Page 3

The council chamber feels like a cage this afternoon.

I shift in my chair for the third time in as many minutes, the carved wood pressing uncomfortably against my spine.

Through the tall windows, I can see the market square below, vendors still packing up their morning wares.

My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, hackles raised since that glimpse of dark hair and careful avoidance three hours ago.

After six years, her scent still cuts through me like a blade.

I’ve run into her only a few times since her return months ago, when Nic’s lottery forced her to return and bring a child with her—a tiny four-year-old whose name I’ve gathered is Maisie.

A child I can’t even look at without feeling sick, imagining Fiona with another man, some faceless stranger holding her, having her.

I’m a mess. I’m supposed to be focusing, but I can’t.

"Thomas, perhaps you'd share your thoughts on the modified trial structure?"

Victoria Blackwood's voice snaps through my distraction like a whip. The Head Elder's silver eyes pin me to my seat, and I realize with a sick drop in my stomach that I haven't heard a word of the last ten minutes' discussion.

"I... apologize, Elder Victoria. Could you repeat the proposal?"

Nic shifts beside me, providing smooth cover. "We were discussing the synchronized tracking trial. The paired scent-work through the northern ravines. It’s low-risk, but we wanted to hear your thoughts."

Victoria's mouth thins, but she continues. "As I was saying, the first trial will focus on synchronized tracking. Partners must work together to follow a scent trail through challenging terrain. The goal is cooperation, not competition."

"Better than the last set of trials," James mutters from across the table, earning a little snort from Luna.

Luna Morgan—Luna Blackwood, now—sits at Nic’s side, playing with his fingers, looking as relaxed as I’ve ever seen her.

She and Nic have been doing well since the Cheslem Pack’s final defeat months ago, since they finished cementing their mate bond and slipped into an easy domesticity that, as far as you can tell, is without any of the problems they once reckoned with as a pair.

She’s been sitting in on some meetings, particularly those concerning the continuation of the Lotteries.

She has strong feelings about them, and no wonder—after all, she endured in hers, anyone would want to prevent the next chosen female from going through such a physical and emotional wringer. No one here can begrudge her that.

Nic leans forward, hand still in Luna’s, their easy closeness obvious.

"The survival exercise for the second trial will challenge different skills. Fear response, faith in one's partner. But there will be fail-safes, ways to get you—and her—out, if you need them. We don’t want to traumatize your future mate.”

Luna laughs, a musical sound of genuine warmth.

“We wouldn’t want that,” she teases, and Nic only looks a little guilty, squeezing her hand.

My jaw clenches at the memory of Luna's trials, how close we came to tragedy. But at least she and Nic found their way to each other. Some of us aren't destined for happy endings.

"And the third trial?" another Elder asks, his perpetual frown deepening. "This 'truth-sharing ceremony' seems... soft."

"Connection requires honesty," Victoria replies. "The ceremony will reveal compatibility better than any physical challenge. Mates must be able to trust each other with their deepest truths."

I force my expression neutral, but my wolf snarls at the irony. Trust. Truth. As if I haven't been choking on lies for six years.

"The eligible female list is shorter this time," Elder Patricia notes, shuffling her papers. "Twenty-three names, all between twenty and thirty as required."

Twenty-three names. I don't need to ask if Fiona's is among them. At twenty-six, she falls squarely in the range. My hands clench beneath the table.

"Young Melissa has expressed particular interest," Patricia continues. "She asked about the lottery requirements yesterday."

Melissa Blackwood—Nic’s younger sister, currently unmated. I’ve never had anything against her, but the idea of becoming her mate makes me feel faintly unwell. We share strong bloodlines, prestige in the pack. But I would never want her, can’t want her.

There’s only one woman I want, and she’s the one I can’t have.

I run through the other women I know will be eligible in my mind.

Some of Melissa’s gaggle of unmated friends.

Some women in their mid-twenties like me, who I vaguely remember from school, none particularly involved with the council or the pack’s inner circle.

Ruby Mulligan, the woman Fiona was talking to at the market, their heads bent together like conspirators.

My enhanced hearing had caught fragments—"careful" and "concerned" and Fiona's brittle response: "It doesn't concern me. "

Nic's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Thomas will participate fully in all three trials with his chosen mate, then. We’re all in agreement. Unless you have something to say, Thomas.”

