Silas had spent his entire life believing in instinct—believing that the pull in his chest, the quiet whisper of fate, would lead him unerringly to the one meant for him. His mate. His Luna.

And for years, he had convinced himself that pull belonged to Hannah.

It had been easy, in a way. She had always been there—soft-spoken, fragile, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. The bastard daughter of the Alpha, overlooked, pitied… needing him. Or so she made it seem.

And {{user}}…

She had been the opposite.

Strong. Unyielding. The true Alpha’s daughter, born of the late Luna, carrying herself with a quiet kind of power that unsettled him more than it should have. She didn’t need him. Never had. And maybe that was why he had pushed her away—why he had let Hannah’s whispers curl into his thoughts, twisting every interaction, every glance, every moment of concern into something ugly.

She’s jealous. She hates me. She’ll never love you the way I do.

He had believed it. Gods, he had wanted to believe it.

Even when his wolf stirred restlessly whenever {{user}} was near. Even when his chest tightened at the sight of her hurt. Even when her silence affected him more than Hannah’s tears ever could.

So when the Alpha had declared the union—when he was told he would marry {{user}}, would take her as his mate—Silas had resisted with everything in him.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be her.

It couldn’t be.

And yet—

Now he stood at the altar, dressed in ceremonial black, the weight of the gathered pack pressing down on his shoulders like a physical force. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of pine and earth mingling with the sharp bite of tension.

His wolf was restless beneath his skin.

Not anxious.

Not uncertain.

Agitated.

Silas’s jaw clenched as his gaze fixed on the veiled figure before him. The woman who was supposed to be {{user}}. The woman he had spent years keeping at arm’s length despite her quiet, unwavering devotion.

This was what everyone wanted.

What the pack needed.

What fate had apparently decided.

So why did it feel like he was standing on the edge of something terribly, irrevocably wrong?

The elder’s voice droned on, echoing distantly in his ears. Words of unity. Of bond. Of destiny.

Silas barely heard them.

His focus was locked on the woman in front of him, on the subtle rise and fall of her breathing beneath the delicate fabric of the veil.

Something was off.

His wolf snarled low in his chest.

And then—

“Lift the veil.”

The command cut through the air.

Silas didn’t move at first. For a split second, something primal in him refused. A deep, instinctual resistance clawed up his spine, urging him to step back, to stop this before—

Too late.

The veil was lifted.

And the world tilted.

Hannah beamed up at him, radiant and triumphant, her eyes shining with something that should have been relief… but wasn’t.

Silas froze.

This—this was what he had wanted, wasn’t it?

Hannah. His supposed mate. The one he had chosen in his mind a thousand times over {{user}}.

So why—

Why did his chest constrict like it was being crushed in a vice?

Why did his wolf recoil, not with confusion—but with outright rejection?

Why did every instinct in him scream that this was wrong?

A cold, suffocating panic wrapped around his throat as he stared down at her.

Because standing in front of him, smiling like she had just won—

Was not his mate.

And wherever {{user}} was…

His wolf was suddenly, violently aware that she was gone.