Paris in springtime was supposed to be magical. For me, it was just another place to hide.

Three months had passed since I'd fled the Silverclaw Pack with nothing but a passport and the clothes on my back. Three months of trying to piece together what remained of my shattered soul.

"Sloane, could you rearrange the poetry section?" Elena called from the front counter of her tiny bookstore.

"Of course," I replied, setting down the book I'd been pretending to read.

Elena Dubois was the elderly French woman who owned this sanctuary of leather-bound volumes and faded pages. She'd hired me without questions when I appeared at her doorstep, a ghost with hollow eyes and a broken spirit.

"The customers prefer the poetry by the window," she explained, her accent warming the words. "It makes them dream."

I nodded and began rearranging the books, my fingers tracing the spines with practiced ease. This small routine had become my anchor in a sea of chaos. Each book I shelved was another moment I didn't have to think about what I'd lost.

My wolf, Luna, had gone silent since that night. I could still feel her presence, a dull ache in my chest where our bond used to sing with vitality. Now she was just a shadow, curled into herself, refusing to acknowledge the world that had betrayed us both.

"You're doing well," Elena said, appearing beside me. "The store has never been more organized."

I managed a small smile. "Thank you for giving me this job."

She patted my hand. "You needed purpose. I needed help. It was serendipity."

Purpose. Such a small word for the vast emptiness I was trying to fill.

---

The Seine glittered in the afternoon sun as I sat on a bench during my lunch break. I'd taken to bringing my sketchbook here, though I rarely drew anything but abstract shapes and shadows.

I was attempting to capture the way light danced on water when a small terrier bounded toward me, leash dragging behind him.

"Hey there," I murmured, setting my pencil down as he sniffed my shoes.

The dog's owner called out in rapid French, slowing to a jog as he approached. "Sorry about that! He's friendly but impulsive."

I looked up, taking in the stranger's appearance. He was young—younger than me by at least a few years—with dark hair that caught the sunlight and kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.

"It's fine," I replied in English. "I like dogs."

He crouched down to retrieve the dog's leash, his movements fluid and graceful. "Max, you rascal. You know you're not supposed to bother people."

When he reached for the collar, his hand brushed against mine.

ZING.

A violent, electric shock shot up my arm—the unmistakable jolt of a mate bond recognizing its other half.

My sketchbook crashed to the ground as I jerked away, my heart hammering against my ribs. This couldn't be happening. Not again. Not after everything.

"Are you okay?" he asked, immediately backing away with his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.

I expected anger, dominance, the crushing weight of an Alpha's presence—but none came. Instead, his scent washed over me: oil paint and rain, with an undertone of something I couldn't quite place.

"You're human," I blurted out, the realization hitting me like a second shock.

He tilted his head, confusion flickering across his features before he smiled gently. "Last time I checked, yes."

I stared at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The mate bond was exclusive to werewolves. It couldn't possibly exist between a wolf and a human.

"I'm sorry about that," he said, bending carefully to retrieve my fallen sketchbook. "Static electricity can be pretty intense sometimes."

Static electricity. Of course. What else could it be?

He handed me the book, making sure our fingers wouldn't touch again. "These are beautiful," he said, nodding to my sketches. "Are you an artist?"

"I used to be," I admitted, clutching the book to my chest like a shield.

"Well, you still are," he said with quiet confidence. "I'm Mateo, by the way. Mateo Torres."

"Sloane," I replied, the name feeling strange on my tongue after months of being just "the rogue" or "the rejected one."

"Nice to meet you, Sloane." His eyes were warm, devoid of the predatory gleam I'd grown to fear. "You draw like someone who sees the world differently."

For the first time in months, I felt something other than pain or emptiness—a tiny flicker of curiosity about this human who seemed to see right through me.

The Silverclaw Pack was crumbling from within.

I didn't know this firsthand, of course. I'd been gone for months, building my fragile new life in Paris. But Hanna's weekly messages kept me informed of the slow decay happening across the ocean.

