, I'd become what no wolf ever wanted to be—packless. Displaced. I'd moved to Austin because it was far enough from the politics of pack territories but close enough to civilization that I could find work. The veterinary clinic on East Sixth specialized in shifter animals, and my background in pack medicine made me valuable. I had a converted garage apartment, a human roommate named Maren who did yoga instructor training and never asked why I sometimes disappeared during full moons, and a Kindle full of dark romance novels that I read like they were anthropological studies.
I thought I'd made peace with my life. No pack meant no Alpha breathing down my neck. No mate meant no one could break my heart. I had my books, my work, my Thursday night Pilates sessions with Maren, and a carefully curated playlist of Taylor Swift's most vindictive breakup songs.
Then Rowan walked into Cosmic Coffee like he owned the place—but not in the typical Alpha way. Most Alphas entered rooms like conquering armies, their dominance rolling off them in waves that made every other wolf in the vicinity either submit or bristle. Rowan was different. He moved with this deliberate restraint, like he was consciously pulling back his power, making himself smaller, safer.
I should have recognized it as a hunting technique.
He ordered a pour-over, black, and sat at the table next to mine. I was reading *Heated Rivalry*—Rachel Reid's hockey romance that had been all over BookTok—trying to ignore the way his cedar-and-rain scent made my wolf lift her head with interest for the first time in months.
Then he spoke.
"Chapter seventeen made me cry on a plane from Denver."
I looked up, sure I'd misheard. He was gorgeous in that effortless way some men managed—dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, green eyes that crinkled at the corners, the kind of bone structure that belonged on magazine covers. But it was his admission that caught me off guard.
"You've read this?" I held up the book, its shirtless hockey player cover on full display.
"Rachel Reid understands emotional intimacy in a way that most romance authors don't." He leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered by admitting he read sports romance. "Plus, the hockey scenes are accurate. I played in college."
My wolf went quiet. Not the anxious, pacing quiet she'd maintained since I'd become packless, but genuinely calm. When was the last time an Alpha had made me feel safe instead of threatened?
"I'm Rowan," he said, extending his hand.
"Wren." His palm was warm, calloused from manual work, and when our skin touched, something electric shot up my arm.
That should have been my first warning.
For the next two months, Rowan courted me like I was something precious. He never used his Alpha voice—not once. He remembered that I preferred oat milk in my matcha lattes and extra ice because I ran hot. He noticed that I flinched when people touched the back of my neck, where an Alpha's mating bite would go, and he never came near that spot.
He told me stories about his past that made my heart ache. How his father had been an abusive Beta who'd beaten submission into him until Rowan fought back and won his Alpha status through sheer determination. How he'd built Silver Ridge Pack from nothing, taking in displaced wolves like me, creating a sanctuary for those who didn't fit traditional pack hierarchies.
Every word of it was a lie, but I'd believed him completely.
He took me to Treaty Oak, that massive tree that was older than the city itself, and we'd walk the grounds while he talked about pack dynamics and leadership philosophy. He had this way of making me feel heard, like my opinions on pack medicine and lone wolf integration actually mattered.
Our first kiss happened under that tree. Six weeks of careful courtship, of him respecting every boundary I'd set, of proving that not all Alphas were controlling bastards. When he finally cupped my face in his hands, his touch was reverent.
"I've been wanting to do this since the moment I saw you reading in that coffee shop," he whispered against my lips.
But it was our sixth official date when everything changed. He walked me to my apartment door—the same ritual we'd established, him being the perfect gentleman—and this time, instead of the chaste goodnight kiss on my cheek, his fingertips found my wrist.
Just the lightest touch, right where my pulse hammered against thin skin.
The world stopped.
"I can feel your heartbeat," he said, his voice dropping to that low rumble that made my knees weak. "It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard."
My wolf rolled over in submission. Not the fearful kind I'd learned from other Alphas, but something deeper. Primal. Like every cell in my body recognized him as mine.
I thought it was fate. Destiny. The Moon Goddess finally rewarding me for surviving three years of loneliness.
I'd been so fucking naive.
A sharp rap on my car window yanked me back to the present. My heart slammed against my ribs as I turned to see a man I'd never encountered before—dark skin, close-cropped hair, and a scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone like someone had tried to split his face open. He wore the distinctive black jacket of a Council Enforcer, the kind of wolf that made even Alphas nervous.
But it was his eyes that made my breath catch. Deep purple. Not the golden amber of most wolves, not even the rare silver or green. Purple, like amethyst catching light.
His scent hit me even through the closed window—something wild and ancient that made my mating mark tingle. Not with pain this time. With recognition.
"Wren Calloway?" His voice was rough silk, the kind that would sound incredible saying filthy things in the dark.
I cracked the window an inch. "Who's asking?"
"Beckett Caine. Council Enforcer. I was sent to investigate your mate." His gaze dropped to my throat, to the bite mark that Rowan had given me on our wedding night. "But I think we have a bigger problem."
Something in his tone made my stomach drop.
"That bite on your neck isn't real," he said quietly. "It never was."
