Finished


    Third Person’s POV


    Caelum hesitated, his wolf restless beneath his skin. His jaw tightened, his eyes darting between Aurora and Jocelyn. The two women’s gazes weighed heavily upon him, demanding, cornering, pressing him to an answer he could not freely give.


    The truth was simple: he could not truly discard the rings. Those two simple bands of silver still carried Freya’s scent, still reminded him of the vows he had once broken. They were anchors of his guilt, reminders of debts he could never repay. To let them go would be to sever thest tie of conscience he still clung to.


    But now, under the scrutiny of Aurora’s sharp eyes and Jocelyn’s sly, venomous smile, denial caught in his throat. The words would not form.


    “What’s this, Alpha Grafton?” Jocelyn asked, voice dripping with mockery. “You don’t want to?”


    Aurora’s brows pinched, her voice edged with demand. “Caelum!”


    He bared his teeth slightly, a wolf’s grimace disguised as a smile. “Of course I want to. More than that–attending the ind’s groundbreaking ceremony is a chance I’ve long awaited.”


    Aurora’s expression softened, if only a fraction. Jocelyn’s lips curved upward, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.


    “Good.” Jocelyn said smoothly. “I’ll secure two more invitations from my uncle James. Then, we’ll go together.”


    Inside, her wolf purred with dark amusement. She could already picture it: Freya standing beside Ss Whitmor like some sheltered ward, only to watch her former mate throw their rings away in front of the entire assembly. An abandoned she- wolf, marked by failure and shame, on disy for all the packs to witness.


    And more than that–the whispers would spread. Whitmor’s prizedpanion, revealed as nothing more than a discarded mate, a woman left behind. Even if Ss did not care now, the constant murmurs, the rising tide of disdain, would corrode him. Perhaps, eventually, he would cast Freya aside too.


    The thought sent heat coursing through Jocelyn’s veins. She could almost taste the triumph.


    Since that night when Ss had been pulled from the forbidden chamber by Freya, the Bloodmoon she–wolf had rarely left his side. Days blurred together with her presence at his shoulder, nights spent within the confines of his chamber.


    At first, her vignce had been born of necessity. She had not trusted that the Irond Alpha would not be consumed again by the shadows that wed at him. So that night, she had stood guard in his room, curled upon the sofa, alert to every shift in his breathing.


    But the following evening, Ss had looked up from the long oak dining table, his voice carrying the calm authority of one who expected obedience. “Stay again tonight. In my chambers.”


    Across the table, Wren, Ss’s loyal secretary, nearly choked on his wine. His eyes darted from Alpha to she–wolf, disbelief and suppressedughter warring in his expression.


    Freya rubbed at her temple, flustered. “You’re fine now. There’s no need for me to stay in your room another night.”


    Ss’s gaze held hers, dark as midnight steel. “And yet only with you there can I rest. You are my guard now, are you not? Protect me.”


    Her mouth parted, words failing. Against the iron logic of hismand, she could not argue.


    So once more, she gathered her bedding and pillow, returning to his chamber.


    Miss T


    Wren intercepted her in the hall, eyes wide, his voice hushed as though confessing a scandal. “Miss Thorne… you do realize- alone, with an Alpha, in one chamber–sometimes instincts cannot be… controlled. If things go too far, you’ll need protection.”


    Freya blinked, frowning. “Protection?”


    Before she could piece together his meaning, Wren shoved a small box into her hands. “Alpha Whitmor won’t refuse you. He


    <b>may </b>even wee it.”


    Freya looked down. The air froze in her lungs.


    Condoms.


    Finished


    Her wolf red with indignation. She wanted to curse Wren to the moon and back. What in the hells is going on in that man’s head?


    The chamber doors creaked, and Ss’s voice cut through. “What are you discussing?”


    Wren straightened, his wolf tail practically between his legs. “Nothing, Alpha! Leaving now!” He vanished, his footsteps echoing hurriedly down the corridor.


    The silence that followed felt heavier than stone.


    Freya’s fingers clenched the box until the cardboard bent. She lifted her gaze–and found Ss’s eyes already upon the item in her hand


    His expression was unreadable, almost cid, as if he were inquiring about the weather. “What is that?”


    “It’s… Wren gave it to me-” She froze, her throat constricting as she finally registered what she was holding. Color surged to


    her cheeks.


    The Irond Alpha studied the object, his voice steady, unflinching. “Do we need to use it?”


    Freya nearly dropped the damn thing. How could he say such a thing in that tone? Calm. Direct. As though they were discussing dinner.


    “Of course not!” she burst out, tossing the box into a drawer with almost violent force.


    A shadow flickered in Ss’s eyes, quickly veiled. Disappointment. So she still would not have him.


    “Enough,” Freya said, desperate to end the mortification. “Go to sleep.”


    “Talk to me first,” Ss replied quietly, a thread of vulnerability hidden beneath hismand. “If you speak, perhaps I’ll be able to rest.”


    “What do you want me to say?”


    “Anything.” he murmured. In truth, he wanted only the sound of her voice–the soft cadence, the gentleness that soothed the storms in his mind.


    Freya exhaled, reached for a magazine resting on the shelf–a journal on technological advances, something that had caught her interest earlier. Settling back, she began to read aloud, her voice low and melodic, filling the chamber with a calm. rhythm.


    Ss closed his eyes. The knots in his muscles loosened. His wolf, ever restless, stilled beneath the spell of her presence. Each word she spoke wove a cocoon of quiet around him, and for the first time in many nights, true sleep seemed possible.


    And as sleep pulled him under, realization coiled sharp and dangerous within his chest.


    Her voice was light in the dark, her presence a tether pulling him back from the abyss. He was already bing bound, already sinking too deep.


    A man who had walked through night and blood all his life could not easily give up the sun once he had tasted its warmth.


    And Ss Whitmor was no man who surrendered lightly.


    If his wolf craved her, then he would have her. No matter the cost.


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