"Any number of times you’d like," Sharon promised, her voice a soft anchor in the quiet room. She reached down, gently sliding the book from Alexander’s lap. "But we have to finish the story first, okay? No skipping to the end."

Alexander’s small fingers lingered on the colorful edge of the cover before he finally let go. "The dragon wins, right Mama?"

"The dragon always protects what’s his," she murmured.

As his lashes began to flutter, heavy with the weight of sleep, Sharon watched him with an intensity that bordered on worship. In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, the resemblances she tried to ignore felt sharper. At seven, he was already gaining that lanky height, his limbs stretching out as if eager to leave childhood behind. His hair had darkened from the pale flaxen of his toddler years to a rich, sandy brown, but it was his eyes that sometimes made her breath hitch—that specific, piercing blue.

She hated that she saw Luthor Michaels in the tilt of the boy's head. She hated that fragments of the Tenzclaw Alpha were stitched into the person she loved most. But she reminded herself, over and over, that Alexander was her heart, her anchor. If he carried Luthor’s shadow, she would be the light that drowned it out. Every drop of blood she had spilled to escape the pack was a down payment on a life where Alexander would never know the rot of their politics or the cruelty of his father’s "love."

"Sleep now, little dragon," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his warm forehead.

His breathing deepened into the steady, rhythmic pull of a child far away in dreams. Sharon eased out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough for the hallway light to slice across his rug.

The cottage was silent. It was the kind of peace she had spent seven years building, brick by painful brick. Yet, the moment she stepped away from his door, the ache in her stomach returned. It wasn't the dull throb of hunger or the sharp cramp of stress; it was a slow, grinding pressure that vibrated against her ribs.

Something is wrong.

She stood in the hallway, her bare feet pressing against the cool wood. She tried to tell herself it was just the anniversary of her flight, or perhaps the heavy fog rolling off the coast. But the instinct was too loud to ignore. It was a pull—a magnetic, sickening tug toward the front of the house.

She moved silently through the living room. The shadows here felt different tonight—heavier, as if they were leaning in to listen. She reached for the front door, her fingers hovering over the deadbolt.

"Don't be a fool, Sharon," she breathed. "It's just the wind."

She opened the door anyway.

The night air was thick with the scent of the salt marsh and damp pine. A storm was brewing somewhere over the Pacific, and the wind carried a low, mournful hum through the trees. Sharon stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her to protect the warmth—and the boy—inside.

She reached for the magic in her blood, the power that had truly woken the night she left Luthor. It didn't feel like a foreign tool; it felt like her own breath, a shimmering extension of her soul. She let it spill outward, brushing against the grass, the trees, the pebbles in the drive.

The land felt restless.

"Is someone there?" she called out, her voice barely a whisper.

The porch light flickered. Snap. Snap. The sound was sharp, like a bone breaking. Sharon’s heart slammed against her ribs. The air suddenly felt charged, the atmosphere thickening until it was hard to draw a full breath. There was a metallic tang on her tongue, an electric charge that she hadn't felt in seven years.

It was him.

The realization didn't come as a thought, but as a total physical collapse of her security. Her wolf stirred, pacing in the dark cage of her mind, whimpering in a mix of terror and ancient, carved-in submission.

"No," she gasped, clutching the porch railing. "No, you can't be here."

She had buried herself so deep. She had used every ounce of her magic to shroud their trail, to turn their names into dust. An Alpha shouldn't have been able to find her. Not after this long. Not here.

The crickets abruptly went silent. The wind died, leaving the trees frozen like jagged teeth against the gray sky. Sharon’s hand white-knuckled around the doorknob. She thought about running back inside, grabbing Alexander, and driving until the road ran out. But her feet wouldn't move.

A shadow shifted at the edge of the yard, just beyond the reach of the porch light. It was tall, broad-shouldered, and stood with a stillness that was more terrifying than any movement.

"Luthor?" she rasped.

The shadow moved, stepping forward into the fringe of the light. She couldn't see his face clearly yet, but she saw the tilt of his head—that arrogant, possessive curiosity. The porch light flickered again, casting a strobe-like effect on the figure.

