CLAIMED BY MY SWORN ENEMY ALPHA

Chapter 1: Eighteen and Wolfless

The training ring smelled like blood and frost, which was exactly how I liked my mornings.

"Again," I said, and did not wait for Torren to catch his breath before I came at him.

He was bigger than me by half a foot and probably sixty pounds of muscle, and he still hit the packed dirt with a grunt that echoed off the ring's stone walls. I planted a boot lightly against his sternum, more courtesy than threat, and offered him a hand up.

"You're pulling your hits low again," I told him. "You keep dropping your shoulder before you swing, so I know exactly where you're going before you get there."

"Easy for you to say." He took my hand and let me haul him up, wincing. "Some of us actually feel it when we hit the ground."

That got a laugh out of the row of trainees watching from the fence, and even out of Garrick, who almost never laughed during drills. I let myself smile. Small victories. It was the last day of formal training before my birthday, and if I was going to leave any lasting impression on this year's recruits, better it be this than the other thing everyone whispered when they thought I could not hear them.

The Alpha's daughter who never shifted.

I had stopped flinching at it years ago. Mostly.

I was born to Magnus Sinclair and Rosalind of the Silverwood Pack, first and only child, heir by blood if not, everyone assumed, by wolf. Eighteen years old today, and my inner wolf had never so much as stirred. No half-shift at thirteen like the other girls. No golden eyes flickering through in moments of anger. Nothing. My mother said some wolves simply took their time. My father said nothing at all, which told me more than any words could have.

So I had made myself impossible to overlook a different way. If I could not lead by what I was born with, I would lead by what I built. I trained before dawn and after dusk. I learned every blade my father's armory kept, and half a dozen he did not know I had found. By fifteen I could beat any warrior in the pack under twenty-five. By seventeen, most of the ones over it too. Garrick, who had been Head of the Guard since before I was born, had stopped going easy on me two years ago, which I still counted as the proudest moment of my life.

I was scrubbing dirt off my knuckles at the well when Kellan found me. That was how most days ended. Kellan usually found me somewhere sweaty and unglamorous, looking at me like it was the opposite of that.

"Happy birthday," he said, and held out a small paper-wrapped package like he was embarrassed by it.

"You already gave me a gift yesterday. The knife!"

"That was a practical gift. This is a real one."

I unwrapped it there at the well's edge. A hair comb, carved from pale wood, a small silver wolf worked into the handle. It was beautiful in the plain, unshowy way Kellan did everything. I felt the familiar knot of affection and guilt pull tight in my chest, the one I always felt around him and never quite let myself look at directly.

"It's lovely," I said, and meant it.

"You could wear it tonight. To the feast." He watched me too carefully for someone pretending not to care about the answer.

Kellan and I had grown up in each other's pockets, trained together, fought together, bled for each other more than once. Everyone in the pack had an opinion about what that meant, and increasingly, so did he. I liked him. I did. But liking was not the same as the thing his eyes were asking me for, and every time he asked I felt like I was disappointing him by not being able to hand over something I did not have to give.

"I'll wear it," I said, which was not an answer to the real question, and we both knew it.

He did not push. He never did, which was its own kind of gift, and its own kind of ache.

The feast that night was loud and warm and full of my mother's honey wine. I was three toasts deep and laughing at something Torren said when my father's Beta, Callum, appeared at my shoulder with the particular stillness that meant business.

"Alpha wants you," he said. "Now."

My father's study smelled like cedar and old parchment, and he did not look up from the map spread across his desk when I came in. My mother stood at the window, arms crossed, and something in the set of her shoulders made the wine in my stomach turn cold.

"North's raided the eastern trade road again," my father said. "Third time this season. Two of our traders did not come home this time."

I stepped closer to the map. The border between Silverwood and Blackthorn territory was marked in faded red ink, decades old, and the eastern road cut straight through the disputed stretch both packs had bled over for longer than I had been alive.

"They're getting bolder," I said.

"They're getting desperate, or arrogant, or both. Doesn't much matter which." My father finally looked up at me, and there was something in his face I did not often see there, a weighing, careful look, like he was deciding how much of me to spend. "I'm sending a unit to the road. To hold it, and to send Blackthorn a message they won't be able to pretend they didn't hear."

"Send me."

"I intend to."

My mother made a small sound at the window, not quite a protest, and my father did not look at her.

"You're eighteen now," he said. "Warrior in your own right, whatever else you are or aren't. I will not hide you behind these walls forever pretending you are something you're not, and I will not insult you by pretending I don't know you're the best fighter this pack has under thirty. You lead the unit. You hold the road. You come home."

"Magnus." My mother's voice, quiet. "It's Blackthorn territory near enough. If something goes wrong out there..."

"Nothing will go wrong," I said, before he could answer for me. "I've beaten every wolf in this pack that could stand against me. I am not afraid of Blackthorn guards."

It was not bravado, or not only bravado. It was true, and my father knew it was true, which was exactly why he was doing this: putting a test in front of me that everyone would be able to see, so that no one in Silverwood could whisper wolfless without also remembering undefeated.

My mother did not look reassured. She looked, if anything, like someone watching a door close that she could not get her hand into fast enough to stop.

"You leave at first light," my father said. "Take Torren, Garrick, six others. Hold the road, escort the trade caravan through, and come home before the new moon."

I said yes, because there was nothing else to say, and because some small reckless part of me, the part that had spent eighteen years being underestimated, was almost glad of the excuse to prove something, one more time, to anyone still watching.

I did not know yet that home before the new moon was a promise I would not get to keep. I did not know that somewhere north of that faded red line, a black wolf with a temper worse than mine was about to have his whole life upended by a scent he had not smelled in a hundred years.

I only knew that my wolf was still silent inside me, the way she had always been, and that for the first time in a long time, some quiet unplaceable part of me wondered if that was about to change.