"You're right, it doesn't. But I never wanted to hurt you. I just wanted to do what was best for the Pack. You know I care about you. You know that, don't you?"

"Do I?" The question came out quieter than I intended, almost fragile, and I hated myself for it. Somewhere beneath my ribs my wolf gave a low, wounded sound I couldn't silence. "Because it doesn't feel that way. You keep saying you care, but your actions tell a different story, Dorian. Every single time."

He drew breath to speak again. I could feel it coming, the same lecture, the same sermon about duty and honor and the weight of the Blackthorn name. He couldn't stop himself. It was as though I were a green pack-warrior who needed to be schooled on the hard truths of pack life, a pup who couldn't grasp what it meant to sit as Alpha over the whole of the eastern territory.

I ended the call without asking permission. Without a goodbye. Without giving him the courtesy of a final word.

The communicator chimed again almost instantly. Dorian's name glowed on the screen, insistent, commanding, the way everything about him was commanding. I watched it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I reached over, held my thumb to the crystal until the light died, and watched it go black.

The den was silent. The city hummed faintly beyond the window, indifferent to the woman sitting alone on a bare mattress in a cold room, holding a dead communicator in hands that would not stop shaking.

Laughter rolled through the great hall of the Nightveil estate like woodsmoke off a hundred hearths, thick and warm and impossible to escape. Ivar's Moon Blessing Day had drawn the entire pack together, every warrior, every Omega, every mate and cousin and distant blood-kin who owed their place to the Blackthorn name. Glasses clinked against glasses. Someone had set old crooning records spinning, and the brass notes drifted beneath the noise of conversation like a current beneath a river.

I scanned the room from my place near the head of the long table. Neva stood at the bar across the hall, a glass of untouched red in her hand, half-turned toward one of the pack healers. She was caught in conversation but not entirely present. Her eyes had that faraway quality, the look of a she-wolf whose mind was somewhere else entirely. It didn't matter. I was glad she came.

She had been busy. The work at the Pack Chronicle had consumed her for weeks, and Ivar had mentioned she wasn't in the mood for a gathering. But here she was, dressed in black silk, her dark hair pinned back, looking like she belonged in every room she entered. That was Neva. Always doing the right thing. Always putting others before herself.

Even from here, beneath the smoke and the wine and the press of so many scents, hers reached me. Fresh frost and white birch, cold river-stone, a thread of moonflower. My wolf lifted toward it the way it always did, and something in me wanted to cross the room.

"Dorian!" Ciara's voice cut through my thoughts, bright and deliberate. She appeared at my elbow, those wide, hopeful eyes turned up at me like a pup begging for permission. Her left arm rested in a sling, the bandage visible beneath the sleeve of her cream-colored blouse. Her scent came with her, sweet honeysuckle laid over something faintly spoiled, and for half a breath my wolf went still and wary without knowing why.

"Could you help me with the prawns and the crab? I can't peel them with my arm like this."

I hesitated. My gaze drifted back toward Neva, still standing at the bar, still talking to the healer. I had meant to go to her. I had meant to pull her aside, ask her how she was, tell her something. Anything.

But Ciara was standing right in front of me, injured, waiting. I couldn't leave her hanging. The debt of honor my father had sworn under the Moon Goddess to her dead mother hung over every interaction like a chain I could not set down.

"Sure," I said, and moved to sit beside her at the table.

"Thank you. You're a lifesaver." Ciara's smile was radiant, the kind of smile that made everyone in the room believe she was exactly what she appeared to be: fragile, grateful, harmless.

I picked up a prawn and began working the shell free with my fingers. Then a crab leg. The work was tedious, beneath the dignity of an Alpha in most circumstances, but this was different. This was Ciara. The obligation was clear. Others in the pack could be demanding in their own ways, but this particular duty carried the weight of a dying Moon Oath.

"You're always so kind to me, Dorian. I don't know what I'd do without you." She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine.

"It's nothing. Just doing what I should."

The shell cracked between my fingers. I set the clean meat on her plate.

Ivar appeared then, two tumblers of aged scotch in his hands. He set one in front of me and dropped into the chair across the table, loosening his collar with his free hand. His scent moved with him, gunmetal and dry pine resin, scorched copper, a faint thread of juniper. His dark eyes flicked to Ciara, then to me, and a knowing look crossed his face.

"You really know how to make a man feel useful, huh?" He raised his glass in a mock toast. "What a gentleman."

I let out a low rumble of a laugh and slid another peeled prawn onto Ciara's plate.

"Just helping a member of this pack who needs it."

Ivar leaned back, swirling the scotch in his glass, and let his gaze drift across the room to where Neva stood. She was alone now. The healer had moved on. She held the same glass of red she'd carried since she arrived, the wine untouched, the stem turning slowly between her fingers as if she were counting the minutes until she could leave.

"Hey, Dorian." Ivar's voice dropped a register, casual but pointed. "Why don't you peel some of those for Neva? I'm sure she'd appreciate it too."

I frowned. The suggestion landed wrong, like a stone dropped into still water, and my wolf pricked its ears at the edge of it. I hadn't come here to spend the evening shelling plates of seafood for every wolf in the room. Neva was perfectly capable of doing it herself.

"Neva's fine. She's just taking a break," I said, and the words sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Ivar raised an eyebrow. He took a slow sip of his scotch and set the glass down with a deliberate clink.

"You really think so? She doesn't look so happy."

