The parchment slid across the greasy breakfast table, stopping inches from my untouched oatmeal.

"Sign it," my father said, not bothering to look up from his ledger. "The contract is finalized. You belong to the Blackthorn Pack now."

I stared at the heavy wax seal bearing the mark of an Alpha known across three territories for tearing rivals apart with his bare hands. "You promised I had until the spring equinox."

"Plans change," Dorian sneered from across the table.

Before I could pull away, my brother reached over and yanked the silver wolf-tooth necklace straight off my collarbone. The thin chain snapped, biting into the back of my neck.

"Hey! That was grandmother's—"

"It's mine now," Dorian said, slipping it into his jacket pocket with a smug grin. "You won't need silver where you're going. You won't even need shoes."

Seraphine laughed into her teacup, her polished nails catching the morning light. "Ronan will use you as a scullery slave, Maris. If you're lucky, he might let you sleep on the kennel floor. Don't expect your own room."

"Enough," my father snapped, though his glare was aimed solely at me. "The Blackthorn Alpha demanded a tribute bride to cement our border treaty. You are a token of our pack's loyalty. You will go quietly, and you will not embarrass this family."

No one asked if I wanted to go. No one asked how I felt about being handed over to a monster.

An hour later, my mother tossed a battered leather suitcase onto the floor of my cramped attic bedroom. The zipper was broken, and one of the buckles hung by a thread.

"Pack your clothes," she said coldly. "The transport arrives at noon."

I packed what little I owned into the ruined bag. Three worn sweaters, two pairs of faded jeans, and a pair of boots with worn-out soles.

For nineteen years, I had been the invisible labor of this house. While Seraphine bought silk gowns in town and Dorian wrecked expensive trucks, I scrubbed grease from the kitchen tiles, washed blood out of the pack warriors' hunting gear, and ate cold leftovers off the cutting board after everyone else went to sleep.

High school had been no different. Dorian and Seraphine made sure the entire student body treated me like a parasite. If someone sat near me in the cafeteria, Dorian shoved them against the lockers. If a teacher praised my essays, Seraphine spread rumors that I stole the work.

The only person who ever showed me kindness was Silas. He was an outsider who lived near the edge of our territory. Whenever the cruelty got unbearable, I would slip away to the boundary line, where Silas would already be waiting. He never pushed me to talk. He just sat on a fallen log and left a thermos of hot tea steaming by the tree roots, giving me the only peace I ever knew.

Now, even that was gone.

The transport dropped me off at the iron gates of Blackthorn Keep just as the sun dipped behind the jagged pine ridges. Cold mountain fog rolled over the gravel path.

I hauled my broken suitcase with both hands, my shoulders tense, braced for the guards to drag me inside by my hair.

Then the heavy wooden doors swung open.

A man stepped out onto the wide stone porch. He was tall, his broad shoulders practically blocking the light from the lanterns behind him. A heavy black coat hung over his frame, and dark hair fell across a sharp, cut-glass jawline.

Then the wind shifted.

The scent hit me instantly—crisp balsam fir, cold mountain rain, and the deep, clean edge of obsidian.

Inside my chest, my wolf, Wren, slammed violently against my ribs. Her claws dug into my consciousness, whining and howling in sheer, desperate recognition.

*Mate.*

My knees nearly buckled. The blood rushed to my ears so loudly that I could barely hear the wind in the trees.

The terrifying Alpha of Blackthorn—the beast my family used as a threat to keep me obedient—was my fated mate.

Ronan stood at the top of the steps, his amber eyes locking directly onto mine. I saw the sudden flare in his pupils, the slight flinching of his fingers at his sides. He felt it too. Every single cord of the bond snapped into place between us like struck iron.

I froze, waiting for the demand. I waited for him to grab my wrist, to drag me across the threshold and claim what the treaty had bought him.

Instead, Ronan stayed where he was. He lowered his gaze slightly, softening the harsh set of his brow.

"Mrs. Gable," he said, his voice deep and smooth, without an ounce of cruelty in it.

An older woman with silver hair stepped out from the foyer, wrapping a woolen shawl around her shoulders.

"Take her upstairs," Ronan instructed quietly. "Show her to the east suite. Make sure the hearth is lit."

