Chapter 2

I didn't sleep.

I sat on the bare mattress with my knees drawn up, watching the moon trace its slow arc across the window. The room smelled wrong without my things in it — stripped down to cold stone and dust.

My mind kept circling back to six months ago. The day everything shifted.

Lucian had brought Serena to the pack house on a Tuesday — nothing dramatic, nothing announced. Just a quiet girl with wide eyes and a bandaged arm, trailing behind him like a lost pup.

"She's got nowhere to go," he'd told me that first night, his voice carrying that protective edge I used to think was reserved for me. "Rogue attack wiped out her family. She took a silver blade meant for me during border patrol. Nearly lost her arm."

I'd welcomed her. Made up the guest room myself. Brought her tea and fresh bandages every morning for two weeks.

I didn't notice it at first — the way she'd flinch whenever I entered a room Lucian was in. The way her fingers would drift to his sleeve, then pull back with a practiced little gasp, as if she'd caught herself doing something forbidden.

"Sorry," she'd whisper, eyes downcast. "I know he's yours. I just — sometimes I still get scared."

So Lucian started sitting closer to her at meals. Walking her to her room at night. Checking in on her before he checked in on me.

"She's fragile, Aurora. You're strong. You don't need me hovering."

As if strength meant I didn't bleed.

By the second month, he'd moved her into the east wing — three doors from his quarters. For safety, he said.

By the third, he stopped coming to my room at night.

By the fourth, he missed my birthday. Forgot completely. When I mentioned it two days later, he'd looked confused — then guilty — then irritated, as if my hurt was an inconvenience.

"I've had a lot on my plate. You know that."

What I knew was that he'd spent my birthday helping Serena pick wildflowers for a memorial wreath. She'd posted it that evening — a candlelit photo, his hands guiding hers as they wove stems together. The caption read: Some people make the darkness feel less dark.

The next morning, Serena came to find me in the small courtyard behind the kitchen — the only part of the estate that had ever felt like mine.

She sat down beside me without asking.

"I brought you tea." She set a cup on the bench between us. "I know last night was hard. I want you to know — I never asked for the Orchid. He just placed it in my hands. I was as shocked as anyone."

Her voice was perfect. Warm. Concerned. Every note calibrated to say: I'm not the enemy here.

"Thank you," I said. I didn't touch the tea.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and her collar shifted.

I saw it.

A mark. Fresh — the skin around it still faintly pink, the edges precise and unmistakable. An Alpha's bonding mark, pressed deep into the curve of her throat.

Lucian's mark.

The world tilted. Sound went strange — the birds too loud, my own heartbeat too slow.

"When?" The word came out before I could stop it.

Serena's hand drifted to her collar — not pulling it closed. Adjusting it. Making sure I could see.

"Oh." She touched the mark, feigning surprise. "He asked me not to say anything. It happened a few weeks ago. His wolf was restless. He said he needed to stabilize it."

A few weeks ago. While he was still coming to my room. Still kissing my forehead before I fell asleep. Still telling me nothing has changed between us, Aurora. I promise.

"I begged him to tell you," Serena continued, eyes shimmering. "But he was so worried about hurting you. He kept saying — she's strong, she'll understand."

Strong. There was that word again.

"Does it hurt?" I heard myself ask.

"The mark?" A small, private smile crossed her lips. "Not anymore. It actually feels warm. Like being held, all the time. Even when he's not there."

She turned to me with wide, earnest eyes.

"He loves you. He told me so himself." She paused. "He said you're like family to him."

Family.

Not mate. Not mine. Not the woman I chose.

Family.

The word landed somewhere in the center of my chest and stayed there, cold and heavy.

Serena reached for my hand. "Please don't hate me. I couldn't bear it if you hated me."

I pulled away and stood. "I don't hate you, Serena."

I walked inside, up the stairs, into my room. Closed the door. Pressed my back against it and slid to the floor.

Then I called Lucian.

He answered on the third ring. Casual. Relaxed. Like nothing in the world was wrong.

"Hey. Listen, about last night — I talked to Elder Hargrove this morning and he said —"

"Did you mark her?"

Silence. One second. Two.

"Who told you that?"

"Answer the question."

"Aurora, it's not what you think. Her wolf was destabilizing. The trauma from the attack —"

"Did you mark her? Yes or no."

"It's a medical stabilizing bond. When an Omega's wolf fractures from trauma, an Alpha anchor is standard protocol —"

"A medical seal doesn't require a scent bond. Any healer could have done it. You chose to use your own mark."

"Because she trusts me. She doesn't trust —"

"You told me you hadn't. Three weeks ago. I asked you directly. You looked me in the eye and said no."

Another silence. Longer this time.

"I was going to tell you." His voice dropped. "I was looking for the right moment."

"The right moment was three weeks ago when I asked and you lied to my face."

"Aurora —" He exhaled hard. "Can we not do this over comm-stone? I'll come over tonight —"

"And what? You'll tell me it means nothing? That she means nothing?" My throat was closing. I could feel it — the pressure building behind my eyes, the heat I'd been holding back all night. "You gave her the Orchid, Lucian. You gave her your mark. What exactly is left that you haven't already given away?"

"You." His voice went rough — that low, half-broken sound that used to make me believe anything. "You're still here. That hasn't changed."

A tear slipped down my cheek.

I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep the sound in.

"I'll come over tomorrow morning," he said, gentler now. "First thing. We'll sort this out. I promise."

Promise. His second favorite word, right after tomorrow.

"Sure," I whispered. "Tomorrow."

I hung up.

The tears came faster — silent, furious, burning tracks down my skin. They dried almost as quickly as they fell, evaporating against my cheeks like water on a hot stone.

My skin was cold. Colder than it should have been. And somewhere behind my ribs, in the hollow where my wolf should have been howling, something else stirred — something older, quieter, patient as the dark.

I pressed my palm flat against the stone floor. Beneath my fingers, the surface warmed — heat pulling from the rock into my skin, as if my body was feeding on it.

That had never happened before.

I pulled my hand away and stared at my palm.

No marks. No glow. Nothing visible.

But the stone where my hand had rested was ice-cold.