Eugene, Oregon – December
Winter in Oregon was not harsh in the way the wolves of Montana were accustomed to. There were no sharp, metallic frosts or snow crunching beneath paws like shattered glass. Instead, a damp, heavy stillness hovered over the Willamette Valley, saturated with the scent of wet earth, pine needles, and the river that never fully froze, even in December. The forest surrounding the northern outskirts of Eugene was dense and yielding, as though it absorbed whatever entered it without resistance.
Marco's house stood at the edge of that green boundary, a few miles from the city along a narrow road leading toward Mohawk Valley. Small and wooden, with a wide porch and light spilling softly from the windows, it looked like a place meant to shelter rather than attract attention. Behind it stretched the forest; in front ran the road; and farther still, beyond the tree line, a stream flowed steadily, its constant murmur filling the evenings.
Ithilien stood at the window of her new bedroom, staring into the darkening forest when she sensed him for the first time.
The scent was not hostile, but it was unmistakable—strong, saturated with dominance, alive with sharp energy that made her wolf lift its head instantly. She did not need to see the silhouette standing at the property's edge to know who it was.
The alpha of this land.
Her fingers tightened around the window frame. The cracked pane allowed cool air to drift inside, carrying his presence so vividly it felt almost tangible. Tauriel stirred within her, not in aggression but in alert awareness—the reaction of a she-wolf sensing a powerful male on unfamiliar ground.
Ithilien closed her eyes briefly.
It was inevitable.
Marco had reported her arrival according to the pact, and the presence of an outsider—even a guest—required acknowledgment. Packs lived on their territories like tree roots intertwined beneath the soil, and every new element had to be noticed.
She stepped away from the window, adjusted her sweater, and went downstairs, keeping her steps even and composed. She would not hide in her room like an intruder. If she was to live here, she had to present herself.
The porch door creaked softly as she stepped outside. The air was damp, scented with earlier rain and resin-soaked bark. The house light reached only a few yards ahead; beyond that lay shadow.
Kidd stood at the tree line exactly where Marco's neutral ground ended. He had not crossed it. His posture appeared relaxed, yet there was unmistakable readiness in the way he carried himself, as though his entire body could move at a moment's notice. He wore a dark jacket, hands tucked into his pockets, chin slightly lifted.
He did not come closer.
Ithilien stopped at the edge of the porch. Several yards separated them—enough to respect boundaries, close enough to feel each other clearly.
They watched one another in silence.
There was no hostility in his gaze.
Only assessment.
In hers—calm.
"Welcome to Oregon," he said at last. His voice was low and clear, carrying easily through the cold air. "Marco informed me of your arrival."
"Thank you," she replied evenly. "I appreciate that you came in person."
The corner of his mouth shifted slightly; he thought he detected the faintest trace of irony.
"It's my responsibility," he answered. "An unfamiliar wolf on my land isn't a minor matter."
Ithilien inclined her head, accepting the rule without protest.
He studied her longer than etiquette required. His nostrils flared subtly, analyzing something he could not immediately name. Her scent was not uniform. It was clean, feminine, bright—but beneath it lingered another note, weaker yet unmistakable, belonging to a different alpha who was not present.
A split aura.
He frowned almost imperceptibly.
"How long do you intend to stay?" he asked casually.
She tilted her head slightly. Ithilien wanted to tell him it was none of his business, but she could not—because it was. As a wolf on foreign territory, she had to respect the alpha's rules, whatever they were. She understood that his questions were rooted first and foremost in concern for his pack's safety.
"As long as possible," she answered without elaborating.
Her tone was calm, but it did not invite further inquiry.
He considered that for a moment, then nodded.
"Fine. Marco's neutral ground remains neutral. As long as you don't enter pack territory without notice, there won't be a problem."
"I don't intend to," she replied, unoffended by his severity.
She had not come for a pack, hierarchy, or new allegiances.
She had come for silence.
Kidd stepped back toward the forest.
"If you need anything, Marco knows how to find me," he said.
"I understand."
For a moment longer they stood facing one another like two separate worlds meeting at a border without any intention of merging.
Then Kidd turned and disappeared among the trees, his silhouette dissolving into darkness almost soundlessly.
Ithilien remained on the porch until his scent dispersed into the damp air. Only then did she draw a slow breath and return inside.
She stood in the dim hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet house and to her own heart, which beat slightly faster than it should have.
