Serena knew the moment the Alpha King crossed the tavern threshold that her life was about to become complicated in the most violent way possible.
Not because he was powerful—she had learned long ago that power could be survived.
But because her wolf woke up.
It stretched inside her like a creature uncurling from a long, bitter sleep, dragging heat through her veins and anger through her bones. The scent hit her a heartbeat later—dark pine, smoke, moon-warmed steel.
Him.
Her fingers tightened around the mug until the wood creaked.
Not now, she begged silently. Not here.
Across the room, King Alaric Nightfang stood unnaturally still, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his black cloak. His expression was carefully neutral, but Serena saw the tension beneath it—the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw flexed as though he were grinding his teeth.
He didn't recognize her.
That should have hurt less than it did.
Instead, it made something sharp and reckless bloom in her chest.
Good.
Let him look at her like a stranger. Let him feel the pull without understanding why. Let him ache.
She deserved that much.
"Mama," her son murmured, tugging lightly at her sleeve. "You're doing the quiet thing."
She exhaled slowly and forced her shoulders to relax. "I'm fine."
"That's what you say when you're not."
She shot him a look. "Eat your bread."
He chewed obediently, then added, far too casually, "He smells loud."
Serena nearly choked.
"Excuse me?"
The boy shrugged, golden eyes flicking briefly toward the Alpha before returning to his food. "Like thunder trying to pretend it's not going to rain."
She closed her eyes.
Of course he would notice. He always noticed.
"Don't stare," she warned under her breath.
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm judging."
She snorted despite herself, then sobered as she felt it again—that pull, subtle but insistent, like an invisible thread tightening around her ribs.
Alaric moved.
He didn't mean to. He would have sworn later that his feet carried him without permission, that his body responded to something ancient and commanding. One moment he was at the counter, the next he was closer—too close—to the woman with fire in her eyes and a wall built of scars.
His wolf surged forward, snarling in recognition.
Mate.
He swallowed hard.
There was no reason for this. No bond he could sense clearly. No memory to match the certainty burning in his chest. And yet… every instinct he had screamed that she mattered.
That she was his.
"You," he said before he could stop himself.
She turned slowly, one brow arching in sharp amusement. "That's not how introductions work."
A ripple of unease moved through the tavern. Wolves pretended not to listen, failed badly.
Alaric studied her openly now. The curve of her mouth that promised trouble. The way she stood like someone who had learned to defend herself with more than claws.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her smile didn't soften. "You first."
A corner of his mouth twitched despite the tension. "King Alaric Nightfang."
"I know who you are," she said lightly. "That's not what I asked."
Interesting.
"Alaric," he said after a pause.
"Serena," she replied. A lie? No. Just incomplete.
The bond hummed, pleased.
Then his gaze dropped.
The child.
The boy stared back at him with a calm that didn't belong to someone so small. There was no fear in his eyes—only assessment. Alpha to Alpha.
The scent hit Alaric like a blow.
His breath left him in a sharp rush.
Power. Blood. Familiarity.
His heart began to pound, slow and heavy, like a war drum.
"That child—" he began.
Serena stepped in front of her son instantly, her body a barrier, her voice low and deadly calm. "Is not part of this conversation."
Alaric's eyes snapped back to hers, shock giving way to something darker. "He carries my—"
"No," she cut in. "He carries mine."
Silence fell thick and suffocating.
The bond screamed.
Alaric searched her face desperately now, fragments of memory stirring like ghosts—moonlight on bare skin, the taste of guilt, a woman's breath breaking against his neck.
Seven years.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Do I know you?"
Her laugh was quiet and cruel. "Not well enough."
She took her son's hand and turned toward the door.
"Serena," he said sharply.
She paused, just long enough to look back over her shoulder. Her eyes burned.
"If you follow me," she said softly, "I will make you regret it."
Then she was gone.
The tavern doors slammed shut behind her, leaving King Alaric Nightfang standing in the wreckage of a certainty he could no longer deny.
Somewhere in the night, his mate had returned.
And she wanted nothing to do with him.