Chapter 3

Third-Person POV

Draven’s roar echoed across the training field as he slammed his boot into the earth, kicking up a cloud of dust. “Again!” he commanded, baring his teeth at the circle of warriors surrounding him. They charged as one, muscles coiled, fangs gleaming.

His eyes blazed molten gold as Ryker, his wolf, surged forward in his consciousness. The world slowed. His nostrils filled with the scent of sweat and blood. Three warriors hit the ground in rapid succession, their bodies making dull thuds against the packed dirt. A fourth and fifth followed, bones cracking under his grip.

The hairs on his neck bristled. Xavier was behind him, claws already slicing through the air toward his spine. Draven pivoted, catching the warrior’s wrist and slamming him face-first into the ground with enough force to leave a crater. Too close. His distraction would get him killed.

A sudden stabbing pain pierced his temples as Galen’s mind crashed into his. Draven thrust his hand skyward, halting the next wave of attackers.

“What?” he snarled, voice dropping to a guttural rumble that made the nearest warriors instinctively step back.

“You need to come to the castle at once,” he spoke with urgency.

Draven furrowed his brows, alarmed. “Why?”

“It’s the Council elder wolves. They are here,” Galen replied in haste, making his body stiffen.

The Council elder wolves? A flash of rage stalked his amber eyes.

“Why were they here?” Draven asked in silence, not getting any response from his wolf, Ryker.

He abandoned the training grounds without another word, stalking toward the castle with deadly purpose. Galen waited in the hallway outside his office, Mason at his side. Both men’s faces were grim masks of tension.

Mason jerked his chin toward the door. “They’re waiting inside.” Draven squared his shoulders and strode into his office, the heavy tread of his Beta and best friend following close behind.

Five ancient wolves from the Council sat arranged like sentinels, their weathered faces betraying nothing. The air in the room felt thick with unspoken tension as Draven claimed his seat of power, Mason and Galen flanking him like twin shadows.

“What brings the esteemed Elders to my territory?” Draven’s voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade.

The formality of a proper greeting died on his tongue—he had neither the patience nor inclination for diplomatic niceties. These wolves hadn’t traveled all this way for pleasantries, and the reason for their visit made his wolf bristle beneath his skin.

These weren’t ordinary visitors. The Council elder wolves commanded respect through centuries of existence, their very presence making lesser wolves bow their heads. The supernatural world’s governing body—comprised of vampires, fae, witches, and other creatures that humans believed existed only in nightmares—relied on these elders to represent werewolf interests.

Every Alpha in the North answered to this Council, a necessary alliance that maintained the delicate balance between species and prevented wars that would reveal them all to humanity.

“Your hospitality leaves much to be desired, Alpha Draven.” Elder Nell’s gravelly voice dripped with disapproval as he settled deeper into his chair, ancient eyes narrowing. The criticism rolled off Draven like water—their mutual dislike had festered for decades.

Draven met the Elder’s stare without flinching, his lips curling into a smile that never reached his eyes. The presence of these Elders in his territory was an ill omen, a storm brewing on his horizon that threatened everything he’d built. Still, he maintained his composure, the mask of the Alpha firmly in place despite the rage simmering beneath.

“I apologize greatly. But I’m in a hurry, so I’d appreciate it if you could all tell me what you’re here for so we can get this over with.”

Elder Philip’s weathered fingers steepled beneath his chin as he shifted in the ancient chair that creaked under his weight. “Very well. We shall dispense with pleasantries.”

A muscle twitched in Draven’s jaw as he inclined his head, the gesture sharp as a blade.

“It has come to our attention,” Elder Zed’s voice rasped like dry leaves, “that the Moon Goddess has blessed you with a mate, Alpha Draven.”

The word ‘mate’ struck him like a physical blow. Draven’s knuckles blanched as his fingers curled into a tight fist beneath the table, a storm gathering behind his impassive expression. Something primal and unwelcome clawed at his ribcage from within. His eyes, cold as winter, swept across each Elder’s face, cataloging their expressions.

“Your sudden interest in my pack affairs is... noteworthy.” Draven’s voice dropped to a dangerous timbre. “Perhaps you need reminding that my territory remains sovereign under Council law. What happens within these borders is my concern alone, so long as no treaties are violated.”

Alpha Silas leaned forward, his weathered knuckles pressing into the wooden table. “You are correct, Alpha Draven, and trust us, we don’t want to meddle in the Winter Howl Pack, but this matter is important to us.” His voice bounced off the stone walls. “And as the old wolves, we have an obligation to perform.”

Draven’s brows pulled together as he placed his palm flat against the polished surface before him. “And what is that?”

“The Luna’s coronation,” Elder Walter broke his silence, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. Draven noticed Galen and Mason stiffen beside him, but kept his focus on the Elders.

Elder Walter stroked his silver beard. “In every pack, it has been our duty to coronate the Lunas, and in this case, you have found your mate.”