"Quentin's not himself anymore," she wrote in her latest email. "The pack is restless. He can't sleep. His aura flickers like a dying light."

I sat in Elena's bookstore, reading Hanna's words by the soft glow of a vintage lamp. My fingers traced over the screen, a hollow ache blooming in my chest. Not sympathy—I'd left that behind with my shattered heart—but something more detached, like watching a car crash from a distance.

"The Beta says it's mate sickness," Hanna continued. "He's irritable, snapping at everyone. Even Mya."

I could almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Mya. The name still sent a jolt of rage through me. Hanna's next message confirmed what I'd suspected all along.

"She's lying about being pregnant. The pack healer told me privately that it's impossible—her Omega genetics are too weak to carry an Alpha heir. But she's convinced Quentin otherwise."

I closed my eyes, picturing Mya's calculating smile as she clung to Quentin's arm at the Solstice party. She'd always been ambitious, always scheming. Now she was desperate.

---

"You have a gift," Mateo said, stirring his coffee thoughtfully. "The way you capture light and shadow."

We sat at a small café two blocks from Elena's bookstore. The afternoon sun warmed the cobblestones outside, casting dappled shadows through the leaves of a nearby tree.

I'd been surprised when he invited me for coffee. More surprised when I'd accepted.

"Thank you," I replied, my fingers wrapped around my cup. "I used to draw more. Before..."

I didn't finish the sentence. Mateo didn't push.

"Before" hung between us like a ghost.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of pills. My enhanced senses caught the herbal scent—strong, earthy, with notes of something I couldn't quite place.

"Sorry," he said, noticing my gaze. "These are just for anxiety."

He popped two into his mouth and washed them down with coffee. Something about the casual way he did it made me suspicious.

"You take those often?" I asked.

He shrugged. "They help me focus."

I nodded, though something didn't quite add up. The herbs smelled like more than just anxiety medication.

"What about you?" he asked, deftly changing the subject. "What brought you to Paris?"

"Fresh start," I said simply.

He nodded as if he understood perfectly. Then he pulled out a napkin and a pen.

"May I?" he asked.

I nodded, curious.

His hand moved across the paper with fluid precision. Within minutes, my face emerged from the napkin—not as I saw myself in mirrors, but as he saw me. The woman with shadows in her eyes.

"You see too much," I murmured.

"Artists notice details," he replied softly.

---

The gallery was small but elegant, tucked away on a side street with stone walls and exposed beams. Mateo had insisted I come with him to this opening—his professor's friend was exhibiting.

"It'll be good for you," he'd said. "Art heals."

I'd reluctantly agreed, drawn by his enthusiasm and the gentle way he never pushed too hard.

The space hummed with quiet conversation and the clink of wine glasses. I felt almost normal for a moment, just another art appreciator in a city full of them.

Then a glass shattered.

The sound cut through the murmur of voices like a knife. My vision tunneled instantly—the Solstice party flashing before my eyes. Mya's dramatic fall. Quentin's rage. Blood between my legs.

I was outside before I realized I'd moved, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

"Sloane." Mateo's voice cut through the panic. "Sloane, breathe with me."

But he didn't touch me. Instead, he stood a respectful distance away, his eyes never leaving mine.

"I'm here," he said softly. "You're safe."

He began to hum—a gentle melody that somehow found its way past the roaring in my ears. Not holding me down, not trying to control my reaction. Just... present. Guarding.

Slowly, the world stopped spinning.

"I was hurt," I whispered when I could speak again. "By someone powerful."

"Not here," Mateo said firmly. "Not now."

"I can't—" My voice broke.

"I won't let anyone hurt you again," he said, his voice carrying a weight I couldn't quite place. "Not while I'm here."

Something in his tone made me look up sharply. For just a moment, I caught a glimpse of something in his eyes—something ancient and powerful that made my silent wolf stir for the first time in months.

What was this human man hiding? And why did part of me already trust him more than anyone I'd ever known?