He didn't touch me. He didn't order me to bow. He simply stepped back, leaving an open path between us, giving me plenty of space as I hurried through the front doors with my head down.

Mrs. Gable led me up a wide oak staircase and down a quiet, carpeted corridor. When she pushed open the door to the east suite, I stopped dead in my tracks.

The room was larger than the entire ground floor of my father's house. A stone fireplace crackled with birch logs, throwing golden warmth across a massive king-sized bed piled high with plush down comforters. A wardrobe stood open against the far wall, revealing clean, soft woolen sweaters and tailored trousers in my exact size. Through an adjoining doorway, I could see a private bathroom with polished copper faucets and a clawfoot tub.

"There are fresh towels by the tub, dear," Mrs. Gable said gently. "Rest now. Dinner will be brought up shortly."

She closed the door behind her, leaving me alone in the quiet warmth.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I dropped the battered suitcase onto the floor and backed away from the bed.

It was too much. Families didn't give gifts without strings. Alphas didn't provide soft blankets to tribute brides unless they planned to take something far worse in return. I kept waiting for the trap to spring, waiting for the guards to tell me it was a joke before throwing me into the basement.

A floorboard creaked in the hall outside.

My spine went rigid. I spun toward the door, my knuckles whitening as I clamped my hands over my chest.

A shadow fell across the threshold. The door was slightly ajar, but Ronan didn't push it open. He stood in the hallway, three feet back from the entrance, his hands resting loosely in the pockets of his dark trousers.

Through the narrow gap, the scent of balsam and rain drifted into the room.

My skin heated under my sweater. A feverish, electric warmth hummed through my veins, and Wren whined in the back of my mind, begging me to close the distance between us.

I looked at Ronan's jaw. The muscle there ticked tightly, his throat working as he swallowed down his wolf's possessive instinct. He wanted to step inside. Every Alpha instinct he possessed was screaming at him to claim his mate, yet his feet remained glued to the hallway carpet.

He refused to crowd me.

"You don't have to hide behind the dresser, Maris," he said. His voice was steady, holding a quiet authority that didn't demand submission. "I won't cross this threshold unless you invite me."

I swallowed the dryness in my throat. "My father said... Seraphine said I was traded to work."

Ronan looked at the beat-up leather bag lying by my feet, then back up to my face. A dark shadow passed over his golden eyes, but when he spoke, his tone was entirely calm.

"Your father can write whatever lies he wants on his paper," Ronan said softly. "Here, no one will treat you like a tribute. It's only a real marriage if you choose to stay."

He turned and walked down the hall, his footsteps fading into the quiet house.

I stood by the crackling fire, the warmth sinking into my cold skin, wondering if the nightmare I had prepared for was already over.

The dining hall was cold and vast, lit by iron chandeliers that hung from vaulted stone beams.

A dark oak table stretched the length of the room. When I walked in, my heart hammered against my ribs, and my feet naturally carried me to the farthest wooden chair at the very corner.

At my father's house, I was only allowed to touch the food after Dorian and Seraphine pushed their empty plates away. Sitting near the head of any table was an offense that earned a backhand.

I folded my hands in my lap, keeping my head bowed.

Heavy footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Ronan stepped into the room, wearing a simple dark wool sweater that clung to his broad chest. He glanced at the empty seat beside him, then looked down the long expanse of wood to where I sat.

"Maris," he said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the empty space. "What are you doing all the way down there?"

"I can wait," I said quickly. "If you want to eat first, I don't mind."

Ronan pulled out the heavy carved chair immediately to his right. "Come sit here. You don't eat scraps in this house."

I hesitated, my muscles locking up, before I forced myself to stand. My boots squeaked against the polished slate as I walked the length of the table. Every instinct told me this was a test, but Ronan simply held the chair steady until I sat down, sliding it in gently behind me.

A side door swung open, and an older man in an apron carried out a steaming tray.

"Good evening, Alpha. Miss Maris," the cook said. His silver hair was neatly combed, though his hands shook as he set down two bowls of braised beef, roasted root vegetables, and thick slices of warm bread.

The aroma made my stomach twist with hunger. It smelled like garlic, thyme, and rich brown butter.

"Thank you, Mr. Rowe," I murmured, taking a tentative forkful of the tender meat. The savory flavor hit my tongue, warm and rich. "This is delicious. Truly."

