The worst part wasn't the initial shock. It was the after.
I woke up with my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached, like my body had spent the night trying to chew through the memory. The room was still dim and cold, the kind of pre-dawn chill that sank into the bones of the packhouse and stayed there until someone finally started a fire in the hall.
I lay still for a minute, staring at the ceiling boards, and tried to make the world make sense. Because last night made no sense.
My chest still felt… tight. Not painful, not exactly, but like the air had been thick for too long. If I breathed too deep, it was like my ribs remembered being too close to someone else's.
No. Not remembered. It wasn't a memory if it hadn't happened.
I rolled onto my side and buried my face into the pillow, like that could smother it. I tried to replay it and failed, because every time I got close, my thoughts slid away like they'd hit ice.
The scent. The snap. That electric, sudden certainty that had lit me up like a match.
And then… His face. His reaction.
Or lack of one.
I exhaled and sat up. My hair fell loose around my shoulders in tight curls, thick ringlets that framed my face and brushed past them. It had never been something I could tame, not really, and sleep only made it wilder. In the weak light, it looked like ink, dark and glossy against my pale tank top. I pushed a curl back with my fingers and tried not to spiral.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood. In the little mirror nailed to the wall, my eyes looked darker than usual. Not because they'd changed, but because exhaustion sat heavy beneath them. My skin looked the way it always did, rich brown and even, familiar. My face was bare and plain.
I looked like me. I didn't look like someone who'd just had her entire life tilt sideways. That was part of what made it worse.
I pulled on a sweater and pants and twisted my hair into a messy bun that barely held. Then I moved through the packhouse like a ghost, keeping my head down, avoiding the main hallway where the early risers gathered. I didn't want questions. I didn't want the casual, nosy glance of someone who thought they could read my face. Because what if they could?
I made it to the bathrooms, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at myself again.
Did I imagine it? That was the question I couldn't stop asking.
Not because I didn't trust my senses. I did. I trusted them with my life. Wolves survived on instincts, and even if I wasn't the loudest or the boldest, I had never been stupid.
But his reaction had been wrong.
If that was my mate, then why had he looked at me like I was an inconvenience? Like I was something he'd already decided not to want?
And if it wasn't my mate, then what was it. What had happened?
I dried my face with a soft towel and shoved it into the bin. My hands shook just a little. Stop. You can't keep doing this.
I took a slow breath and made myself go find someone I trusted.
Which, in this packhouse, meant exactly one person.
The dining hall wasn't fully alive yet, but it was waking. The smell of coffee drifted through the air, along with something hearty simmering in the kitchen. Long wooden tables filled the room. At one end, the floor lifted into a raised platform that held the high table, carved darker and heavier than the rest. No one called it a king's table, but everyone knew what it was.
The higher-ups sat there. Alphas, betas, council members, patrol leaders. The ones who made decisions while the rest of us ate and listened.
I didn't look at it. I went straight to one of the common tables where Mara was already sitting with a mug between her hands.
Mara looked like she belonged in sunlight. Her honey-brown hair was half up, half down like always, and her cheeks were flushed from the cold. She had the kind of smile that made people relax without meaning to. I'd always suspected it was a weapon.
Her eyes narrowed the second she saw me.
"Oh my God," she said, lowering her voice immediately. "You look like you got hit by a horse."
I slid onto the bench across from her and wrapped my hands around the coffee mug she nudged toward me.
"It was a small horse," I muttered.
She snorted. "That's not comforting. Talk to me."
I stared down into the coffee like it might give me answers. The surface was dark and steady, and it made me feel even more unsteady.
"I think," I said slowly, "I think something happened last night."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Something happened like you kissed somebody, or something happened like you murdered somebody?"
I blinked. "Why are those the options?"
"Because you're dramatic, and I know you," she said, then softened. "Okay. Tell me."
I swallowed. My throat felt dry.
"I think I… I might have found my mate."
Her eyes went wide. For a second, she looked like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
Then she made a sound that was half gasp, half laugh. "Lena."
"I said might," I warned quickly. "I don't know. I'm not sure. It was just… like my whole body recognized something before my brain did."
Her expression shifted into something careful. "Okay. And who was it?"
My fingers tightened around the mug.
"I'm not saying that."
She stared. "You can't drop a bomb like that and then refuse to tell me who."
"I can, and I am," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "Because I don't know if it was real."
She frowned. "Why wouldn't it be real?"
Because he looked at me like I was nothing.
Because he didn't react.
Because he acted like it didn't happen.
I took a sip of coffee to buy myself time. The heat burned my tongue and grounded me for a second.
"It was fast," I said finally. "It was intense, and then it was gone. And the other person… they didn't act like it mattered."
"That's… weird," she said.
"Yeah," I said, my laugh sharp. "So maybe it wasn't what I thought. Maybe I just made it up because I was tired or stressed or whatever."
She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers.
"You don't make things up like that," she said quietly.
My chest tightened.
"Was it someone outside the pack?" she asked.
I shook my head.
"Someone visiting?"
I shook my head again.
"Someone important?"
I stared at the coffee.
She sighed. "Okay. You don't have to tell me. But answer this. Did you feel safe?"
"Yes," I said immediately.
She relaxed a little. "Good. That matters."
I wanted to explain the mess in my head, but the words were tangled.
"So what do I do," I whispered.
"For now," she said, thinking, "you breathe. You eat. You act normal. And you watch."
"Watch," I repeated.
"If it was real," she said, "you'll feel it again. And you'll know."
I didn't like that answer.
"What if I'm wrong?"
"Then you move on," she said. "But if you're right… things are about to get real interesting."
I huffed a laugh.
We sat in silence as the hall filled. Boots thudded, plates clinked, voices rose and fell.
I almost relaxed.
Then I felt it.
A prickly sensation crawled up the back of my neck. Not fear, but awareness. Every hair along my arms lifted.
I froze with my coffee halfway to my mouth.
Mara noticed immediately. "What?"
I didn't answer. My pulse was pounding, my body going still as my senses sharpened.
Slowly, I turned my head. My gaze slid to the raised platform, to the high table, and then I saw him.
He sat among the higher-ups like he belonged there because he did. Relaxed, but controlled. Dark clothes. Unreadable face.
Except for his eyes, because they were on me. Not passing, not flicking, on me.
My stomach dropped.
For a second, I couldn't breathe. The room blurred at the edges.
Last night he'd acted like I was nothing. Now, he was looking at me like he knew exactly what I was.
"Oh," Mara breathed.
"Don't," I whispered.
She went quiet.
Across the room, he didn't look away. I forced myself to take a sip of coffee. My hands were shaking, and I hated it. I looked down. Counted breaths.
When I looked up again, he was still watching. The space between us felt thin. I swallowed and did the only thing I could.
I acted normal.
"So," I said, forcing casual, "what are we eating today?"
Mara stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "He's staring at you," she hissed.
"I know," I whispered.
"Is that who you think it is?"
"I don't know."
Because if he was my mate, then why did it feel like standing at the edge of a storm? And if he wasn't, why did my whole body feel like it had just been called by name?
I glanced up one more time. Our eyes met. Then he looked away. Just like that.
I sat there with the aftertaste of maybe burning at the back of my throat. Mara squeezed my hand. "You're not imagining it," she murmured.
I stared at the table. "I wish I was."
Because denial would have been easier. And whatever this was had already found me.