The hall was heavy with anticipation.
Torches crackled along the stone walls of the Nightfang stronghold, casting golden light across the crowd of gathered wolves. Elders stood at the dais, cloaked in ceremonial gray. Warriors lined the edges of the hall, rigid and expectant. The entire pack had gathered to witness the public announcement.
Selene stood at the center.
Her dark curls were pinned back, exposing the proud line of her neck where the Luna mark would soon appear. Her dress, silver-threaded and clinging, shimmered like moonlight. She kept her spine straight, her chin raised—outwardly calm, inwardly roaring.
She had waited for this moment her entire life. Eighteen years raised in the shadows of a disgraced bloodline. Eighteen years enduring whispers, side-glances, careful distance. But she'd earned her place. She had proven herself. Lucien had chosen her.
Or so she'd thought.
Lucien Thorne stepped forward now—Alpha heir, the pride of the Nightfangs. Broad-shouldered, golden-haired, his presence was magnetic, his gaze steady. He was the only one who had ever looked at her without disgust.
Until today.
"I, Lucien Thorne," he began, voice sharp as steel, "reject Selene Blackthorn as my fated mate."
The words sliced clean through the room.
A gasp broke the silence. The warriors shifted. An Elder coughed.
Selene didn't move. Her lungs forgot to breathe.
This wasn't part of the ritual. This wasn't the plan.
Lucien's eyes met hers—blue and unreadable. Cold. Empty. There was no trace of the boy who'd held her hand under moonlight, who had sworn he'd challenge the Council for her. That boy was dead, and in his place stood a man hungry for power.
"I choose the path of my pack," he said flatly. "Of honor. Of strength. I will not bind myself to a bloodline that nearly destroyed us."
Whispers surged like waves:
Cursed…
She should've known…
Blackthorn always brings ruin…
Selene blinked. Her heartbeat was deafening in her ears. Betrayal settled in her chest like a knife driven too deep to pull out.
The Elders said nothing. They let it happen.
Lucien stepped back.
The mark meant for her never formed. The ritual was broken. Her claim erased.
Selene could have fallen to her knees. Could have begged. Could have wept.
Instead, she did what no one expected.
She smiled.
It was slow. Dangerous. A curve of lips that spoke of fury tightly leashed.
"I accept your rejection," she said, her voice even. Clear. "But know this, Lucien Thorne—wolves remember. Blood remembers. And when it comes due, I won't need a mark to make you mine."
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Lucien's jaw clenched, just barely.
But he said nothing.
And when the Elders ordered her exile by sunrise, no one spoke in her defense.
She walked out of the hall with her head held high, heart breaking silently with every step.
Not a single hand reached out to stop her.
Not even his.