Edwin Rowe blinked, his weathered face flushing with surprise. "You like it, miss?"

"It's the best thing I've ever tasted," I said honestly. Then I noticed the way his right fingers twitched as he set the salt cellar down. "Does your wrist hurt, sir? You've been holding it stiffly since you came in."

The old cook froze. He looked down at his bandaged wrist, then back up at me with wide eyes. "Just a bit of arthritis from the damp weather, miss. Nothing to worry about."

"Soaking it in hot birch bark tea helps," I offered quietly. "My grandmother used to do that when the mountain frost set in."

Beside me, Ronan hadn't touched his food. His golden eyes were fixed on my face, watching every bite I chewed. Only after I swallowed my third mouthful did he finally pick up his fork.

He ate steadily, his movements smooth and quiet. When his plate was clean, he pushed it forward slightly.

"Edwin," Ronan said.

The cook hurried out from near the pantry door. "Yes, Alpha?"

"Bring another serving, please."

Edwin Rowe stood stock-still for two seconds before stammering, "Right away, Alpha. Right away."

When the cook disappeared into the kitchen, the heavy door swung shut behind him, but it didn't latch completely. Through the crack, I heard a ragged gasp, followed by a muffled sob.

Alarm flared in my chest. "Did I say something wrong?"

Mrs. Gable stepped out from the sideboard, pouring water into my glass. Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears.

"No, child," she whispered, her voice tight with emotion. "You did nothing wrong. The Alpha hasn't finished a full meal at this table in over six months. He usually takes black coffee to his study and works until dawn."

I glanced at Ronan. He didn't deny it. He simply took a slice of bread and tore it in half, placing the larger piece on my plate.

Before I could process that, a loud crash echoed near the hallway archway. A young teenage attendant had dropped a tray of crystal glasses. Shards scattered across the stone, and water pooled around his shoes.

"I'm sorry!" the boy gasped, dropping to his knees. He began frantically grabbing shards with bare hands, his knuckles trembling so hard they knocked against the floor. "Please, Alpha, I didn't mean to—I'll pay for them, please don't—"

"Stop," I called out, rising from my seat before I could think twice.

The boy looked up, his pale face white with sheer terror.

I turned toward Ronan, putting myself slightly between him and the boy. "The floor was wet by the threshold, Ronan. He slipped. It wasn't his fault."

I braced myself for the shout. In my father's hall, breaking a glass meant being locked in the cellar for the night.

Ronan looked at me, then looked down at the boy on the floor.

"Leave the glass, Peter," Ronan said evenly. "Have the guards sweep it up before someone cuts their feet. Tell the quartermaster to log the replacement from the pantry account."

The boy stared, blinking in disbelief. "Y-yes, Alpha. Thank you, Alpha."

"Go wash your hands," Ronan added.

The boy scrambled to his feet and practically bolted down the corridor.

Over the next three days, the cold tension in the keep began to thaw.

The pack members who had glared at me from the courtyards started watching me with curiosity instead of suspicion. When one of the guard's young pups tore his paw on sharp shale behind the stables, I sat on the frozen ground and cleaned the cut with witch hazel, wrapping it carefully until the whimpering pup licked my cheek.

Two nights later, during a sudden mountain downpour, I found a lost four-year-old girl crying near the west gatehouse. Instead of leaving her, I wrapped my own jacket around her shivering frame and sat under the stone eaves, talking softly to keep her calm until the search patrol found us.

By the end of the week, the whispers in the halls had shifted. They no longer called me the unwanted tribute.

On Sunday evening, Ronan summoned me to his ground-floor study. Maps and border treaties covered the mahogany desk.

"You took classes in town before you came here," Ronan said without preamble.

I stiffened, my fingers curling into my sweater hem. "Yes. Business and regional history at the college."

"You're going back tomorrow," he said. He slid a folder toward me. "Your tuition is settled. A car will take you in the morning and bring you back every afternoon."

I stared at him. "My father said marriage meant I was done with school."

"Your father isn't here," Ronan replied. "You have a right to your future, Maris. Pack your books."

The next morning, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the main university gates. The engine purred like a sleeping cat, the polished paint gleaming under the overcast sky.

The moment the driver opened my door, the entire quad went silent.