She saw the glint of his eyes. Cold. Gold. Constant.

He didn't need to speak. His presence was a physical weight, a command that pressed down on her shoulders, demanding she drop to her knees. The ache in her stomach twisted into a sharp, white-hot knot of recognition.

"You've grown quite the thorns, little wolf," a voice rumbled from the dark. It was deeper than her memories, rougher, like stones grinding together.

Sharon’s breath caught in her throat. "How did you find me?"

"I never stopped looking," Luthor said, taking another step. Now she could see him—the hard lines of his face, the scar across his brow that hadn't been there before, the expensive dark coat that looked out of place in her rugged coastal world. "You took something that belongs to me, Sharon. You didn't think I'd let that stand, did you?"

"He doesn't belong to you," she snapped, her fear momentarily eclipsed by a mother’s rage. "He is nothing like you."

Luthor’s mouth curved into a dark, mirthless smile. He looked toward the house, his gaze lingering on the window of Alexander’s room. "I could smell him from the road. My blood. My strength. You did a fine job of hiding, but a sire always knows his own."

"Get off my property, Luthor. I have a life here. I have a pack here."

"A pack of humans and a broken witch?" Luthor stepped onto the first stair of the porch. The wood groaned under his weight. "That’s not a pack. That’s a hiding spot. And the game is over."

"I'll kill you before I let you touch him," Sharon said, her fingers beginning to glow with a faint, shimmering violet light.

Luthor stopped, looking down at her hands with genuine amusement. "Magic. So that’s how you did it. You’ve been busy, Sharon. But you’re still a shifter at your core. And I am still your Alpha."

He released a surge of his own power—a raw, dominant energy that hit Sharon like a physical blow. She staggered, her back hitting the door. Her wolf wanted to howl, to bow, to offer its throat in exchange for peace.

"Don't," she pleaded, her voice breaking.

"Where is he?" Luthor demanded, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying register. "Bring him out. I want to see my son."

"Never."

Luthor moved with a speed that defied his size. Before she could cast a spell, he was on the porch, his hand slamming into the door beside her head. He didn't touch her, but the heat radiating from him was a brand. He leaned in, his scent—cedar and old blood—overwhelming her senses.

"You have two choices, Sharon," he whispered against her ear. "You can open this door and we can meet as a family. Or I can take this house apart piece by piece until I find him. And believe me, I will enjoy the second option much more."

"He's just a boy," she sobbed. "Please, Luthor. If you ever cared for me, just go. Let us have this."

Luthor’s hand moved from the door to her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were burning, a frantic, obsessed light dancing in the gold. "I cared for you so much I almost burned the world down when you left. You don't get to ask for mercy now. You're coming home. Both of you."

"He won't go with you."

"He's a child. He'll go where his Alpha tells him to go."

Luthor turned his gaze to the doorknob. Sharon tried to block him, but he simply picked her up by the waist and moved her aside as if she weighed nothing.

"Luthor, don't!"

He didn't listen. He turned the handle. The door, which she had forgotten to lock in her panic, swung open. The warm, yellow light of the hallway spilled out, illuminating Luthor’s predatory silhouette.

He stepped inside.

Sharon scrambled after him, her heart in her throat. "Alexander, stay in your room!" she screamed.

But it was too late. At the end of the hall, a small figure in dinosaur pajamas stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. Alexander blinked at the giant man standing in their living room.

The silence that followed was absolute. Luthor froze, his entire body going rigid as he stared at the boy. For a moment, the Alpha mask slipped, and Sharon saw a flash of something raw—something that looked almost like wonder—in his eyes.

Alexander looked from the stranger to his mother. "Mama? Who is that?"

Luthor took a step toward the boy, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Hello, Alexander."

"Who are you?" the boy asked, his voice trembling slightly but his chin lifted in that same stubborn way Sharon did when she was backed into a corner.

