Dallas POV:

The morning sun did nothing to warm the ice in my veins. My bags were packed, sitting by the door like silent tombstones marking the end of my life here.

"Ready to go, sweetheart?"

Antone leaned against the doorframe. He was dressed in a casual suit that cost more than a year of my wages, twirling his car keys. His eyes raked over my simple jeans and sweater with a possessiveness that made my skin crawl.

"I need to stop at the mall," he said, checking his watch. "Mother wants me to pick up her dry cleaning before I drop you at the airport. You can come. Maybe I'll buy you something pretty to remember me by."

"I don't want anything from you," I said, grabbing my purse.

"Don't be like that. You're going to a house of cripples and monsters. You'll need something soft to wear."

We drove in silence. The leather seats of his sports car smelled of new money and his cologne, a scent that used to comfort me but now just smelled like betrayal.

When we arrived at the high-end shopping district, the air was thick with the scents of other wolves. This was neutral territory, a place where high-ranking members of different packs mingled.

We walked toward the dry cleaners, but Antone stopped abruptly in front of a bridal boutique.

"Well, look who it is," he muttered.

My stomach dropped. Through the glass display window, I saw them. Desmond and Chelsea.

They were standing near the mannequins. Desmond looked bored, his phone in hand, while Chelsea was directing two terrified shop assistants.

"Let's go," I said, turning away.

"Nonsense," Antone said, gripping my elbow. His fingers dug into my flesh. "We should say hello to the happy couple."

He dragged me inside before I could protest. The bell above the door chimed, announcing our arrival.

Desmond looked up. His eyes locked onto mine immediately. For a second, his pupils dilated—the instinctual reaction of a wolf seeing its mate. Then, the wall came down. His face hardened into the mask of the Alpha Heir.

"What are you doing here?" Desmond asked, his voice low.

"Just passing through," Antone said smoothly, pulling me to his side. "Dallas wanted to see the dresses. Every girl dreams of her wedding day, right?"

It was a cruel lie. Chelsea turned, her eyes narrowing into slits. She was holding a veil, the lace delicate and snowy white.

"Oh, the Omega," Chelsea sneered. She walked over to us, the scent of her expensive perfume overpowering the room. "I suppose you are dreaming. It's a shame your groom can't even stand up at the altar."

I kept my face blank. "I'll wait outside."

"No, stay," Chelsea commanded. Her eyes glinted with malice. She turned to a rack of dresses and pulled out a gown. It was excessive—layers of tulle, rhinestones, and a corset that looked painful. "Try this on."

"What?" I asked.

"Try it on," Chelsea repeated. "I want to see how the style looks on a... lower-class body type. It will help me decide if it's too common for me."

"I am not your mannequin," I said, my voice shaking.

"Do it, Dallas," Desmond said.

I looked at him, betrayed all over again.

"She is the future Luna," Desmond said, his jaw tight. "You will obey her."

The Alpha Command wasn't fully behind his words, but the weight of his authority was enough. I took the heavy dress, my hands trembling, and walked into the changing room.

I stripped down and stepped into the gown. It was tight, constricting my ribs. I looked in the mirror. The white fabric contrasted sharply with my pale skin and the dark circles under my eyes. I looked like a ghost bride.

I stepped out.

The shop went silent.

Antone's mouth opened slightly. The shop assistants stopped working.

But it was Desmond who reacted the most violently. He dropped his phone. His gaze swept over me, from the exposed curve of my neck to the way the dress hugged my waist. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest. His wolf was surfacing, furious and possessive, seeing his mate in a wedding dress that wasn't for him.

"Take it off," Desmond snarled.

"Desmond?" Chelsea stepped between us, blocking his view. "What's wrong? Does she look that bad?"

"She is not worthy of white," Desmond said, his voice straining as he fought his own instincts. He stepped around Chelsea, marching toward me. "You look like a mockery. Take it off!"

He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. He wasn't thinking. His wolf was in control, confused by the severed bond and the visual trigger. He yanked me toward the changing room.

"Let go!" I cried out.

I stumbled over the long train of the dress. My feet tangled in the tulle. I fell forward, hard.

My forehead struck the corner of the gilded mirror stand.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. I collapsed onto the plush carpet, the world spinning. I felt a warm, wet trickle run down my temple, over my cheek, and drip onto the pristine white bodice of the gown.

The metallic scent of blood filled the air.

But it wasn't just metallic. It was sweet. Intoxicating. Like wildflowers blooming in the snow.

The scent of a high-ranking wolf. The scent of a White Wolf, though none of us knew it yet.

Desmond and Antone froze. Their nostrils flared, inhaling the aroma that suddenly dominated the room.

Dallas POV:

The drop of blood bloomed on the white silk like a red rose opening in fast motion.

I touched my forehead, my fingers coming away slick and crimson. The pain was a sharp throb, but the silence in the room was louder.

Desmond was staring at the blood. His eyes had shifted color, the amber of his wolf bleeding into his irises. His chest heaved. The scent of my blood was triggering something primal in him, a protective instinct that fought against his logic. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as they hovered over me. "Dallas... what is this smell? It's... it's divine."

Antone, too, looked dazed. He licked his lips, swayed by the potency of the blood. "You're bleeding."

For a second, just a second, I thought they would help me. I thought the pack instinct—the duty to protect the injured—would override their greed.

"Desmond!" Chelsea shrieked, but he ignored her, his nose practically brushing my neck.

Realizing she was losing him to biology, Chelsea didn't just faint. She smashed a bottle of perfume from the display table onto the floor.

The glass shattered. A wave of synthetic, chemical rose scent assaulted the room, choking and overpowering the delicate aroma of my blood.

