3.
1290 Words
June
Sylvie doesn’t let me change my mind. That’s probably for the best.
She has my bag half-packed before I can even realize what's happening, moving through my room with the kind of ruthless efficiency she usually saves for deadlines and impossible hems. Clothes disappear from drawers. Shoes land in neat pairs by the door. She doesn’t ask what I want to bring. She already knows.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her, numb in a way that feels suspiciously like calm.
“You’re allowed to freak out later,” she says without looking at me. “Right now, we’re operating.”
“Operating,” I echo faintly.
“Yes. Escaping.” She zips my bag closed and finally turns to face me. “I linked my cousin Atlas. He owes me, and he has a reliable truck and zero interest in pack politics.”
“Atlas,” I repeat. “Is he… normal?”
“As normal as anyone in this world,” she says. “Which is to say, no. But he’s quiet, he’ll get you there safely, and he won’t ask questions.”
We load the truck quickly, moving on instinct more than thought. I try to ignore the muffled sounds of the pack still celebrating somewhere behind us.
I don’t look back when I step outside. I don’t want to see it — the place where I thought my life was about to begin.
Mira is restless but focused now, alert in a way that feels like forward motion instead of panic. The bond tugs faintly, like something noticing my absence but not understanding it yet.
Good. Let it be confused.
Atlas is already in the driver’s seat when I climb into the passenger side. He’s broad-shouldered, bearded, and exactly as talkative as Sylvie promised — which is to say, barely at all. He gives me a single nod, waits until my door is closed, and reaches for the ignition.
Before he can start the engine, Sylvie leans in through the open window and cups my face.
“Text me when you get there.”
“I will.”
“And June?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression softens. “You didn’t lose anything tonight. He did.”
I nod, because if I try to speak, I’ll cry again.
Sylvie steps back and the engine turns over.
The truck pulls away. The packhouse disappears behind us.
The drive to Ashwood Falls takes two and a half hours.
At first, I just watch the road, the headlights cutting through the dark like a promise. Eventually, the silence settles into something almost companionable, and my thoughts start to wander whether I want them to or not.
I’ve heard of Ashwood Falls. Everyone has.
It’s one of the oldest packs still standing, tucked deep into forested territory that’s been theirs for generations. They’re wealthy — not flashy about it, but undeniably powerful. Their borders are clean. Their trade routes are solid. Their territory is respected.
And their Alpha?
Ronan Ashwood doesn’t have a mate.
That’s the part everyone talks about.
He’s almost thirty, which is practically scandalous by pack standards. No Luna. No consort. No public interest in correcting the situation. He runs his pack with an iron grip and zero sentiment, or so the rumors say.
Fair, but cold. Powerful, but distant. Emotionless.
“He doesn’t smile,” someone once told me, like that was the most damning thing imaginable. I don’t know what use a man like that could possibly have for me.
But when Atlas turns off the main road and onto a long, winding drive lined with towering trees, I feel something shift.
Ashwood Falls announces itself without trying.
The packhouse emerges from the forest like it belongs there — all stone and dark wood, lights glowing warm behind tall windows. It’s massive without being ostentatious, imposing in a quiet, undeniable way.
Atlas pulls to a stop near the front entrance.
“You good?” he asks, finally breaking his silence.
“I think so.”
He nods. “Someone’s expecting you.”
The door opens before I can ask who. A man steps out into the night.
Tall. Broad. Still.
The air changes instantly.
My breath catches as his gaze lifts and locks onto me, dark eyes sharp and assessing beneath a fall of equally dark hair that looks like it’s never seen a comb. His jaw is dusted with scruff, his mouth set in a hard line that doesn’t soften when he takes me in.
Ronan Ashwood.
Mira stirs, alert but cautious. Not reaching. Not reacting.
Just watching.
“June Archer,” he says, his voice deep and gruff.
It’s not a question.
“Yes,” I manage.
“Come inside.”
That’s it. No welcome. No reassurance. No wasted words.
Atlas hands him my bag without comment, gives me a quick nod, and disappears back into the truck like he was never here.
Ronan turns on his heel and walks inside, clearly expecting me to follow.
I do.
The packhouse interior is just as impressive as the outside — polished stone floors, high ceilings, the faint scent of pine and smoke lingering in the air. Despite the late hour, some pack members are still milling about in the common room and glance our way as we pass, their attention sharpening, heads bowing slightly when they realize who’s walking beside me.
Ronan doesn’t slow.
He leads me up a wide staircase, past a guarded landing, and into a quieter wing of the house.
The Alpha floor.
I realize it the moment the door closes behind us, sealing off the sounds of the lower levels.
“Uh,” I say, hesitating. “Why am I up here?”
Ronan stops and looks down at me.
“Because it's where I put you.”
The words are flat. Final.
Heat curls low in my stomach, completely unwelcome.
He unlocks a door and pushes it open. “This is yours.”
The suite is… enormous. Bedroom, sitting area, private bath. Everything understated but unmistakably expensive.
My mouth opens. Closes. “I don’t think this is appropriate.”
Ronan turns, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his shoulders, showing off muscles that... dear Goddess above... should be illegal. The sight of him hits harder than it should, and I swallow, flustered.
Tell me you are seeing this, Mira murmurs. I refuse to suffer alone.
“You’re under my protection while you’re here,” he says. “That includes privacy and security.”
“I don’t need—”
“You will take what I offer,” he cuts in, eyes flashing briefly. “Or you can leave.”
I swallow. “I’ll stay.”
“Good.”
He turns toward the door.
“Wait,” I blurt. “What is this, exactly? You said you had use for me.”
He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “We’ll discuss your contract in the morning. 8 am sharp.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And if I have questions?”
“You can ask them then.”
The door opens.
“Be on time,” Ronan adds coolly. “I don’t tolerate lateness.”
Then he steps out and closes the door behind him.
I stand there in the sudden silence, heart pounding, Mira alert and watchful beneath my skin.
Next door, I can feel him — the weight of his presence like a solid wall through the space between our rooms.
Whatever I’ve just walked into, it isn’t small.
And whatever use Alpha Ronan Ashwood has for me…
I have a feeling my life is about to change all over again.
- Writer