Luthor knelt down, making himself smaller, though he still looked like he could swallow the room whole. "I'm the man who's been looking for you for a very long time."

Sharon rushed between them, her arms spread wide. "Don't you dare," she hissed at Luthor.

Luthor looked up at her, and the wonder was gone, replaced by a cold, iron-clad resolve. "He has my eyes, Sharon. And he has my scent. He’s coming back to the Tenzclaw. We leave at dawn."

Sharon looked at her son, then back at the monster from her past. The quiet life was dead. The dragon had found its hoard, and she realized with a sickening dread that the fight for Alexander’s soul had only just begun.

"Where the devil is my son?"

The snarl cut through the quiet hum of the refrigerator, a sound so violent it made Sharon’s hand slip on the doorknob. She had spent seven years running from that voice, seven years burying the memory of how it could command her very blood to stop. The magic she had sensed outside wasn't coming from the woods; it was radiating from the heart of her home.

Her hand shook so violently it took two tries to turn the knob. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, to grab Alexander and vanish into the mist, but Luthor Michaels was already inside. An Alpha’s presence was a physical weight, and through the wood of the door, Sharon felt the crushing gravity of his power. She was practically hyperventilating by the time the door creaked open, revealing the truth she had prayed was a hallucination.

Luthor Michaels sat at her small dining table, his large frame making the modest kitchen look like a dollhouse. He was her ex-Alpha, the father of her child, and the only man who had ever touched her. The moment their eyes met, every Omega instinct Sharon had suppressed for nearly a decade roared to life. Her body wanted to drop, to offer her throat, to beg for the favor of the man who had discarded her.

Screw that, she thought, her teeth grinding together. She hadn't spent seven years building a life out of scrap and magic just to roll over because a dominant wolf walked through her door.

"Sharon," Luthor rumbled, standing up. The movement was fluid, predatory, and entirely too close. "It’s been a long time."

Sharon took an instinctive step back, her knees threatening to give way. She forced her chin up, a futile attempt to look brave while her heart tried to hammer its way out of her ribs. "You shouldn't be here, Luthor. You have no right."

"I have every right," he countered, stepping toward her. "I’ll ask you one more time. Where is he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she stuttered. The lie was flimsy, a paper shield against a hurricane.

Up close, Luthor was still the most handsome man she had ever seen, a fact that felt like a betrayal to her own soul. Time had only sharpened him. His blond hair, usually a shade lighter than Alexander’s, was cut into a severe, military style that emphasized the harsh, beautiful lines of his face. His jaw was a ridge of granite, his lips full and sensual against his tanned skin. But it was his eyes that truly undid her—that bright, summer-sky blue that she saw every single morning when her son woke up.

Luthor watched the color rise in Sharon’s cheeks. She was flushed with a volatile mix of fear and fury, her dark chocolate hair stacked messily on her head with wisps curling around her neck. Her eyes—midnight black with flashes of moonlight silver—were wide and despairing. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. He had spent years convincing himself she was a plain, useless girl he’d made a mistake with, but the woman standing before him was a revelation. The shy awkwardness of her youth had been beaten away, leaving behind something tempered and sharp.

He was enraged, but beneath the fury, his wolf was howling in recognition, desperate to claim the Omega it had never truly forgotten. He’d been searching for seven years, nearly tearing the continent apart. When his scouts finally told him she was living a mere four hours away under a different name, he had nearly leveled the packhouse in his rage.

"Don't lie to me," Luthor hissed, his scent—that intoxicating cedar and woodsmoke—filling her lungs. "I smelled him the moment I crossed the porch. My blood. My son."

"He isn't yours," Sharon snapped, her voice gaining a jagged edge. "He’s mine. You made it very clear seven years ago that I wasn't worth your time. That makes him mine."

Luthor flinched, though he hid it behind a mask of cold arrogance. He remembered that night vividly, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. Back then, he was a newly minted Alpha, and Sharon Spark had been the pack’s ghost—a girl born of shifters who seemed to have no wolf and no magic. He had written her off as useless until her first heat hit. It was an Omega heat, rare and powerful, and it had undone him.