He is only the alpha of this land, she told herself. Nothing more.
She went back to her room and closed the window.
She promised herself she would stay as far away from the foreign pack as possible, that she would not allow herself to be drawn into local affairs, that no dominance or scent would disturb the fragile order she was building.
Ithilien had come to Eugene from a place she did not speak much about, even when someone asked directly. On official forms she wrote the name of a small town in Montana, listed the state and zip code, sometimes smiled politely when someone mentioned mountains or snow, but she never expanded on the subject. Her past was like a frozen river—beneath the smooth surface something deep and powerful lay hidden, yet she had no intention of breaking the ice.
Silver Creek was small, stretched between hills and forest, living by a rhythm that had not changed for decades. People there knew one another by name, and wolves—by scent. It was there that she learned to walk straight, speak little, and listen more. It was there that she was taught what responsibility meant, though the word itself was rarely spoken aloud.
Eugene was different. Larger, damp, moving with a calm academic pulse. The university spread across wide avenues between pale stone buildings, with lawns still green even in winter and a library whose tall windows reflected the sky like the surface of a lake. Students moved in clusters, coffee cups in hand, backpacks slung carelessly over one shoulder, laughing loudly or debating things that mattered intensely to them.
Ithilien moved among them quietly, almost soundlessly, though no one would have called her withdrawn. She smiled, answered questions, and attended lectures with a focus that earned the respect of her professors. Her notes were orderly and precise, written in small, neat handwriting. She studied not because she had to, but because knowledge was the one thing in her life she could fully control.
In anatomy class she sat in the second row, listening to a lecture about the structure of the cardiac muscle. Her fingers moved across the pages of her notebook with the assurance of someone who understood the weight of every detail. To her, the heart was more than an organ. It was a mechanism that could fail without warning, and she could not bear the thought of helplessness.
Between classes she sometimes sat beneath a sprawling oak tree, opening a book and tuning out the conversations around her. Not because she despised company, but because she did not want to weave herself too tightly into anyone else's life. A few students had tried to invite her for coffee—one with clear interest, another with awkward politeness—but she always declined gently and firmly, saying she already had plans.
In the afternoons she walked back to Marco's house along the narrow road that separated the city from the forest. Occasionally she paused to listen to the rustle of trees, but she never stepped deeper among them than reason allowed. She knew it was not her territory.
Marco usually returned later. As a doctor at the local hospital, he worked long hours and often took additional shifts, even when he did not have to. He was thirty-five, with a composed face and the steady gaze of someone who had seen too much to react impulsively. His movements were economical, his voice low and measured, his hands always warm—even after a night shift.
Their relationship was not overly demonstrative, but it was deep and sincere. They understood each other without lengthy explanations. When she chopped vegetables in the kitchen and he leaned against the counter with a mug of tea in his hand, they did not need many words to know they were each other's anchor.
"How are classes?" he would ask, removing his watch and setting it on the shelf.
"Intense," she would reply. "Professor Hughes has an obsession with details."
Marco would smile faintly.
"That's good. Details save lives."
At dinner they talked about the hospital, about patients, about the city. Marco did not ask about Montana unless she brought it up herself. He knew some things required time, and others required silence.
Sometimes, when they sat in the living room with books on their laps, his gaze would linger on her for a fraction of a second longer, as if checking whether everything was truly all right.
"Are you doing well here?" he asked one evening.
Ithilien looked up from her notes.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation.
It was not a lie.
Eugene gave her space. The forest was close, but it did not belong to her. The pack was present, yet distant. Marco was beside her, steady and constant.
Only at night, when the house grew quiet and the wind stirred the branches outside her window, did something restless awaken within her. Sometimes she would sit on the edge of her bed and stare at the wall, forcing her breathing into a steady rhythm as memories pressed in uninvited. She did not speak of it to Marco. She did not speak of the fractured aura, or the scent that still occasionally returned in her dreams.
The next morning she would rise as usual, braid her hair neatly, and leave for class carrying a calm that was more learned than natural.
She had promised herself that in Oregon she would be only a student.
Not a Luna. Not someone's future.
Simply herself.
Winter in Evergreen was not spectacular, but it was decisive. The leaves had fallen faster than in the valleys, the wind came down from the mountains sharper, and the air carried the scent of dry grass and chimney smoke. By morning the ground was already hard, and the forest surrounding the town looked peaceful only to those who did not know how to read tracks.