Dozens of students stopped walking. Heads turned, eyes narrowing as they took in the expensive vehicle and the silver crest stamped on the front bumper.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I grabbed my canvas bag, pulled my collar high, and practically stumbled out onto the concrete. I wanted to sink through the pavement and disappear.

"Well, well. Look what crawled out of the luxury car."

A shrill voice cut through the murmurs.

Brielle stood at the center of the walkway, flanked by three girls from the elite pack families. Her designer leather jacket was zipped to her chin, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Brielle," I said quietly, trying to sidestep her.

She shifted to block my path. "Did you really think a shiny car would make everyone forget what you are? You're a purchased stray."

Several students in the surrounding circle snickered.

"Leave me alone," I muttered.

"Your own father couldn't wait to unload you," Brielle sneered, taking a step closer until her breath hit my face. "He traded you like livestock to pay off his border debts. And what did you do? You spread your legs to trick Alpha Ronan into keeping you in the main house instead of the kennels. How pathetic."

My hands shook around my bag straps. "You don't know anything about it."

"I know Ronan Blackthorn wouldn't touch trash like you unless he was forced," she snapped, her voice carrying across the entire courtyard. "You're a disgrace."

I kept my mouth shut and pushed past her shoulder, rushing into the lecture hall with my head down.

By noon, the humiliation had followed me to the dining commons.

I bought a bowl of cheap potato soup and a roll, carrying the plastic tray toward an empty table near the exit. I just wanted to finish eating in peace and get through the afternoon.

A sudden, violent shove struck my shoulder from behind.

The tray flew out of my hands.

The bowl shattered on the linoleum floor, splashing greasy, lukewarm soup directly across the front of my cream sweater and the thighs of my jeans. Thick yellow broth dripped down my sleeves, smelling heavily of stale bacon fat and old onions.

Laughter erupted in a wave around me.

Brielle stood right behind where I had been walking, holding an empty water bottle with an exaggerated look of shock on her face.

"Oops," she giggled, loud enough for thirty people to hear. "Clumsy me. But honestly, Maris, that cheap soup matches your clothes anyway."

Her friends laughed, pointing at the dark, oily stain spreading across my chest.

I stood there in the middle of the crowded cafeteria, my skin burning with humiliation. Inside my chest, Wren curled into a tight, trembling ball, whimpering with deep shame and impotent rage.

I couldn't fight back. If I fought Brielle, her family would complain to the council. They would say Ronan's tribute was violent. They would say I was a feral liability.

Without saying a single word, I grabbed a handful of paper napkins, wiped what I could off my jeans, and walked out into the cold rain to wait for my afternoon classes.

By the time the sedan brought me back to Blackthorn Keep that evening, the soup had dried into a stiff, crusty patch on my sweater. The greasy smell clung to my hair and skin like a badge of failure.

I tried to slip past the foyer silently, hoping to reach the stairs before anyone saw me.

"Maris."

The deep voice came from the open study doorway.

Ronan walked out into the corridor. The moment he crossed the threshold, his head tilted. His jaw locked instantly.

He didn't just smell the dried food. With his Alpha senses, he smelled the sourness of my cold sweat, the lingering terror, and the sharp, bitter tang of raw humiliation that was pouring off my skin.

His amber eyes turned completely dark, glowing with dangerous fury.

"What happened to your clothes?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet. "Who touched you?"

I pulled my arms across my chest, plastering a tired, rehearsed smile onto my face, the exact same smile I had used for nineteen years to stop my father from asking questions.

"Nothing," I whispered. "I was just clumsy at lunch and dropped my tray. Today was fine. Everything was fine."

Ronan stared down at me. The anger in his eyes didn't vanish, but something cracked behind the golden irises—a quiet, devastating realization.

He saw right through the mask. He saw that hiding her pain wasn't just a habit for her.

It was the only way she knew how to stay alive.

I waited until the grandfather clock in the lower hall chimed two in the morning.

The keep was pitch-black, save for the dying embers of the central hearth. Clutched against my chest was the stained sweater and my dirty jeans, wrapped in a bundle so the sour grease wouldn't brush against the hallway runners.

At my father's house, bringing ruined clothes to the laundry meant kneeling on gravel while my mother lectured me on wastefulness. The servants here were kind, but I knew better than to test that kindness. Strangers always tired of burdening themselves for a stray.

I slipped out through the scullery door into the bitter night air.