He had been gentle with her that night. He had mated her, bound her, and protected her like she was the highest-ranking member of the pack. But when the haze of the heat cleared, his rational, cold-blooded side had taken over. He needed a queen, a dominant mate to help him lead a warring pack, not a submissive, magic-less girl. He had convinced himself that mating her was a monumental error. He had been distant, then cold, and finally cruel, driving her away until she disappeared into the night.

"I was young, and I had a pack to secure," Luthor said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "But I don't leave my blood in the wilderness, Sharon. You stole an heir from the Tenzclaw. That’s a death sentence for anyone else."

"Is that what this is? An execution?" Sharon challenged, stepping deeper into the kitchen, placing herself between Luthor and the hallway leading to Alexander’s room.

"It's a reclamation," Luthor corrected. He looked at her, his gaze lingering on the pulse jumping in her neck. He wanted to be angry—he was angry—but the lust was a secondary fire, burning just as hot. He could smell her magic now, too. It was different, stronger than it should be. "You've changed. You're not the girl who used to hide in the corners of the dining hall."

"That girl died the day she realized her Alpha was a coward who was afraid of a little girl’s heart," she said.

Luthor’s eyes flashed gold. He moved so fast she didn't have time to blink, pinning her against the counter. His hands didn't touch her, but he boxed her in, his heat radiating through her clothes. "Careful, Sharon. I’ve spent seven years being angry. Don't push me to show you exactly how much of a 'coward' I am."

"Mama?"

The small, sleepy voice from the hallway shattered the tension like a stone through glass. Both Sharon and Luthor froze.

Alexander stood at the end of the hall, clutching a stuffed wolf—a cruel irony Sharon hadn't noticed until this exact moment. He rubbed his eyes, his messy sandy-blond hair catching the kitchen light. He looked from his mother to the giant man looming over her.

"Who's that?" Alexander asked, his voice small but curious.

Luthor stepped back from Sharon, his entire posture shifting. The predator didn't disappear, but it became still, hushed. He stared at the boy, his sky-blue eyes wide with a shock that looked dangerously like pain. He saw the chin, the shoulders, the height—it was like looking into a mirror that showed him a better version of himself.

"Alexander," Sharon breathed, moving quickly to her son’s side. She gathered him into her arms, her magic flaring instinctively, a soft violet shimmer dancing around her fingertips.

Luthor’s eyebrows shot up. "Magic? You’ve been hiding more than just a child."

"I've been learning to protect what’s mine," Sharon said, her voice steady now that she was holding her son. "Now get out of my house."

Luthor didn't move. He kept his eyes on Alexander, who was staring back at him with a strange, fearless intensity. "He doesn't know who I am, does he?"

"He knows he has a mother who loves him. That’s all he needs to know."

Luthor let out a dry, dark chuckle. He walked to the door, but he didn't leave. He paused with his hand on the frame, looking back at the two of them—the Omega he had thrown away and the son he hadn't known he needed.

"You’ve done well, Sharon. Better than I expected," Luthor said, his voice carrying the weight of an Alpha’s decree. "But this little cottage isn't a fortress. The Tenzclaw are coming. I’m not leaving this town without my son. And since you're so fond of him, I imagine you'll be coming too."

"I'll die first," Sharon vowed.

"We'll see," Luthor replied, his gaze dropping to her lips for one agonizing second. "Get some rest, Sharon. You're going to need your strength for what comes next."

He stepped out into the night, the heavy fog swallowing him whole. Sharon immediately collapsed against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, pulling Alexander into her lap. She was shaking, her magic flickering out like a dying candle.

"Mama, why was that man crying?" Alexander asked softly.

Sharon froze. "He wasn't crying, baby. Men like that don't cry."

"He was," Alexander insisted, tucking his head under her chin. "I saw his eyes. They looked like the ocean when it's sad."

Sharon held him tighter, staring at the closed door. The Alpha had found them, and the seven years of peace had ended in a single breath. She knew Luthor Michaels. He didn't ask; he took. And she knew that the fire between them—the anger, the guilt, and the devastating attraction—was about to burn her entire world down.

