Tristan
Sleep was a stranger. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the warmth of Rena’s palm against mine in the archives. Every time I breathed, I searched for the scent of rain and iron. It was becoming a sickness, a fever that burned hotter than the Alpha-fire in my blood.
I stood on the balcony of my chambers, watching the moon hang low over the mountains. The pack was silent, but my mind was a roar of conflicting voices. My father’s demands, the Council’s expectations, and Nora’s sharp, possessive laughter were all being drowned out by a soft, melodic whisper. Tristan.
I realized then that I was no longer looking for a mate. I was looking for her.
I began to notice the small things—the things an Alpha was never supposed to see. I noticed the way she always tucked a loose strand of