Frost coated the stone pavers of the courtyard, crunching faintly beneath my socks. The detached washhouse was dark and freezing, smelling of lye soap and damp wood. I didn't dare turn on the overhead bulb, fearing the light might catch the attention of the perimeter guards.

Working by the pale moonlight filtering through the high rafters, I pumped ice-cold well water into a zinc washbasin.

The water stung like needles. Within seconds, my knuckles turned raw and white. I grabbed a block of harsh laundry soap and went to work, scrubbing the thick broth out of the wool fibers with everything I had. My fingers went numb, losing sensation until each scrape against the washboard sent dull aches shooting up my wrists.

Still, I didn't stop until the fabric was spotless.

I wrung out the heavy wool, hung both pieces over the drying line near the back boiler, and hurried back upstairs before my teeth stopped chattering.

I thought I had been careful.

I didn't see the kitchen maid standing by the pantry window, watching me carry my soaked bucket in the dark.

***

When the black sedan brought me to the university gates the next morning, the quad looked entirely different.

The usual bustling chatter had vanished, replaced by an uneasy, stifled silence. Small clusters of students stood near the stone pillars of the main hall, whispering behind raised hands and staring toward the administrative office.

A security officer in a dark uniform stood by the glass entrance, holding a clipboard.

Posted right beside the main directory was a sealed white notice carrying the official stamp of the regional council and the crest of the Blackthorn Alpha.

*Disciplinary Action: Code of Conduct Violations.*

I stopped, my boots glued to the pavement as I scanned the bold print.

Brielle and three other students from prominent pack bloodlines had been placed under formal investigation for aggravated harassment. Two of them had already received two-week suspensions, stripped of their campus privileges and barred from pack gatherings.

My stomach dropped into a cold pit.

Ronan hadn't believed my lie. He had gone straight over the heads of the university board, demanding an inquiry before the sun even rose.

For a single, fragile second, relief flickered through my ribs. I thought the nightmare was over. I thought the threat had finally backed down.

I was wrong.

"You think you're clever, don't you?"

The voice hissed from the shadows of the side colonnade.

Before I could turn, a rough hand grabbed the hood of my coat and yanked me off the main walkway, dragging me behind the heavy stone arches of the old arts wing.

Brielle shoved me against the rough brick wall. Her face was flushed crimson, her eyes wide with unhinged fury. Beside her stood two of the girls from yesterday, their jaws set tight.

"Brielle, stop," I gasped, clutching my canvas bag against my ribs. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" Brielle took a step closer, jabbing a manicured finger hard into my collarbone. "My father got a call at dawn from the Alpha's enforcers. My record is flagged. I'm suspended from the spring summit because of you!"

"I didn't say anything to him," I said, my voice shaking. "I swear I didn't. I told him I dropped my tray."

"Liar!" she snapped, slapping my hands away from my chest. "You ran straight back to his bed and cried like a pathetic dog. You couldn't handle a little soup, so you had your buyer threaten our families!"

"I didn't report you!"

"Shut your mouth," the girl to her left sneered. "Look at you. You're weak. You're ugly. You're nothing but a worthless runt whose family traded her away like damaged livestock. You think Ronan actually wants you? You're just a pity case living off his handouts."

"What's going on here?"

A sharp, familiar voice cut through the damp air.

My heart seized. Dorian walked around the corner of the colonnade, wearing his expensive varsity jacket, his hands jammed into his pockets.

For half a second, the naive part of me hoped my brother had come to stop them.

Then he looked at me, and his mouth twisted in sheer disgust.

"Dorian," I whispered.

"Shut up, Maris," he said coldly. "Our father just got summoned by the regional council. Blackthorn is reviewing our pack's trade permits because of this childish bullshit. Do you have any idea how much embarrassment you've brought on our family?"

"She poured food on me, Dorian," I choked out. "She's been doing it since yesterday."

"Then you should have handled it quietly," he snapped, stepping right up to me, his shadow blocking out the light. "Instead, you drag our name into a public inquiry. You make us look like incompetent weaklings who can't even keep a tribute in line. You're a stain on our bloodline."

He turned his back on me and looked at Brielle.

"Do whatever you want with her," Dorian said flatly. "Just make sure she learns to keep her mouth shut."

He walked away without looking back once.

