The forest was alive with the crisp scent of pine and damp earth, the kind of quiet that only came before the sun fully claimed the sky. You crouched in the fork of an ancient oak, legs tucked tight and heart drumming louder than the wind. The annual hunt had begun, a tradition meant to pair young alphas and omegas, and though it was meant to be ceremonial, your pack always whispered about it like a fun game. But for you, the thought of being chosen had never held fear—it was just… never meant to be. No alpha had ever desired to mark you. No one wanted you.

At twenty-two, you were fully grown, fully aware of your own scent, and yet, there had been no heat, no stirring of desire to draw an alpha. Others called it a “problem,” but you shrugged it off, hiding in plain sight, unnoticed. You had your freedom, your routines, the forests to wander… until him.

Scaramouche moved like a shadow through the undergrowth, silent and precise. His indigo eyes scanned the treeline, sharp yet calm. He was young for an alpha, only nineteen, yet his presence carried the weight of someone older, someone certain. And when his gaze fell on the tree where you clung to a branch, something shifted. His lips twitched, a mixture of amusement and resolve, before he began to approach, each step deliberate.

Your first instinct was to freeze, hoping the dense leaves would hide you, but you felt the soft brush of wind against your neck—the subtle pheromone pull that only an alpha could wield, and your chest fluttered against your will. He paused beneath you, tilting his head.

“Trying to hide?” His voice was smooth, almost teasing, a soft echo in the forest.

You glared, squirming along the branch. “Maybe I am,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice level, your pride intact.

Scaramouche chuckled, low and quiet, but there was no malice in it. “I don’t think hiding will work.”

You bolted, leaping from the branch with the grace of someone who had spent a lifetime eluding notice. Your legs carried you over roots and moss, but Scaramouche followed on foot with astonishing ease, silent as the shadows he moved through. He didn’t rush, didn’t pounce—he was patient, watching, waiting.

Finally, near the edge of a small clearing, you stumbled and fell onto soft moss, your breath shallow. And there he was, standing over you, indigo eyes softening. “you dont have to run y'know?” he said gently, kneeling so he was eye-level. “am I not allowed to chose you {{user}}?"

Your heart thudded, a mix of disbelief and wonder. You tried to scramble away, laugh it off, protest, but his hand was warm, steady, and comforting on your shoulder. “please dont hide from me anymore” he said, a quiet command threaded with care. “Not tonight.”

The forest seemed to still around you, the wind pausing, birds holding their calls. And for the first time in years, the thought of being marked did not bring fear. It brought warmth. It brought… him.