Ace's house stood on the outskirts of Evergreen, where the asphalt gave way to a gravel road that led straight into the pine woods. It was not ostentatious, but it was solid and unmistakably belonged to an alpha. Thick logs, a wide porch, windows overlooking the valley. A house built not for comfort, but for position.
Ace stood by one of those windows, his hands resting on the sill as he looked out at the darkening hills. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face many would have called handsome if not for the severity of his expression, he carried himself like someone who never allowed a moment of inattention. His light eyes held both the chill and the weight of responsibility he had grown accustomed to far too early.
It had been a week since the wedding.
A week since Bista had officially become his Luna, and the pack had accepted it as a logical and necessary strengthening of alliances.
Behind him the air shifted slightly, and the floor creaked.
"Escaping into the view again?" Bista asked, her voice warm and soft, as though it had never known sharp edges.
Ace turned slowly.
She stood in the bedroom doorway, naked, her hair falling over her shoulders, her expression open and full of sincere admiration. She was petite and slender, four years younger than he was, her aura bright and uncomplicated, directed entirely toward him. In her presence there was no doubt, no tension—only devotion.
He approached her without haste and placed his hand on her hip, as he should. Her skin was warm, and her body responded immediately to his touch.
"I'm not escaping," he replied calmly.
It was only half the truth.
Bista lifted her hands and wrapped them around his neck, drawing him closer.
"You should be happy," she said more softly. "Everything is as it should be."
As it should be.
The words echoed inside him with uncomfortable clarity.
Everything was indeed aligned with duty. The alliance strengthened. The pack secured. The alpha's position unquestioned. The decision made with cold, deliberate logic.
And yet, beneath the surface of that correctness, something remained unfinished.
A memory returned to him from three years earlier—the same cold autumn evening when he had stood opposite Ithilien at the edge of Silver Creek. He remembered how tightly her hair had been braided, as though she were trying to keep not only the strands but herself under control. He remembered her gaze, still and fully aware.
"The pack requires it of me," he had said then, knowing that each word lodged in them both like a thorn.
"I know," she had answered without tears, because she had never been the kind of she-wolf who allowed herself despair in front of others.
He had stood too close, feeling the bond between them like a taut thread that refused to snap despite the deliberate tearing.
"No other wolf will ever merge with either of us the way we merged with each other," he had told her quietly, more to himself than to her. "That's the only thing that will keep me afloat."
There had been no romance in it. Only an admission of a truth he could not alter.
He had known that only a blood ritual could sever the bond completely, and yet he had never allowed it to happen. Consciously, he had left it frayed but not dead, as if the mere thought that Ithilien still walked somewhere in the world was something he needed more than he was willing to admit.
Now he stood before Bista, who looked at him with trust.
He pulled her closer, allowing her body to press against his. Her scent was fresh, young, full of readiness. His body responded as an alpha's body would, but deep within he did not feel that violent shift of the world, that sensation of the ground slipping out from beneath him.
Bista's hand slid across his chest, and she lifted her eyes to his.
"You're thinking about something," she observed, not accusingly, but with simple curiosity.
Ace studied her for a moment, weighing how much truth he could allow himself to speak.
"About the future," he answered calmly.
He did not say that in that future there was still the scent of jasmine and the chill of air after rain. He did not say that the bond, weakened though it was, still existed like an echo beneath his skin. He did not say that sometimes he woke in the night with the distinct impression that someone had tugged on an invisible thread.
He tightened his arms around Bista, almost as if trying to convince himself that it would be enough. That night he took her as his wife, and though her body responded eagerly to his touch, he could not rekindle the fire that had consumed him not so long ago. He closed his eyes, and his imagination betrayed him with the scent of jasmine and the image of a faint scar on a left hand as it laced its fingers with his. For a brief moment the vision felt so real that he surrendered to it, and his movements grew less controlled, more instinctive. Only Bista's sharper cry brought him back to the present.
Outside, the wind moved through the forest, stirring the branches.
At that same instant something inside him shifted almost imperceptibly, as though the tension in the long-frayed bond had changed direction, and deep within him Vaelor let out a low, muted howl.
Ace frowned.
He could not yet name the feeling, but he knew one thing with certainty—whatever it was, it had nothing to do with the winter cold of Montana.