"Grab her," Brielle ordered.

Hands seized my forearms. I tried to pull back, kicking my boots against the stone, but the two girls twisted my wrists behind my back, pinning me against the cold wall.

Brielle grabbed my hair and dragged me down the narrow stairs leading to the basement maintenance corridor.

The lower level was deserted, smelling of dust, mildew, and rusted pipes. They shoved me through a heavy iron door at the end of the hall, slamming it shut behind us.

The room had no windows. A single bare bulb hung from a frayed wire overhead, buzzing faintly.

"Let me go!" I shouted, struggling against the grip on my arms.

A sharp slap cracked across my face. The force of it whipped my head sideways, the copper taste of blood bursting over my tongue.

"Kneel," Brielle hissed.

One of the girls kicked the back of my knee. My leg buckled, and I slammed hard onto the filthy concrete.

Before I could push myself up, Brielle reached into her leather tote and pulled out a heavy pair of silver utility shears.

My blood turned to ice. "No. Please. Brielle, don't—"

"You like acting like a high-and-mighty Alpha's bride?" Brielle sneered, grabbing a thick handful of my dark hair.

The blades crunched together.

The sound was sickening—a harsh, grinding shear of metal through hair. Long strands fell across my eyes, tumbling onto the grimy floor like dead leaves.

"Please stop!" Tears burned down my cheeks, blurring the room into smears of gray. "I didn't tell him! I swear on my life, I didn't tell him!"

They laughed.

Brielle hacked away in frantic, jagged clumps, tossing the severed locks into the dust. "Keep crying, Maris. Maybe your Alpha will hear you from across the valley."

The other girl pulled a smartphone from her pocket, aiming the lens directly at my face.

"Strip her jacket," Brielle ordered. "Strip all of it. Let's see how proud Blackthorn is when the whole campus sees what his precious tribute actually looks like."

Hands tore at my clothes.

I fought, thrashing my shoulders, but they pinned my wrists to the floor. My jacket was ripped away, the fabric tearing at the seams. Fingers grabbed the hem of my shirt, wrenching it over my head, followed by the rest of my outerwear until my bare skin pressed against the freezing concrete.

The camera flash flared against my eyes.

"Look at the camera, stray," the girl with the phone mocked. "Beg for it. Tell everyone how sorry you are."

"Please," I sobbed, my forehead pressed against the dirt, trembling so violently that my teeth clicked together. "Please, just stop... please..."

Deep inside my ribs, Wren roared.

My wolf clawed desperately at my consciousness, trying to force the shift, trying to rip through skin and bone to tear these tormentors apart.

*Fight!* she screamed in my mind. *Shift!*

Agony flared through my spine. My joints cracked, burning with the sudden surge of energy. But my body was too depleted. Nineteen years of starvation, exhaustion, and broken bones betrayed me. The shift failed, the spark dying out like water poured over dry embers. Wren collapsed inside me, whining in weak, helpless defeat.

I couldn't fight. I couldn't protect myself.

The will to resist drained out of my limbs. I gave up, curling my bare body inward, wrapping my bruised arms tightly around my trembling shoulders as the cold air bit into my skin.

Laughter bounced off the concrete walls.

Then, the laughter stopped.

A sound echoed from the far end of the maintenance hallway.

Heavy, thunderous footsteps.

The vibration traveled through the concrete floor, rattling the iron pipes along the ceiling. It wasn't the hurried stride of a security guard or the casual walk of a student. It was the crushing, measured cadence of an apex predator.

Brielle froze, the shears slipping from her fingers and clattering against the ground.

The room went dead silent.

My vision began to darken at the edges, the cold and the pain pulling me downward into a thick, suffocating fog. My head sank to the floor, my breath shallow and weak.

Through the haze, from somewhere down the corridor, a voice ripped through the dark, shaking the very foundation of the building.

"Maris!"

I couldn't hold on. My eyelids drifted shut, the darkness swallowing the room whole.

Right outside the locked door, the footsteps halted.

The air beneath the gap turned thick, carrying the crisp scent of balsam fir and mountain rain, suffocating in its absolute fury.

He caught it all through the wood—the metallic tang of my blood, the salt of my tears, and the stench of the strangers who had laid hands on his mate.

Outside that door, Ronan Blackthorn lost every ounce of his control.