"Of course she's fine. She understands I'm here for Ciara because she's hurt. It's not a big deal." I forced a smile and glanced toward Neva. She stood with her arms at her sides, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on some middle distance that included neither me nor anyone else. She looked irritated. More than irritated. Beneath the lavish scents of the gathering, her own threaded through, fresh frost and white birch gone cold and still, the way a forest goes silent before something breaks.

Ciara's gaze darted between us, quick and alert beneath those long lashes. Her expression shifted, the brightness dimming into something softer, more concerned. She set down her fork and pressed her good hand to her chest.

"I hope I'm not causing trouble between you two." Her voice was barely above a whisper, threaded with worry. "I wouldn't want Neva to feel like I'm coming between you. After all, she is your Intended, Dorian. She deserves some attention from you, too."

"No, you're not," I replied quickly. Too quickly. Doubt crept in through the cracks of my certainty like cold air through an old window. I caught Neva's eye across the room, and for one brief second our gazes locked. Then she looked away, sharp and final, as if cutting a thread.

"She knows I'm just helping."

I cracked another crab leg and set the white meat on Ciara's plate. The silence between my words felt heavier than it should have. Something in her scent caught at the edge of my senses, sweet honeysuckle laid over something faintly spoiled, and my wolf shifted low in my chest, uneasy, before I pushed the feeling down.

"You're such a good Alpha, Dorian." Ciara tilted her head, studying me with an expression that hovered between admiration and something else I couldn't name. "It's nice to see you take care of your pack."

I shrugged, dismissing the praise. "It's just what I do. You're part of this pack, Ciara. It's my responsibility to make sure everyone is safe."

She smiled again, that same luminous, practiced smile, and leaned close enough that her scent washed over me, sugared almond, too sweet, with that thread of cold ash underneath.

"Still, you make it look effortless."

I couldn't help but return the smile, but my gaze betrayed me. It drifted across the room to Neva. She had moved away from the bar entirely, retreating to the far wall near the entrance to the foyer. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she watched us with an expression that had gone past irritation into something colder. Something I didn't recognize.

A pang of unease settled beneath my ribs, but I brushed it off. She had to understand. This was simply part of what it meant to lead a pack. The Moon Oath my father swore was not optional, and the debts we carried under the Goddess's eye were not the kind a wolf could set down.

When the main course was served, platters of slow-braised venison and wild river-trout carried in by the den's stewards on silver trays, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Neva had never been this angry. Not like this. She had always understood the obligations, the weight of my father's promises, the impossible balance I had to maintain. She had never made things difficult.

"Neva, want some of the trout?" I called out across the room, trying to break the ice that had formed between us.

She looked up. Her expression was neutral, controlled, the face of a woman who had decided exactly how much of herself she was willing to show.

"No, I'm good. Thanks." Her voice was steady but distant, as if she were speaking to a stranger.

Before I could respond, Ivar leaned forward in his chair and raised his voice with theatrical warmth. The gunmetal-and-juniper of him sharpened as he spoke. "Come on, Neva. You can't just stand over there all night. Join us. Dorian's practically running the whole hunt over here."

Neva smiled. It was polite, precise, and completely empty.

"Really, I'm fine." She set her untouched glass of wine on the nearest surface. "I think I'm going to head home."

"Already?" I straightened in my chair, genuinely surprised. "It's still early."

"I've got work tomorrow." She smoothed the front of her dress with both hands, a gesture of finality. "Tell Ivar happy Moon Blessing Day for me."

She looked at me then, and her eyes were dark and quiet and stripped of every trace of warmth they used to hold. It was like looking at a photograph of someone I once knew.

"Wait." I stood immediately, my chair scraping against the stone floor. "Let me walk you out."

"There's no need. I'll be fine." Her voice was firm, the kind of firm that left no room for negotiation.

A tightness coiled in my chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. Somewhere beneath it, my wolf had gone to its feet, watching her go, a growl building low and then dying because I gave it no command.

"Neva, come on. We barely got to talk tonight. Can't you stay a bit longer?"

"I can't. I really need to go." A thread of frustration pulled taut beneath her words, and then she turned.

Just like that. She walked toward the door without looking back, her heels striking the polished stone in a rhythm that sounded like a countdown. I watched her disappear through the arched doorway into the foyer, her frost-and-birch scent thinning, fading, gone. And my stomach twisted into a knot I couldn't untie.

What was going on with her?

Ciara looked up at me from the table, her lower lip trembling, her eyes glassy with the threat of tears that seemed to materialize whenever the moment required them.

"She seems upset. Are you sure everything's okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine," I replied, but my voice lacked conviction. I was still staring at the empty doorway.

"I can't help but feel like I'm causing problems." Ciara pressed her fingers to her lips, her brow creasing. "I'm sorry about my injury yesterday. I didn't mean to come between you two. I'm sure she was deeply hurt that your Mating Ceremony got postponed. The Moon-Bound Union. I would feel the same way, too."

"You're not causing anything. Neva knows that." I sat back down, but the chair felt wrong beneath me, like the room itself had shifted. "It's just... she's tired, I guess. I'll send word to her."

I pulled my communicator from the inside pocket of my jacket and typed with both thumbs: Neva, let me know when you get home. We need to talk.

I sent it.

The message failed. A small red mark bloomed beside it, mocking and absolute.

I frowned. Tried again. Failed again. I pressed the call rune and lifted the communicator to my ear. It went straight to the silence at the end of the line, that flat tone reciting her number back to me as if I didn't already know it by heart.

I lowered the communicator and stared at the dark crystal in disbelief.

Neva had cut me off completely.