It's become unbearable.
Alpha Fenris grips the railing behind the pack house, the cold wind cutting across his face like a blade.
The land stretching before him should feel like his. It once did. But now, it feels distant, hollow. No longer his to claim.
He is at his breaking point. The pressure, the mounting failures, the murmurs of his pack, it's all closing in. Cracks are forming. His hands are slipping from what he's fought to hold.
He stands one step away from surrender. From giving the officials exactly what they've been waiting for. A clean surrender.
All they need is for him to say it aloud.
That he is done.
That he will step down.
That Callum can have the title.
Callum, his stepbrother, already has everything. A mate. An heir growing strong in her womb. The same Alpha blood passed down from their father, a legacy supposedly chosen by the moon goddess herself to lead.
Fenris took over after their father's death, not by convenience but by birthright. He is the firstborn, born of the true bond. The rightful heir.
Callum came from an affair. A fact no one dares speak of anymore. The truth has been swallowed by time and preference. Now, all anyone sees is Callum's strength, his charm, his easy way with people. They praise him. They trust him.
And worst of all, they believe in him.
No one believes in Fenris anymore.
What does he have left?
Nothing.
All of this is happening because he is twenty-six and still unmated. Never once gone into heat. He has never touched the one fated to complete him.
For a wolf like that, the clock is ticking. By thirty, the body begins to break down. They grow weaker. Instincts fail. They would be nothing.
And Fenris can already feel it happening.
His power is fading. Slowly. Cruelly.
The aches in his bones are sharper. His senses don't react like they used to. Even his wolf resists him now. Obeys only when it wants to.
He can no longer protect the pack the way an Alpha must. Other packs have sensed it, his weakening, and they have struck hard.
He's tried to push back. Tried to hold the line. But he has failed.
But Callum hasn't.
Callum has stepped up, protected what Fenris could not. He has fought, strategized, spoken to the council with measured strength. And the pack has followed him.
They do not wait for Fenris anymore.
In their hearts, he has already been replaced.
But Fenris refuses to let go. Even now, with everything crumbling around him, he won't release the throne.
Not out of pride. Not for tradition, but because he knows Callum.
He knows what hides beneath the perfect smiles. He knows what Callum's mother is capable of. He knows exactly what would happen if power fell fully into their hands.
Whenever the weight becomes too much, Fenris disappears into the city. He throws on the same mask he always does, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and walks the streets with his jaw clenched tight.
The city's noise is endless. The lights burn. The chaos surrounds him, but none of it touches him. His thoughts spiral too quickly for anything else to matter.
As he nears a crowded pub, something slams into him.
His feet stop. His lungs lock mid-breath.
Inside him, his wolf lifts its head. Fully awake. Wide-eyed. Alert in a way it has never been.
One word burns through his chest with the force of a roar.
Mate.
It is not a whisper, not a question but a command.
His heart crashes against his ribs. Heat explodes along his spine. The feeling is primal. Magnetic. Violent in its pull.
Thought becomes impossible.
He moves without knowing. Walks directly to the door and pushes it open.
The inside of the pub hits him like a wall. Sweat. Alcohol. The air is thick and hot, drowning his senses.
Music blasts through the building. Bodies grind and sway in a trance. The crowd is loud and lost in themselves.
Women spot him almost instantly. They reach for him, their hands eager, their eyes lit. He ignores them all, pushing forward.
He searches the place.
He doesn't know where the mate is, only that he's close. The pull drags from somewhere inside his ribs. His nerves are high. His blood runs sharp.
His wolf claws at him to move faster.
He closes his eyes, lets instinct take over.
He turns.
He then turns instinctively, eyes open. Red light floods his vision.
Onstage, a slim figure moves in rhythm with the music. Every movement is smooth and deliberate. Every step teases.
Long, colorful hair spills down bare shoulders. A tiny top clings tightly to their chest, barely covering anything. Thin straps glint against glowing skin. Shorts sit low on their hips, cut so high they reveal more than they hide.
Fenris doesn't realize he's moving until he's in the crowd. His chest roars with heat. His hand reaches without thinking, grabs a wrist, and yanks the figure down from the stage.
The second their skin meets, something explodes inside him.
Fire floods his bloodstream. His wolf howls deep and guttural, a sound of triumph and need.
Shouts ring out from the crowd.
"What the hell?!"
But Fenris doesn't stop.
The performer doesn't resist as he walks out, hand in hand.
Outside, under the cool night sky, the performer turns to him as though this has happened a thousand times.
"Couldn't wait till I was done... Mmh..?" the voice purrs. It is low, smooth, unbothered. A hand glides up Fenris's chest slowly. "You want a quiet place now, or do you wanna..."
Fenris grabs the hand and yanks it away.
Disgust hits his throat like bile.
Is this truly his mate?
This person, dancing for strangers? Covered in glitter and perfume, speaking like seduction is second nature?
How many men has this one entertained? How many more behind closed doors?
His chest constricts. Shame. Fury. Grief. Frustration.
He had promised himself, promised the moon goddess that he would cherish his mate when they met. Protect them. Adore them like royalty.
But this?
He cannot accept this.
And yet, he also knows he cannot reject them now. Not when his strength is already returning just by being near.
His skin is burning again. His body is waking up. Energy is rushing in like a tide.
If I mate her, he thinks, If I marks her, I will recover. I can protect my pack again.
So he makes his decision.
He will take them. Fix them. Shape them into something worthy.
No one can know what they are now.
It would destroy what little he has left. He walks to where he left his car, hand in hand.
~At the pack house, he slips in unseen. Moves quickly through dark halls, leading straight to his room.
Only when the door closes does he allow himself to look.
Fully.
The light reveals everything. The skin of his supposed mate, it glows. Each movement only stokes the fire beneath his skin. His wolf snarls beneath the surface.
The mate moves.
Slow. Confident. Seductive in a way no one could have taught. The smile sends heat straight to Fenris's chest. The gaze cuts straight through him. "You're not the talking type, that's fine. I'm the action type too."
The words only anger Fenris... 'How many others have she said this to?' he wonders.
He hates it.
But he still wants the closeness.
He lunges without thinking, and suddenly he's on the bed, on top of that seductive body. His hands grip the sheets on either side, his whole body trembling with restraint and need.
But in an instant, they moves. Swift and practiced. A small bottle slips from a pocket and is sprayed straight into his face.
Fenris recoils, blinking rapidly.
When he opens his eyes again, the reaction is immediate.
"What kind of rat are you?" Fenris growls.
The blue, glassy eyes stare up at him.. startled, blinking. Confusion sharpens into panic. "Why didn't it work?" comes the whisper.
Fenris ignores it, he moves again. The scent pulls him in. His hand slides up along one side, brushing warm, bare skin. He leans closer.
His palm rests against the chest.
But he freezes instantly, his brow tightens as the false shaped breasts slips away. His breath catches.
His hand lowers to the waist as if to confirm. His gaze drops to the tight fabric clinging below.
The shape is unmistakable.
A bulge.
He stumbles back from the bed, one step, then another. His hands jerk away like he's been burned.
Air rushes in.
His mind spirals.
This isn't a woman!
He stands frozen but his wolf doesn't pull back. It pushes forward inside him, tense and restless, hurting from the sudden distance.
The warmth is gone. The touch is gone. It had just felt their mate- skin to skin, breath to breath, and now that closeness has been ripped away.
The wolf doesn't understand why Fenris stepped back. It doesn't want to understand. All it wants is to get close again. To feel that heat. To touch what belongs to it.