[POV: Dominic]
I watched from the trees, cloaked in shadow—my own shadow.
The magic coiled around me like a second skin, silent and unseen, a gift I had long mastered. My ability to bend darkness around my body, to fold it over my scent and heartbeat until I became nothing more than a patch of night between the pines—
It had taken years to perfect. Years of practice while my pathetic twin brother cowered at every raised voice in the house.
But tonight, I used it. Because tonight, I needed the truth.
And I found it. His lips on Draven's.
Their bodies pressed too close beneath the canopy, breathless and clinging, hands tangled in hair and gripping at clothing like the forest could collapse around them and they would not notice.
Atlas's fingers curled into the fabric of Draven's shirt. Draven's broad palm cradled the back of his skull like something precious. The moonlight caught the silver-white of my brother's hair and turned it luminous against the dark wall of Draven's chest.
Something snapped inside me. Not jealousy—no. Boiling and seething rage.
That was not supposed to be his. Not Alpha Draven. Not his power, his title, the prestige of standing beside the most feared Alpha in the Northern territories. Atlas did not deserve any of it. He never had.
I had planned for this. Maneuvered for it, trained for it, starved for it.
Years of cultivating alliances, whispering into the right ears, positioning myself as the worthy son, the one our father should have named first despite the accident of birth order.
And Atlas—that spineless, trembling disgrace--was about to claim everything I had bled for.
Before me.
My fists clenched at my sides, and the shadows around me trembled in response, curling tighter like agitated serpents. I had been patient at that dinner and smiled.
Played the concerned brother so perfectly that even the elders nodded with sympathy. Planted my seeds with surgical precision. Watched and waited.
But I would wait no longer.
If Atlas mated with Draven—if that bond was sealed—it would be over for me. No more alliances to forge, no steps to climb. I would be beneath him.
Beneath the boy who was born to be nothing. The boy who should have died quietly in some forgotten corner of Midnight Crest so I could rise unchallenged.
Unless… I acted first. I needed to get to Draven.
So the next night, I moved through the halls of the Crimson Fang packhouse with the confidence of a man who already owned everything in it.
Every step deliberate, every movement calculated. I wore black—tailored, clean lines that sharpened the angles of my jaw and shoulders, emphasizing the lean muscle beneath. Subtle, not aggressive.
I had clipped Crimson Fang's crest—borrowed, not given—to my lapel in polished gold, a gesture most wolves would read as deference.
It was not deference. It was a costume.
I had applied cedarwood oil at the base of my throat, layered beneath it a trace of nightbloom that would reach him before my voice did. Scent was a weapon among wolves. Most forgot that but I never did.
When I found him—alone, leaning over maps in the war room, broad shoulders taut beneath a grey shirt, the cords of muscle in his forearms shifting as he braced against the oak table—I gave him a measured smile.
"Alpha Draven," I said, voice smooth and unhurried.
He glanced up. Those dark eyes narrowed, the way a predator did when it sensed something unfamiliar entering its territory. "Dominic."
"I hope I'm not interrupting." I took a slow step forward, letting the hearth light catch the gold at my lapel. "I thought we should talk. About our packs and the future."
He watched me without blinking. The firelight carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, tension coiled through his frame—not from fear, but from the exhausting vigilance of an Alpha who trusted no one easily.
"There's nothing to discuss," he said flatly.
A flicker of irritation heated the back of my neck, but I buried it.
"Perhaps not yet. But history matters, doesn't it? Our families were once closely aligned. That bond should not be discarded over one misunderstanding."
I moved closer, circling the table with measured steps, fingers trailing along the grain of the wood. Every gesture designed to lower defenses.
His eyes tracked me like something he was deciding whether to kill.
"Is there something you want, Dominic?" His voice was granite. Low, uncompromising, stripped of patience.
I let a deliberate pause stretch between us. "Only to strengthen what was once powerful between our bloodlines."
Then I stepped into his space—just enough. Close enough for the cedarwood to reach him, for him to see the certainty in my expression.
I held his gaze and did not flinch. Most wolves could not hold an Alpha's stare for more than a few seconds. I held it like I was born to.
"You and I could build something, Draven," I said quietly. "Our packs united. Our strength combined. You know the political weight that carries. It makes strategic sense."
His expression did not shift. Not a single muscle moved in that hard face. His dark eyes held mine with the cold disinterest of stone.
"I'm not interested," he said.
My jaw tightened before I could stop it.
"You didn't even consider it," I replied, an edge in my voice despite my control.
"Didn't need to." He straightened to his full height—taller than me by several inches, shoulders blocking the firelight behind him. "You're not what I want, Dominic. You never would be."
The words landed like a blade across my ribs. Cold, precise and absolutely final. I inhaled slowly through my nose, recalculated, and stepped back with a practiced expression of quiet acceptance.
Fine. Alliance would not work. But I had another weapon—one that always cut deeper than charm or strategy.
Doubt.
"Very well," I said softly, shifting my gaze to the darkened window. "I suppose I was just worried."
He raised a brow. "About what?"
"About Atlas." I let the name fall from my mouth like a stone into still water, watching the ripples cross Draven's face. "I know he's important to you. I can see that now."
His jaw flexed—barely visible—but I caught it.
"I just think you should be careful," I continued, keeping my voice gentle, layered with concern that tasted like honey over venom.
"He's been through a great deal. Our family tried to help him for years, but he never quite adjusted. Unpredictable instincts with emotional volatility. His wolf emerged dangerously late, and you know what that can mean for stability. And then there's his magic—shadow abilities that even he doesn't fully understand or control."
Draven did not speak, but the tension in his shoulders sharpened, muscles along his neck tightening like pulled wire. I pressed on.
"There's something else," I said, quieter still. "Something you deserve to know."
His gaze turned razor-sharp. "What?"
"The prophecy," I said. "An old one, passed through our bloodline for generations. Two brothers born under the moon's shadow—twins. One destined to bring ruin to his pack. The other to bring glory."
Silence filled the war room.
"I'm not saying it's real," I added quickly, raising one hand in surrender. "But our parents believed it. They always thought Atlas was the dangerous one. He carries that darkness in his magic. In his silence. In this way he draws power without understanding or control."
I paused, letting the words breathe. "I'm only telling you this because I care about what happens here. Before you let your feelings cloud your judgment."
Still, he did not speak. His face was unreadable, carved from stone. But I could feel it.
The seed had been planted. And soon, it would bloom.