I moved into a small, third-floor apartment on the edge of my hometown. It was just three rooms with creaky floors, but it was mine. The first thing I did when I dropped my bags was sit on the cheap mattress and formally sever the mind-link channel with Rhett.
It felt like cutting a live wire inside my brain. I gasped, clutching my head as the final tie snapped.
The aftermath of the broken bond was brutal. For the first few days, I woke up screaming from grief-drenched nightmares. The phantom pain in my chest was a constant, dull ache. My inner wolf, Reya, was weak and mourning. She curled up in the darkest corner of my mind and whimpered. I found my fingers constantly tracing the bare skin of my collarbone, searching for a silver pendant that wasn't there anymore. Whenever I realized what I was doing, I forced my hand down. I forced myself to get dressed. I threw myself into my warrior-training work. It was the only thing I had left.
But Rhett wouldn't let me heal in peace.
He unraveled completely. He started showing up at my packhouse door at odd hours of the night. I would stand in the dark, watching his shadow under the door frame, refusing to open it. He flooded the public pack communication channels with desperate messages. *Claire, please. I can't sleep. My wolf is dying. Just talk to me.*
I ignored every single one. But the rest of the pack saw it. His Alpha aura, which used to be a heavy, commanding force that demanded respect, flickered and dimmed.
One afternoon, I was walking to my car when I saw him arguing with Beta Marcus in the parking lot. Marcus looked grim. He held a stack of pack records, his jaw tight. I couldn't hear everything, but I heard Marcus ask if Rhett was even fit to lead right now. Rhett looked terrible. He had dark circles under his hollow eyes. He kept inhaling sharply, his chest heaving as if he was desperately searching for my wild honeysuckle scent in the wind. He looked completely broken. A tiny part of me felt a pang of pity, but I just turned my back and drove away.
I focused on my training logs. I was sitting at my desk in the regional pack operations center, typing up a new combat curriculum.
My Gamma supervisor, Shelby Diaz, marched up and slammed a heavy file down on my keyboard.
"You need to redo these schedules, Claire," Shelby sneered, crossing her arms. "And take your name off the new training program draft. You're basically an Omega now without the Alpha's backing. I'm taking over the presentation to the council."
I bit the inside of my cheek. She had been stealing my work for months, but today she was being blatant about it. I was too tired to fight her. I just stared at the screen.
Suddenly, the air in the room changed.
The temperature dropped. A massive, suffocating pressure rolled through the operations center. It wasn't an Alpha aura. It was something ancient, feral, and utterly terrifying. Every wolf in the room froze. The typing stopped. The chatter died. A few younger wolves dropped to their knees instinctively, baring their necks.
The double doors swung open.
A group of regional elders walked in, looking pale and sweating profusely. And leading them was Maverick.
He wore a sharp black suit without a tie. His messy dark hair was pushed back, and his midnight eyes swept the room. When his gaze landed on me, a faint, boyish smile touched his lips. But his aura was pure, devastating dominance.
"Attention," the head elder announced, his voice shaking badly. "Please welcome Maverick Cooper. Lycan Prince of the Bloodcrest line, and the new head of the Silverfang territory's parent council."
Gasps echoed around the room. Shelby went completely white. She gripped the edge of my desk, her knees buckling under the weight of his presence.
Maverick didn't even look at the elders. He walked straight toward my desk. His scent—dark amber and rain-soaked pine—washed over me. It was intoxicating. Deep in my mind, Reya lifted her head and let out a soft, happy purr. The phantom pain in my chest vanished.
Maverick stopped right next to Shelby. He picked up the file she had just slammed down and flipped it open casually.
"Gamma Diaz," Maverick said. His voice was lazy, but it held a lethal edge that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "I was reviewing the operational records this morning. It seems there's a massive discrepancy."
"Y-Your Highness," Shelby stammered. She was trembling so hard her teeth chattered. "I don't understand."
"You've been claiming credit for the advanced warrior-training programs," Maverick said coolly, his eyes fixed on the paper. "But the timestamps and original drafts all trace back to Claire Taylor's private login. You've also been attempting to demote her to Omega-level duties without any authorized council approval."
Shelby shook her head frantically. "I... I was just managing my department..."
"Pack up your desk," Maverick interrupted. He didn't yell. He didn't have to. The quiet command in his voice was absolute law. "You are stripped of your Gamma title, effective immediately. Get out of my sight."
Shelby burst into tears. She didn't argue. She turned and practically crawled away to gather her things.
Maverick turned to me. The terrifying Lycan Prince vanished in an instant, replaced by the man who had bought me a blueberry muffin in Denver. He placed the file gently on my desk and leaned down, his face inches from mine.
"I believe this is yours, Claire," he murmured, his eyes warm and dripping with devotion.
My breath hitched. I stared up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. He hadn't just come to check on me. He had come to conquer my world.