He turns his sharp, not-unkind eyes toward me, lances me with a piercing stare, the stare that’s always seen through all of us.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I say, though the words taste like ash and old regret.

"We need strong pairings," Elder Marcus interjects, his voice gruff with age. "The pack needs cubs. We've had too few births in recent years. A successful mating between our highest-ranking unmated wolf and a strong female would set an example."

Cubs. The word hits like a physical blow. Against my will, my mind supplies the image from this morning—the small dark-haired child at the school gates, clinging to Fiona's hand. Four years old, the gossips say. Born to a father who abandoned them.

The timeline cuts deep. She moved on quickly after I left. Found someone else within a year or so, built the life we'd whispered about in the darkness.

The thought shouldn't gut me like this. I gave up any right to jealousy when I walked away.

"The Lottery will be held in two weeks," Victoria announces. "Full moon, as tradition dictates, in the Hollow. Thomas, I trust you'll be... present for the remainder of our planning?"

Heat crawls up my neck. "Of course, Elder."

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of logistics and security protocols. I force myself to focus, to be the right-hand that Nic depends on. But my wolf paces and prowls, making my skin feel too tight.

When Victoria finally dismisses us, I'm first to my feet. But—

"Thomas. My office." Nic's tone brooks no argument.

I follow him down the corridor, Luna's knowing look burning between my shoulder blades.

Nic's office still smells faintly like his father's pipe tobacco, though it's been years since the old Alpha's death.

He doesn't speak until the door clicks shut behind us, rounding his desk, silhouetted against the sun through the windows.

"You going to tell me what's got you wound tighter than a spring trap?" He doesn't look up from the patrol schedules spread across his desk.

"Nothing. Just thinking about border security."

"Bullshit." His eyes flash gold for a moment. He doesn’t appreciate lies. "I've known you since we were, like, ten, Thomas. You only get that look when—"

"Drop it." The words come out sharper than intended, my wolf pushing against my control. “Please. Drop it.”

Nic sets down his pen with deliberate calm, studying me with those uncanny eyes that see too much. We've been friends since childhood, through his father's death, through my parents' passing, through every challenge the pack has faced. He knows my tells better than anyone.

"It’s because Fiona’s back,” he deduces cleanly, as if it’s a new conclusion, as if he didn’t surely know long before this moment.

My silence is answer enough. The muscle in my jaw aches from clenching.

"The lottery isn't personal, you know that. The pack needs—"

I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against hardwood. "Unless you can get her taken off the roster, there’s nothing you can do that’ll make this better, Nic. I owe you enough respect to tell you that.”

Nic's expression softens, and somehow, that's worse than his anger would have been. "Thomas—"

But I'm already moving, my hand on the door handle. "I'll report back on the eastern border sweep."

I escape before he can use that particular tone of voice that's made me spill my guts since we were kids. Some secrets are meant to stay buried, even from your friend.

The afternoon air hits my lungs like freedom as I exit the lodge.

Three of our younger wolves wait by the tree line, eager to learn, eager to impress.

I’ve been responsible for training the youngest recruits to our security detail for years.

They unfailingly look up to me, to an uncomfortable degree.

This lot, at least, are confident enough to speak out of line.

"About time," Jason says, bouncing on his toes. "We've been waiting for twenty minutes."

"Patience," I tell him, though I'm grateful for the distraction. "Amara, you're on point. Toby, stay center. Jase, watch our six. We're sweeping five miles past the eastern border."

"Past the border?" Amara's brow furrows. "Neutral territory?"

"Problem with following orders, Sinclair?"

"No, sir." She straightens, but I catch the flash of curiosity in her eyes. Good. Curiosity keeps young wolves alive.

We shift at the tree line, and I welcome the change. Four legs are simpler than two. The wolf doesn't care about failed love affairs or impossible futures. It cares about pack, territory, and the hunt.

My wolf form is larger than the others—a side effect of the bloodline, my father would have said. Dominant wolves run bigger, stronger. Another reason the Elders are so eager to see me mated. Waste of genetics, one once muttered in earshot of me, not realizing I could hear.