Ronan Blackthorn does not arrive quietly.
I feel him before I see him.
The territory shudders as if something ancient has crossed an invisible line, the air thickening with Alpha power so dense it presses against my lungs. Wolves along the outer grounds straighten instinctively, spines locking, heads snapping up in unison.
The pack knows.
I'm standing at the top of the marble steps when his convoy breaches the gates—three black vehicles cutting through the morning mist like blades. My parents flank me, Mother immaculate in silver, Father rigid with barely concealed satisfaction.
I keep my face smooth.
Inside, my wolf is screaming.
Danger, she whispers. Power.
The cars stop with military precision. Engines cut. Doors open.
He steps out last.
Alpha Ronan Blackthorn is taller than I expected. Broader. Dressed in black like it's a second skin, dark hair brushing his collar, sharp eyes scanning the grounds with a calculating calm that makes my pulse stutter.
This is not a man who needs to raise his voice.
The world listens anyway.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then his gaze lifts.
And locks on me.
The impact is visceral.
Not the lightning-strike certainty the shamans describe. Not the rush of warmth and belonging I felt with Jonah.
This is different.
Heavy. Commanding. Like standing too close to a storm and realizing it has already decided where to strike.
Something deep in my chest twists painfully.
Ronan's expression doesn't change—but his eyes darken, just slightly, as if he's recognized something he wasn't expecting.
My wolf recoils.
This is wrong, she whispers. This isn't—
"Alpha Blackthorn," my father says, stepping forward. "Welcome to Silverfall."
Ronan inclines his head just enough to be polite. "Alpha Vale."
His voice is low. Even. Dangerous in its restraint.
His gaze never fully leaves me.
"This is my daughter, Elara," Mother says smoothly. "Our future Luna."
The words feel like a chain settling around my throat.
Ronan finally looks away—only to look back again a heartbeat later, more sharply this time. His nostrils flare almost imperceptibly.
Scent.
Recognition flickers across his features, gone so fast I might have imagined it.
But my wolf knows.
She presses against the inside of my ribs, panicked and confused.
He smells like the forest after blood, she murmurs. And loss.
Ronan steps closer. Each footfall echoes like a countdown.
When he stops in front of me, the space between us hums with tension. He studies my face, my posture, the careful stillness I've mastered over years of training.
"You look well," he says.
Not a compliment.
An assessment.
"Thank you for coming," I reply, my voice steady despite the way my pulse is racing. "We're honored."
A lie. But a practiced one.
His mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. "Are you?"
Before I can answer, Mother intervenes. "Please, Alpha Blackthorn. Allow us to show you to your rooms. You must be tired from your journey."
"Later," he says. His eyes don't leave mine. "I'd like to walk the grounds first."
Father hesitates, then nods. "Of course."
Ronan turns, already expecting compliance.
And just like that, my fate shifts again.
We walk in silence.
The training fields. The patrol routes. The eastern forest line. Ronan observes everything with unsettling focus, asking pointed questions about supply lines and warrior rotations that leave my father scrambling to keep up.
I trail a step behind, acutely aware of Ronan's presence beside me.
Too close.
Too aware.
Every so often, his gaze flicks to me, sharp and probing, as if he's listening to something beneath my skin.
"You haven't shifted," he says suddenly.
The words land like a blow.
My father stiffens. Mother's smile falters for the briefest moment.
"I've been adjusting since my return," I answer carefully.
Ronan hums low in his throat. "Adjustment doesn't suppress instinct."
Heat crawls up my spine.
He stops walking.
Everyone else halts immediately.
Ronan turns to face me fully now, his power unfurling just enough to make the air vibrate. Not a threat.
A test.
"You're tense," he says quietly. "And you're hurting."
My breath catches.
No one has ever said that to me before.
"I'm fine," I lie.
His eyes search my face, uncomfortably perceptive. "You smell like grief."
Mother laughs lightly. "Alpha Blackthorn, you must forgive my daughter. She's been overwhelmed by her return home."
Ronan doesn't look at her.
"She was already overwhelmed before she came home," he says.
The certainty in his voice sends a chill through me.
Before anyone can respond, a sharp cry echoes from the far end of the grounds.
A commotion. Raised voices.
Ronan's head snaps up, eyes narrowing.
"What was that?"
Father pales. "Probably nothing. An Omega—"
Ronan is already moving.
My heart slams against my ribs as he strides toward the noise, power crackling around him like a living thing.
I follow without thinking.
I don't know why.
I only know that somewhere deep inside me, something broken and aching is beginning to stir.
And I am terrified of what might happen if it wakes.