When they arrived at Midnight Crest, the scent hit Celine like a memory—too sharp to be soft. Pine needles crushed beneath boots. Damp stone steeped in old shadow. Smoke from the training grounds, thin and bitter, still curled into the air like it had never left. And beneath it all, the low, constant murmur of the river winding through the territory—like a voice she used to know but couldn’t quite place anymore.
She paused just inside the gate.
The wind curled around her like a question.
Inside the walls, the entire pack was awake and moving. Wolves streamed through the courtyards and balconies, warriors dressed in formal leather, others unloading supplies or shouting orders from the upper walkways. The upcoming wedding had turned Midnight Crest into a machine of endless motion. Servants rushed past with linens and trays, while members from visiting packs gathered in guarded clusters, watching everything with careful eyes.
It wasn’t just about a celebration—it was politics. Presence. Power.
No one approached Leon with hesitation when he stepped past the threshold. A Midnight Crest attendant appeared almost instantly, bowing slightly and offering them rooms. He spoke to Leon directly, avoiding Celine’s eyes entirely.
“We’ve prepared the guest wing for your delegation, Alpha. Separate quarters for the warriors, as requested.”
Leon gave a curt nod. “Good.”
Then he turned to his group.
“Sasha,” he said, without looking at her, “you’re with Reese.”
Reese raised a brow, clearly annoyed, but said nothing.
“Felix,” Leon continued, “take the end suite. Near the stairs.”
The warrior gave a quiet grunt of approval and moved to follow the servant.
Then Leon turned to Celine.
His gaze didn’t soften, but it lingered. “You,” he said simply, “are coming with me.”
Celine didn’t answer, but her breath caught.
Her mother strode ahead, boots tapping a rhythm Celine couldn’t follow. She didn’t even pause nor gave her a glance. Her father passed without slowing too, the faintest downturn of his mouth the only greeting. His gaze slid past her as if she were just another soldier in the yard.
The ache was a cold, familiar shape in her chest. She clenched her jaw, breathed in the stone and smoke and silence.
Then she saw him.
Luke stood by the barracks, sunlight threading through his hair, catching on the edge of his armor. He laughed at something—soft, low—and the sound twisted something inside her.
She didn’t move or speak, simply held her ground as Luke’s eyes swept the training yard. For a moment, they passed over her—brief and indifferent, like light brushing stone. He kept speaking to the warriors beside him, his posture relaxed, his expression unchanged. There was no flicker of recognition, no hesitation, not even the tightening of a jaw or the brief narrowing of his eyes. Nothing.
Something knotted deep in her chest, slow and tight. She hadn’t expected warmth from him, or some kind of quiet apology. She hadn’t expected him to come running. But still—this absence, this utter lack of anything—it landed heavier than she wanted to admit. The emptiness of it rang louder than anger ever could.
Before the feeling had fully settled, a voice rose behind her. Cool, amused, unmistakable. It slid along her spine like a blade drawn too close.
“Interesting,” Lilith murmured.
Celine turned slowly, every movement measured, already bracing for whatever would come next.
Lilith was dressed in opulence. Every inch of her dripped with luxury—from the embroidered silver gown to the delicate braids woven into her golden hair. A queen before she’d even taken the throne.
At first, she only looked mildly curious. Then, recognition settled and her lips curved into something ugly.
“Oh,” Lilith said, tilting her head just enough to be smug about it. “I didn’t realize the Crimson Fang Pack was letting strays in now.”
Heads turned. No one said a word, but Celine could feel the shift—attention landing on her like the sun in high summer. Hot, sharp, unwelcome.
Her jaw locked. Lilith knew exactly what she was doing. She always did.
Celine didn’t get the chance to respond.
Leon moved. His hand settled at her waist—steady, firm, no room to pull away. Not soft, not tender. Just there. Solid as stone and twice as certain. She felt the heat of his grip through her dress. It burned like a brand.
Lilith’s smirk slipped, just barely. Enough to notice.
Leon still wasn’t looking at her. His eyes stayed on Celine, unreadable but sharp, like he’d already figured out more than she’d said out loud.
Then he turned. “Strays?” he said, voice slow, almost lazy, like he found the whole thing mildly amusing.
His fingers pressed a little harder at her hip, a small shift that said more than words. Then came the smile—thin, practiced, all edge.
“I thought I introduced her properly,” he said. “But maybe I need to be clearer.”
Lilith didn’t answer. Her hand curled into a fist at her side, nails biting into her palm.
Leon looked Lilith straight in the eye. “She’s my noble guest.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. The kind that made people stop what they were doing and listen. The courtyard went quiet. No one spoke. No one moved.
Across the yard, Celine’s mother stood near the edge of the stone wall, her hands resting in front of her. She didn’t say anything, didn’t turn her head, but something in her posture changed. Her back straightened, and her shoulders lifted, like she was bracing herself. She looked calm, but Celine had seen that look before—when something caught her off guard and she didn’t want anyone to notice. Her fingers twitched once, just a small movement, but it was enough.
Not far behind her, Celine’s father stood with his arms crossed. He didn’t react at first. His face stayed blank, the way it always did when he wanted to hide what he was thinking. But then his lips pressed into a thin, hard line. His eyes locked on Leon, sharp and steady, like he was trying to figure out what game was being played.
And Luke—
He was still by the steps, half in shadow. His jaw tensed. His hands slowly curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t look away this time. His eyes met Celine’s and held, full of something cold and hard.
Leon, not finished, let his hand rest firm at Celine’s hip. “She’ll be seated next to me at the wedding.”