Dominic’s jaw ticked once. “Julian thinks there’s a hand behind them.”
Arthur’s chin tilted. “We thought as much.”
Suddenly, he turned, slamming the drink down on the bar. He faced Dominic fully now, studying him closely. “You’vedone well, boy. You’ve kept your wolves fed and your enemies beyond the mountain. You’ve formed alliances without selling your honor, and you’ve taught your people to protect before attacking. But there’s something you do not have.”
Dominic’s answer was like a knife. “Say it.”
“A mate.”
The word landed in Dominic like a stone in water. He let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of the other alpha’s words.
“I don’t need a bond to be strong,” Dominic said at last.
“Strong?” Arthur huffed something that might have been a laugh. “You know as well as I do that mating gives a different kind of strength. It gives gifts and power from Lunarion himself. It gives order, balance. It follows the laws of nature. You’ll need that kind of strength.”
“You don’t have a mate, and you lead the Nordan just fine,” Dominic bit out. “Why should I be the one to sell my soul?”
“Believe me,” Arthur said, his voice heavy and gruff, “if I knew who my mate was, I’d take her in an instant. But I don’t. And I can’t leave my pack to search her out. Not with the threat facing us.”
Dominic bared his teeth. “You mean to imply that I do know who my mate is?”
The air around them cooled, charged, and dangerous. A few wolves nearby took note, their eyes wide and wary.
Arthur was unmovable.
“You know what needs to be done, boy. I suggest you get on and do it. For your pack, and mine.”
He turned and finished his drink, sighing heavily at the rage no doubt playing across Dominic’s face.
“You’re not your father,” Arthur said, quieter. “There is strength in submitting to something more powerful than you.”
“My father was a bastard,” Dominic said, “but he was right about one thing.”
“Aye, was he, now?”
Dominic turned, surveying his pack, surveying his people.
“You’re stronger on your own.”
Chapter 2 - Layla
The morning after the celebration dawned clear and cold, the kind of northern light that made everything sharp-edged and beautiful, but had the capacity to freeze the blood. The town bookshop’s windows caught it anyway, scattering it across the worn wooden floors and the neat rows of tables. Dust drifted in the beams like lazy snow.
Layla Hawthorne stood on a stool by the window, wrestling with a stack of mismatched vases. Every Thursday was the same. Flowers, coffee, books.
Behind her, Maddie’s cheerful voice broke the quiet. “You know, normal people sleep in after skipping a party. Not insist on opening shop at six in the morning like a madwoman.”
Layla smirked over her shoulder. “Normal people don’t have to unpack the new box of Cressida Hartbooks. We’re going to have a line halfway down the street.”
Maddie, perched on the counter with a mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll, grinned. “True, but still. You missed a hell of a party, apparently. I walked past The Anchor around midnight. The noise could have raised the dead.”
“I heard,” Layla said dryly, climbing down from the stool, “half the town heard. Five years of Alpha Volkhov, and they celebrate like he personally hung the moon in the sky.”
Maddie laughed. “You always get snippy when I bring up the Volkhov. EspeciallyDominicVolkhov.”
Layla stopped fussing with the vases for half a beat too long. “I do not getsnippy.”
“You so do.”