"I’m going to ask you again—where is my son?"

Luthor’s voice was a low vibration that seemed to rattle the very foundation of the small cottage. He didn’t scream; he didn't have to. The sheer weight of his Alpha authority was enough to make the air in the kitchen feel like lead.

Sharon flinched, the question hitting her like a physical blow. She went deathly pale, making her large, dark eyes stand out like ink against snow. She stared at him, her gaze locked on his as if she were afraid that blinking would give him the opening he needed to tear her world apart.

Luthor watched her, a dark sense of satisfaction curling in his gut. At least the Omega still recognized who was in charge.

"I'm alone," she said. Her voice was trembling, but her jaw was set in a line of pure, unadulterated stubbornness. She glared at him, a fierce flush creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks. "Why don't you get the hell out of my house?"

"Is that any way to talk to your Alpha?" Luthor demanded.

He stepped closer, his large frame casting a long shadow over her. She wasn't his mate—not by law, anyway—but she was his pack. She was his. And if he had to take her respect by force, he would. The scent of her fear was intoxicating, but beneath it was that familiar, sweet Omega heat that had haunted his dreams for seven long years.

"Where is the child, Sharon?"

"I told you, he’s not here!" she snarled, taking a daring step toward him. Her small fists were clenched so tight her knuckles were white. The flush had spread down to her chest, and Luthor found himself wanting to press his lips against her collarbone just to taste the heat of her defiance.

Sharon swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a forced, softer tone. "He’s having a sleepover with one of his friends. A human friend. So don't even think you're going to roll up there and pull all this Alpha hooey on a house full of humans."

Luthor narrowed his eyes. She was lying. It was a clumsy, desperate lie, and it irritated him to his core. He could see how hard she was trying to play it cool, attempting to mask the scent of his own son with the smell of her own magic and panic.

It might have fooled a younger, less experienced Alpha, but Luthor had spent seven years obsessing over every scrap of memory he had of Sharon Spark. He noticed the minute way she shifted her weight, positioning herself directly in front of the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She was on her tiptoes, ready to spring, ready to fight for the boy.

A sick sense of pride swelled in his chest. The shy, awkward girl he had bedded and discarded was gone. In her place was a lioness.

But the pride didn't last. It was quickly charred by a fresh wave of fury. He thought about the past seven years—the humiliation of realizing she had run from him, the degradation of knowing his own blood was being raised in some nameless town without his guidance.

If he had rebuffed her after their night together, that was his prerogative as Alpha. It was completely unacceptable that she had retaliated by depriving him of his heir.

"Okay," Luthor said suddenly, moving back a step. "You win. I won't go near your friend's home."

Sharon froze, her eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. She crossed her arms over her chest, her full lips pursed into a thin, hard line. She didn't believe him for a second, and that was fine. He didn't particularly trust himself right now either. His wolf was snarling at the edge of his consciousness, urging him to grab her, to mark her, to drag them both back to the Tenzclaw lands where they belonged.

"You just happened to stop by to say hello?" she asked. Her voice was light, but it was the brittle lightness of someone standing on the edge of a breakdown.

"I was just making sure you were okay," Luthor lied, his blue eyes as cold as a winter sky. "And everything seems to be just fine."

Sharon nodded once—a jerky, uncertain movement. She took a step forward, her nostrils flaring as she tried to catch his scent. Luthor stood perfectly still, knowing she wouldn't detect a thing. He had spent the last few hours masking his trail, ensuring that the scent of the Tenzclaw and the scent of the boy he had watched through the window didn't cling to him. If Sharon couldn't smell him, she couldn't track him. And she certainly wouldn't know that he had already seen the boy’s sandy-blond hair and bright blue eyes.

The silence in the kitchen was stifling. Luthor looked at her—really looked at her—and realized that the woman before him was a stranger. Where was the sweet, tender girl who had almost wept with joy just because he had noticed her? Where was the Sharon who had looked at him with such pathetic, beautiful hope?