Draven tilted his head, a cold smile not reaching his amber eyes as they locked onto Elder Nell. “That is fine by me, but...” He let the pause stretch between them. “You will only be crowning Thea Chrysler as my Luna.”

“Thea’s presence has already eased the curse,” Draven said, his voice tight. “Deaths have slowed. My warriors sleep without visions for the first time in years.”

Elder Nell’s eyes narrowed. “But it is not Thea’s power alone that steadies the curse. It is the bond itself—and you haven’t sealed it.”

“If I reject her,” Draven hissed, “I could shatter the last thread holding this pack together.”

“Or you could save it by accepting your true mate,” Elder Zed countered. “Fate’s chosen cannot be replaced. You know the law.”

Draven maintained his neutral expression, shoulders relaxed despite the growing tension. Thea was the woman meant for him, the one etched in his destiny, the one who deserved to be Luna of his pack—not the enemy’s daughter. Not the woman the Moon Goddess had carelessly tossed in his path as a weakness he couldn’t afford. Not now when he was finally a step closer to breaking the curse his own father had inflicted upon him and his pack.

The Council had heard his position before. Months ago, when he’d finally found Thea—the woman prophesied to break his curse—he’d requested her immediate coronation as Luna. The Elders had refused, insisting she wasn’t his destined mate. Now they sat before him, demanding he accept the daughter of his sworn enemy instead.

“She isn’t your mate, Alpha Draven.” Elder Nell’s voice trembled with barely controlled fury.

Draven’s jaw tightened. “Thea is my choice,” he said, each word carved from stone. “My pack’s salvation comes before your traditions.”

Elder Zed leaned forward, his ancient eyes boring into Draven’s. “What of your true mate? The one chosen by the Moon Goddess herself?” His weathered fingers tapped against the table. “If Thea is truly your choice, why does your destined mate still draw breath without rejection?”

Something wild and primal stirred within Draven—Ryker, his wolf, clawing for attention. Draven forced him down, burying the sensation beneath layers of cold logic. The mate bond was a liability he couldn’t afford.

“The mate bond can’t be ignored forever,” Elder Philip’s voice cut through the tension. “Either formally reject her or accept the inevitable—she will wear your Luna’s crown.”

Draven’s composure cracked. “Surely you jest.”

“Two nights,” Elder Walter’s tone left no room for argument. “When the full moon rises, your true Luna will be crowned.”

Draven shot to his feet, slamming his fists against the polished wood hard enough to splinter it. “I will not allow this!” The growl that accompanied his words made the air vibrate.

Elder Nell’s weathered face remained impassive. “The Council has spoken, Alpha. Our decision stands.” The five ancient wolves rose as one, their movements fluid despite their centuries.

“This isn’t over,” Draven snarled as they filed out, his amber eyes burning with barely contained rage.

The door had barely closed when Mason and Galen flanked him, tension radiating from their bodies.

“The Elders won’t back down,” Galen murmured, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’ll wear your crown come full moon.”

Mason’s voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “The curse, Draven. Everything we’ve worked for—”

At the word ‘curse,’ Draven’s head snapped up, his pupils dilating. Years of searching, of sacrifice, of holding his pack together through the darkness—all threatened by a mate bond he never wanted.

Draven’s jaw clenched as he considered his Beta’s words. The elders were immovable as mountains, their minds calcified by centuries of tradition. For years, the Winter Howl Pack had concealed their curse behind a façade of strength. Their reputation had shielded them, but Draven felt the pressure of time bearing down like a physical weight on his shoulders.

“Mason speaks truth,” Draven said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. His amber eyes hardened to chips of ice. “The pack comes before all else—before my desires, before tradition, before the Goddess herself.” He rose from his chair, shadows gathering around him. “I’ll end this tonight.”

Without another word, he strode from the office, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridor as he made his way toward the west wing—toward Maeve.

The door crashed open without warning as Draven stormed into the chamber.

Elysia and Ariannon—the guards he’d assigned to watch her—immediately bowed their heads in submission. Draven barely acknowledged them, his attention fixed solely on Maeve, who sat motionless on the bed.

“Out,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence.

The women vanished instantly, leaving him alone with his unwanted mate. The air between them crackled with tension.

“Stand,” he ordered.

Maeve rose slowly, her body tensing at his tone. Those damnable blue eyes—the ones that had haunted him since their first meeting—held his gaze unflinchingly.

Before she could speak, Draven closed the distance between them. One fluid movement had her pinned against the wall, his hand at her throat, another at her waist. Her pulse raced beneath his fingertips. He leaned in until their faces nearly touched, until he could feel her shallow breaths against his skin.

“Maeve Verrin,” he whispered, her name like acid on his tongue. Ryker, his wolf, retreated deep within his consciousness, unable to witness what came next.

His lips hovered over hers as he spoke the ritual words: “I, Draven Graves, Alpha of the Winter Howl Pack, reject you, Maeve Verr—”

The words died in his throat. Something impossible flickered in those crystal blue depths as his eyes widened in shock.

No. This cannot be.