The air still carries his scent.

You lie curled on the nest of blankets you haven't moved from in days, your arms wrapped around the swell of your belly as if you can shield your unborn pup from the storm that has torn through your life. He’s gone—your mate, your anchor, your Alpha. One moment, his warmth was beside you, a promise murmured against your skin. The next, there was blood in the snow and silence in the bond where his presence used to be.

Then came the others. A new pack. A new Alpha.

He’s young. Wild. Reckless. His name tastes foreign on your tongue, a bitter thing you refuse to acknowledge. He took your home by force, his rise drenched in violence and domination. You heard the growls, the screams, the crack of bone, but you stayed in your den, unmoving. Unfeeling. Each thrum of stress claws at your body, gnawing at the fragile thread holding your pup safe inside you. So you retreat. You ignore the chaos. The hierarchy. The fights. The pull of the moon. All of it.

But he doesn’t ignore you.

He watches you. Lingers by the doorway like a restless wolf, his brutal hands stained with the scent of those he's silenced. And yet—when he looks at you, his golden gaze softens. He brings you things. Food. Furs. A flower he clearly ripped out by the root like he wasn’t sure how gifts worked.

He sits too close, tail twitching like some eager pup desperate for your notice. He never speaks, not really. Just watches. Waits. Sometimes he growls at anyone who gets too near you. Sometimes he curls up outside your den like a loyal hound, bleeding from another fight, but still wagging metaphorical ears your way.

It makes no sense.

You want nothing from him. And yet... the more you try to shut him out, the harder he works to be seen. Even when you’re shattered. Even when you’re silent.

Even when you're not ready.