This woman was itching for a fight. She was lying to his face and shielding a secret that belonged to him by right of nature.

He had nearly lost hope of ever finding her. Year after year, the trail had gone cold, and his advisors had whispered that he should move on, that an Omega like Sharon wasn't worth the resources of the pack. But he couldn't let it go. When he finally discovered she was a mere four hours away, he felt like the world had finally righted itself.

He wasn't the same man she had left. He was older, harder, and far less patient. His self-absorption had cost him seven years of his son’s life, and he was not about to lose another day.

"I'll be seeing you, Sharon," Luthor said, his voice a low promise.

"Don't come back," she whispered.

"We both know that’s not going to happen."

He turned on his heel and walked out the front door, the damp night air hitting him like a cold towel. He didn't look back, even as he heard the heavy thud of the deadbolt sliding into place behind him.

He walked down the gravel drive, his mind spinning. He had prepared for Sharon to be angry. He had prepared for her to be frightened. But he hadn't expected her to have developed a backbone of steel. He hadn't expected the way his own blood would react to seeing her again—a violent, possessive roar that demanded he claim her right there on the kitchen floor.

He reached his black SUV parked a quarter-mile down the road, hidden under the canopy of the pines. His Beta, Gabe, was waiting in the driver's seat.

"Did you see the boy?" Gabe asked as Luthor climbed in.

"I saw him," Luthor said, his hands gripping the dashboard until the leather groaned. "He’s mine. There’s no doubt about it."

"And the mother? Is she coming willingly?"

Luthor let out a short, harsh laugh. "Sharon Spark wouldn't do a single thing willingly if it involved me. She’s turned into a fighter, Gabe. She tried to tell me he was at a sleepover while he was sleeping twenty feet away."

"So, what’s the move? We take them tonight?"

Luthor looked out the window at the dark silhouette of the trees. He could still taste her scent on the back of his throat—sweet, floral, and laced with the sharp tang of her magic. He thought about the boy, Alexander, and the way Sharon had shielded him. If he took them by force now, the boy’s first memory of his father would be one of violence and terror.

He was an Alpha, but he wasn't a fool. He wanted his son’s loyalty, and he wanted Sharon’s submission. Neither would come from a kidnapping.

"No," Luthor said, his eyes glowing gold in the dark interior of the car. "We wait. I want her to realize that there is no corner of this earth where she can hide from me. I want her to understand that her 'independence' is an illusion."

"And if she runs again?"

Luthor smiled, a dark, predatory curve of his lips. "She won't get far. I’ve put a perimeter around the town. Every road, every trail. She’s in my territory now. She just doesn't know it yet."

Back in the cottage, Sharon was slumped against the door, her breath coming in jagged hitches. She could still feel the phantom heat of Luthor’s presence in the room. It was like he had left a permanent stain on the air.

She walked down the hall and opened Alexander’s door. He was still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in the deep, easy rhythm of childhood. She sat on the edge of his bed and watched him, her hand trembling as she brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Xander," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

She knew Luthor hadn't believed her. She knew the "okay, you win" was a lie. He was a predator, and he was just playing with his prey before the kill. She had spent seven years running, seven years pretending that she was more than just an Omega and he was more than just an Alpha.

But as she looked at her son’s face—the face of the man who had just left her kitchen—she realized the truth. The bond was never broken. It was just stretched thin, and now Luthor Michaels was reeling it in.

She stood up, her eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate resolve. She couldn't stay here. The perimeter he’d mentioned—she didn't know about it yet, but she could feel the invisible walls closing in. She went to the closet and pulled out a duffel bag, her movements frantic.

She had magic now. She had strength. She wasn't the shy girl from the Tenzclaw anymore.

"I won't let you take him," she hissed into the dark.

But as she packed her few belongings, she could still hear Luthor’s voice in her head, deep and certain.

Is that any way to talk to your Alpha?

The war had begun, and Sharon Spark was starting it with a bag of clothes and a heart full of terror.