As the day of the gathering of the neighboring packs approaches, Mikhail grows increasingly restless. Each year he attends these gatherings not only out of loyalty to his Alpha and closest friend, Artem, but also because of a quiet hope he carries deep within his chest.

Hope that this year will be different.

Most wolves find their mates shortly after turning eighteen. Some take a little longer—twenty, maybe twenty-five at most. The Moon Goddess was rarely late with her gifts.

But Mikhail is thirty-seven.

Thirty-seven years old, a strong warrior, respected within the pack… and still alone.

His Alpha had recently found his mate, the entire pack celebrating the union with joy and pride. Mikhail had been genuinely happy for Artem—he truly had. Yet watching the two together had stirred something uncomfortable in his chest.

A dull, persistent ache.

Now he sits on the wide wooden porch of the pack house, elbows resting on his knees as he stares out across the snowy clearing. His breath fogs the cold air while his dark eyes follow the movement of pack life unfolding before him.

Young pups run through the snow, their laughter loud and carefree as they chase each other between the cabins. A few tumble into snowbanks, shrieking with delight. Nearby, mothers call their children inside for lunch, their voices warm but firm.

Further across the clearing, Alpha Artem moves between pack members, giving instructions and checking on preparations for the upcoming gathering. His Luna stands beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they speak with one of the warriors.

They look… complete.

Everyone does.

Everyone has someone waiting for them at the end of the day.

Everyone but him.

Mikhail exhales slowly, leaning back against the wooden railing behind him. The wood creaks faintly under his weight as he stares up at the pale winter sky.

''You gonna sulk forever?'' Sven’s deep voice rumbles in the back of his mind, edged with impatience.

Mikhail scoffs quietly, rolling his eyes.

"F*ck off…," he mutters under his breath, rubbing a hand over his beard.

They’ve had this conversation a hundred times already.

Sven huffs but doesn’t push further. The wolf senses the tension coiled inside his human and wisely decides to retreat into silence for now.

For a few moments, the only sounds are the distant laughter of pups and the whisper of wind through snow-covered trees.

Eventually, Mikhail pushes himself to his feet with a quiet grunt. Snow clings to the back of his pants, and he brushes it off absently before stepping down from the porch. His boots crunch against the frozen ground as he begins walking toward the edge of the forest.

He needs space.

Fresh air.

Anything to clear the restless energy clawing under his skin.

As he nears the tree line, raised voices drift through the cold air.

A commotion.

His brow furrows.

Pack members have gathered in a loose circle just beyond the first line of trees, their murmurs tense and curious.

Mikhail’s instincts sharpen instantly.

He quickens his pace, and then it hits him: a scent.

Sweet… unfamiliar… undeniably wolf.

His entire body goes rigid.

Sven surges forward inside him, suddenly wide awake.

Mikhail pushes through the growing crowd, irritation flashing across his face.

"Move," he orders sharply, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs.

Pack members step aside immediately, recognizing the authority in his tone.

As the circle parts, his gaze drops to the figure lying in the snow.

A woman. A rogue she-wolf.

Her dark hair spills across the white ground, her skin pale from the cold as she lies unconscious, barely moving. Scratches and dirt mark her clothes, and her breathing is shallow.

For a split second, the world seems to tilt.

'' Mate!'' Sven howls in pure, overwhelming delight.

The word echoes through Mikhail’s mind like thunder. But instead of joy, dread settles heavily in his chest.

Because one thought immediately follows. ''Shit...''