Page 5

I've been dreading this evening since the letter arrived two weeks ago. But no amount of dreading it has stopped it from coming.

The Hollow looms before me, ancient oaks and maples forming a natural cathedral around the sacred clearing where generations of Silvercreek wolves have gathered for ceremonies, celebrations, and—tonight—another cursed Mate Lottery.

The setting sun filters through autumn leaves, painting everything in a deceptively romantic golden glow that makes my stomach turn.

I'm deliberately late, slipping between the trees as Elder Victoria begins her opening address.

Better to blend into the shadows than stand exposed in the circle of eligible females already gathered at the center of the clearing.

Twenty-three of us in total, though I recognize fewer than half after my years away.

Some faces I remember from high school—girls who whispered behind my back about my curves, my quietness, my strange human father who never attended pack functions.

"The Mate Lottery is our most sacred tradition," Victoria intones from the raised stone platform where the pack leadership stands in ceremonial formation. "A gift from our ancestors, guiding wolves to their destined partners when they might otherwise never find each other."

I resist the urge to snort. Some gift.

My eyes drift unwillingly to the row of pack leaders behind Victoria.

Dominic Blackwood stands tall and proud, his Alpha status evident in his stance alone.

Luna stands at his side, her fingers laced with his, her expression thoughtful as she surveys the gathering.

And there—Thomas, positioned at Nic's right hand as befits his rank.

Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the careful neutrality of his expression.

Does he want this? The question bubbles up against my will. Did he request the lottery, hoping to settle his future with some suitable female? Or is he as trapped as I am by ancient traditions that care nothing for broken hearts and bitter history?

If it were up to him, who, of all of us gathered beneath him, would he choose?

"Fiona," a soft voice whispers, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Ruby Mulligan has materialized beside me. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Not like I had a choice," I murmur back, eyes fixed on the platform. "They made it clear what happens to eligible females who miss the drawing."

Ruby's expression darkens. "Still. It's not fair."

I don't answer. Ruby knows only fragments of what she’s implying—what the pack's efficient gossip network has pieced together over the years. Nobody knows the whole truth. Nobody knows about Maisie's father, or why I really fled Silvercreek six years ago.

"Just stay beside me," Ruby whispers, squeezing my hand briefly. “Luna made it through hers. If it’s one of us, we will too.”

Her kindness threatens to crack my carefully constructed armor, so I nod stiffly and return my attention to Victoria, who has moved to stand before the carved wooden bowl that holds our names.

My mind drifts as she repeats the ancient blessing, a prayer to ancestors who have long since returned to the earth.

I remember the last time I stood in this clearing—my mother's funeral, fifteen years ago. I was eleven, watching flames consume her body as my human father stood stiffly beside me, not a tear on his face, one of the only times he’d ever willingly entered the territory.

He'd never loved her wolf, had married her despite it, not because of it.

When her illness finally took her, part of me wondered if he felt relief.

"Her animal nature was always destructive," he'd said afterward, his voice flat as we drove home in silence. "It's what killed her in the end."

I'd known even then it was a lie. My mother's wolf had been gentle and playful—nothing like the monster my father had painted.

But six months after her death, when my own first shift came, his cold disapproval transformed into something harder, crueler.

Every time my eyes flashed with the wolf or my shift rose to the surface in his presence, his lips would curl with disgust.

"You have a choice, Fiona," he'd say. "You can be better than the beast."

Victoria's voice pulls me back to the present.

"As tradition dictates, I call upon the wisdom of our ancestors to guide my hand."

The Hollow falls silent as she reaches into the bowl, her ancient fingers stirring the folded papers. Twenty-three names. Twenty-two chances for reprieve.

My heart pounds so loudly that I'm certain everyone can hear it. I calculate the odds again: less than a five percent chance, surely fate wouldn't be so cruel, surely—

Victoria withdraws a slip of paper with theatrical slowness, unfolding it with gnarled fingers. Her silver eyes scan the name, and for a fraction of a second, something like surprise flickers across her face before she schools her expression.

"Fiona Wright," she announces, her voice carrying through the clearing.

The world stops.

A collective intake of breath ripples through the gathering.