"My eyes!" Chelsea screamed, rubbing at her face, though the liquid hadn't touched her. "The glass! Desmond, help me!"

The spell broke. The chemical stench burned Desmond's sensitive nose, snapping him out of the trance.

Desmond stopped. He looked at me, bleeding on the floor, and then at Chelsea, who was wailing on the other side of the room.

The conflict on his face lasted less than a heartbeat.

"Chelsea!" Desmond turned his back on me. He rushed to her side, scooping her up in his arms. "Breathe, darling. I've got you."

"Get her out of here!" Chelsea sobbed into his shirt, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She ruined the dress! She's ruining everything! Her scent is making me sick!"

"Antone, get the car!" Desmond barked.

Antone looked at me one last time. He looked at the blood dripping onto the floor. Then, he looked at his brother carrying the ticket to the family's fortune.

"Right away," Antone said.

They left.

They actually left.

The bell chimed cheerfully as the door closed behind them, leaving me sitting in a pile of ruined tulle and my own blood.

The shop assistants stared at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. In the werewolf world, being abandoned by your Alpha while injured was the ultimate sign of worthlessness. It meant you were lower than a Rogue.

"Miss," one of the assistants said coldly. "You'll have to pay for that dress. And the cleaning of the carpet."

I didn't cry. The tears had dried up days ago.

I slowly stood up, using the mirror for support. My reflection was a stranger. Pale, bloody, wearing a gown meant for a celebration of love, now stained with the evidence of my rejection.

"I'll take it," I said, my voice hollow.

"Excuse me?"

"The dress," I said, wiping the blood from my cheek with the back of my hand. "I'll buy it. Pack it up. Don't bother cleaning it."

I pulled out the emergency credit card the pack had given me for 'travel expenses.' It was hush money, really.

I walked out of the store ten minutes later, a garment bag over my shoulder and a bandage on my forehead. I wasn't buying a wedding dress. I was buying a burial shroud for the girl I used to be.

Dallas Cole died on that floor.

I hailed a taxi. I wasn't going back to the estate. I was going to the harbor.

Dallas POV:

I had tried to avoid the party. I had packed my three suitcases—everything I owned in this world—and planned to head straight to the airport.

But Marcus Morgan had blocked the driveway with his SUV. "Change of plans," he’d said, tossing a dress bag at me. "The Simmons family sent a proxy. A lawyer. He wants to verify the merchandise before the wire transfer clears. You're going to the yacht."

So here I was, standing on the deck of a multi-million dollar yacht, the wind whipping my hair across my face. The bandage on my forehead was hidden by my bangs, but the headache persisted. I was being inspected like a prize horse.

Music thumped from the lower deck. Champagne flowed. The elite of the Morgan and Taylor packs mingled, their laughter sharp and biting. I stood in the shadows near the stern, clutching a glass of water I didn't drink.

"Enjoying the view?"

I stiffened. Antone.

He smelled of whiskey and desperation. He had tried to sneak into my room last night, claiming he wanted to 'say goodbye properly.' I had lied, telling him my heat cycle was starting early and was unstable—a condition that terrified males because it could mess with their own hormones. He had fled.

"Leave me alone, Antone," I said, looking out at the dark water. The yacht was miles from the shore now.

"You're making a mistake," he slurred, leaning against the railing next to me. "You think Simmons will treat you better? He's a beast. I'm the only one who cares about you."

"You care about owning me," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"Antone!" A sharp voice cut through the air.

Chelsea walked toward us. She was wearing a shimmering silver dress that looked like fish scales. She held a glass of champagne, her eyes glittering with something dangerous.

"Go get me another drink, Antone," she ordered.

Antone hesitated, looking between us, but the Beta instinct to obey a high-ranking female won out. He scurried away.

Chelsea stepped into my personal space. Up close, she smelled of citrus and rot.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" she whispered.

"I'm leaving, Chelsea. You won. You have the ring, the Alpha, the money. What more do you want?"

"I want him to stop looking at you," she hissed. Her face twisted. "Do you think I'm stupid? I see the way he looks at you. I smell the ozone on him when he's been near you."

My heart hammered. "I can't control that."

"I know what you are," Chelsea said, her voice dropping to a lethal quiet. "You're his Fated Mate. He didn't tell me, but I figured it out. The rejection... it didn't fully work, did it? The bond is still there."

She took a step closer, forcing me back against the railing. The metal dug into my spine.

"As long as you're alive, he'll never be fully mine. He'll always wonder. He'll always feel that pull."

"I'm going to Seattle," I said, gripping the railing. "I'll be hundreds of miles away."

"Not far enough."

Chelsea smiled, and it was the last thing I saw before she lunged.

She didn't use wolf speed. She just used the element of surprise. She shoved me, her hands slamming into my chest with all her strength.

My center of gravity tipped. My heels slipped on the wet deck.

I flailed, grabbing at the air, grabbing at her dress.

"No!" I screamed.

I went over the rail. My hand caught the fabric of her expensive gown, and with a shriek, she was yanked forward with me.

We plummeted.

The dark water rushed up to meet us.

SPLASH.

The cold was instantaneous. It was a shock that paralyzed my lungs. The ocean swallowed me whole, the salt stinging my eyes.

I kicked, fighting the heavy fabric of my dress, fighting the current. Bubbles chaotically swirled around me.

Above me, through the distortion of the water, I saw two splashes.

Two figures diving in.

Desmond and Antone.

Hope, foolish and fragile, flared in my chest. Desmond was an Alpha. He was a strong swimmer. He was my mate. Instinct would drive him to me.

I reached up, my hand breaking the surface for a split second, gasping for air before a wave slapped me back down.

"Help!" I choked out, swallowing saltwater.

I saw them surface. They were ten feet away.