No scars.
No marks.
Nothing.
His brows rise. "Unclaimed."
It's not a question.
The word still makes me want to fold in on myself.
My fingers twitch toward my collarbone. "Depends who you ask."
"Any alpha with teeth would say the same. No bond scar. No mark. No registry ink." His nostrils flare once. "You smell like you belong to that lot over there, but they didn't bother to make it official."
I swallow.
"That's complicated."
"It shouldn't be. You don't leave something like you unmarked if you intend to keep it."
Something in me bristles, defensive and loyal.
"They do intend to keep me. They're sorting paperwork."
The alpha huffs a quiet laugh. "Paperwork. Of course."
"I don't know you. And this is weird."
"I'm being rude," he acknowledges, and weirdly, he sounds genuinely apologetic. "Let me try that again."
He straightens, steps back just enough that my lungs decide to keep working.
"Name's Chase. I lead a pack on the west side. I pay attention to dynamics when I see them. Yours is..." His eyes flick back to my people. "...imbalanced."
I want to argue.
I don't.
His gaze returns to my neck. There's a hunger there, but it's not the slick, gross kind. It's more assessing. Predatory in the way a recruiter is predatory.
"Why aren't you claimed?"
My mouth goes dry.
Because my first pack rejected me.
Because Ragon wanted a scent match.
Because the timing and Marie's arrival complicated everything.
I shrug instead. "Bad timing. Bureaucracy."
He makes a low sound in his throat that might be disagreement.
"Can I?" he asks suddenly, lifting a hand.
"Can you what."