Heads turn toward me, eyes wide with surprise, then narrowing with speculation.

The whispers begin immediately. I can’t hear the words, but I know what they’re saying, can feel it in the heat of their disapproving looks: isn’t she the one with the human father?

Didn’t she run away? Doesn’t she have some fatherless kid?

Someone nudges me forward. Ruby, her face a mask of concern.

"Fiona," she whispers. "You have to go up there."

My legs move without my permission, carrying me through the parting crowd.

Each step feels like walking through deep water.

Faces blur as I pass—some pitying, some amused, some openly hostile.

Melissa’s features are caught somewhere between disdain and confusion, a strange, reserved expression, as if she doesn’t know whether she wants to jeer at me or ask if I’m alright.

"This has to be a mistake," she whispers to her friend, loud enough for me to hear, though I doubt she meant for me to catch it.

I keep my eyes forward, chin up, though my insides are liquid with humiliation and shock. The walk to the platform feels endless, each step taking me closer to the man I've spent six years trying to forget.

Finally, I reach the stone steps. Victoria extends her hand, a ceremonial gesture I can't refuse. Her palm is dry and warm against mine as she guides me to stand beside her.

"The ancestors have spoken," she says, her voice oddly gentle. "Fiona Wright will complete the mate trials with Thomas Ennes, to determine if their bond is true."

I force myself to look up then, to meet Thomas's eyes across the platform. His face has lost all color, his jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. For a heartbeat, something raw and unguarded flashes in his eyes—panic? regret?—before his expression shutters closed.

Nic steps forward, following the script of the ancient ceremony. "Do you accept the wisdom of the ancestors, Thomas Ennes?"

Thomas's voice, when it comes, is rough around the edges. "I accept."

Nic turns to me, those Alpha eyes seeing far too much. "Do you accept the wisdom of the ancestors, Fiona Wright?"

No. Never. I'd rather die. The words claw at my throat, desperate for release.

But I think of Maisie, of what happens to rogues who defy pack law. Of hunters in the night and wolves with no sanctuary.

"I accept," I force out, the words tasting like poison.

The formal ceremony concludes with ritual words I barely hear. My focus narrows to keeping my legs from buckling, my face from showing the scream building inside me. Through it all, I feel Thomas's gaze like a physical touch, hot on my face, but I refuse to meet his eyes again.

When Victoria finally releases my hand, I step back, desperate to escape. But I’m forced to stay, to receive the congratulations of the pack. Women who moments ago whispered about me now approach with brittle smiles, offering empty words.

"Such an honor," says one, her eyes calculating.

"Our ancestors must see something special in you, I guess," offers another, doubt clear in her tone, as if she couldn’t see anything special in me if she tried.

Melissa Blackwood doesn't bother with pretense. She approaches without her coterie of friends, looking me up and down.

“I wanted him,” she says flatly, in a quieter voice than I expected.

I remember how she was in school, three years younger than me, but constantly picking on the outcasts her own size; Luna and Ruby were her primary targets.

As Nic’s little sister, she’s always been protected by the pack’s inner circle.

But there’s been some change in her. I wonder idly what happened.

I meet her gaze steadily, though my hands tremble at my sides. "Believe me, I'm as thrilled as you are."

Her perfect eyebrows arch, then lower. She sighs and steps away, not quite conceding but not pushing either. Somehow, I appreciate it.

“Good luck,” she says over her shoulder, her dress shimmering in the torchlight as she returns to her murmuring friends. “Don’t try to leave again.”

The implication lands like a slap. I left, therefore, I'm disloyal. I suppose I can’t blame her for thinking it. It’s how all these small-minded people think.

More people are closing in now, faces I either don’t recognize or recognize only from bad memories.

I scan the clearing desperately for an escape route.

The formal part of the evening is giving way to celebration—fires being lit around the perimeter, food and drink appearing on long tables.

No one would notice if I slipped away now.

I edge toward the tree line, only to find Luna Blackwood blocking my path, two cups in her hands.

"Here," she says, pressing one into my cold fingers. "You look like you need this."

The scent of blackberry wine hits my nose, heady and sharp. "I need to get home to Maisie."