The Princess the Alpha Rejected

CHAPTER 15

Ariana’s POV

The trouble began just before dusk.

I knew it before the alarm sounded, before the hurried footsteps and raised voices echoed across the pack grounds. My wolf stirred sharply inside me, not in fear, but in alert recognition, the way she always did when something went wrong faster than it should have.

I was helping Clara prepare dinner when the first shout cut through the air outside.

“Medic! Someone get the medic—now!”

Clara’s knife stilled against the cutting board. We exchanged a glance, both of us already moving before words were necessary. I wiped my hands quickly and followed her outside, the cool evening air carrying tension like a physical weight.

A small crowd had gathered near the training grounds, voices overlapping in confusion. Warriors pushed through, some shouting orders, others arguing over what should be done. At the center of it all lay a young wolf—barely more than a boy—curled on the ground, his breathing shallow and uneven.

Blood darkened the dirt beneath him.

My chest tightened.

“He shifted too fast,” someone said urgently. “His body couldn’t keep up.”

“He shouldn’t have been pushed that hard,” another voice snapped back. “Who authorized that drill?”

Arguments flared immediately, sharp and unproductive. I saw panic creeping in, the kind that made wolves louder instead of smarter.

I stepped closer, my gaze scanning the boy quickly. His pulse was erratic. His breathing hitched every few seconds, his wolf trapped halfway between forms, unable to settle.

He’s stuck, my wolf murmured. His instincts are fighting his body.

I swallowed. I knew what that meant. If he didn’t stabilize soon, his organs would begin to fail under the strain.

“Where’s the pack medic?” someone demanded.

“On the west patrol,” came the reply. “Too far. He won’t make it back in time.”

The words landed heavily.

No one moved.

I felt it then—the familiar pressure of choice settling into my chest. This wasn’t about proving myself. This wasn’t about being seen. This was about a life unraveling while everyone waited for someone else to act.

My wolf pressed closer, urgent but controlled. You know how to help him.

“Yes,” I whispered internally. “And you know why I can’t.”

You don’t need to show them everything, she countered calmly. Only enough.

I knelt beside the boy before I could second-guess myself.

Several heads snapped toward me.

“What are you doing?” a warrior demanded.

I didn’t look up. “He needs to slow his breathing,” I said, keeping my voice even. “If he panics, the shift will tear him apart.”

“And you know how?” another voice challenged.

“I’ve seen it before,” I replied simply.

It wasn’t a lie.

I placed two fingers lightly against the boy’s wrist, steadying my touch, then leaned closer so he could hear me through the haze of pain.

“Listen to my voice,” I said softly. “You’re not shifting right now. You’re breathing. Just breathing.”

His eyes fluttered, unfocused.

“Count with me,” I continued. “Slow. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

The crowd murmured uncertainly behind me, but no one stopped me. Perhaps because I didn’t sound uncertain myself.

My wolf adjusted her presence carefully, threading calm into my tone, into my posture, into the surrounding space. I didn’t let my power flare. I didn’t let my aura slip.

I simply anchored.

The boy’s breathing stuttered, then slowed by a fraction.

“That’s it,” I encouraged quietly. “Stay here. Don’t chase the shift. Let it pass.”

Minutes stretched thin.

Sweat dampened my palms as I maintained the rhythm, counting softly, grounding him again and again whenever his panic spiked. I could feel how close he was to losing control, how fragile the balance remained.

Someone knelt beside me—an older warrior, his expression tight with concern. “What else can we do?”

“Nothing,” I said honestly. “If you force him to shift or restrain him, it will make it worse.”

That earned me a few disbelieving looks.

But no one argued.

Gradually, the boy’s body began to settle. The partial shift receded, his breathing evening out, color slowly returning to his face. A shaky exhale escaped him, followed by a weak cough.

Relief rippled through the crowd.

“He’s stabilizing,” someone said, awe creeping into their voice.

I stayed with him until the pack medic finally arrived, breathless and apologetic. He assessed the boy quickly, then looked at me with sharp curiosity.

“Who kept him grounded?” he asked.

Several voices answered at once.

“She did.”

“The quiet one.”

“Aria Williams.”

The medic studied me for a long moment before nodding. “You did well. Another few minutes, and this could’ve ended very differently.”

I rose slowly, my knees stiff, my heart still pounding harder than I wanted anyone to notice.

Around me, Silvercrest was silent.

Not the brittle silence of judgment.

The thoughtful silence of reevaluation.

As the crowd dispersed, whispers followed, but they were subdued, almost careful. The Warriors avoided my gaze—not out of disdain, but something closer to respect they hadn’t yet learned how to show.

Leah found me near the edge of the ground, her eyes wide. “Ari… you saved him.”

“I helped him breathe,” I replied quietly. “That’s all.”

She shook her head. “No. That was more than that.”

I didn’t answer.

Later that night, exhaustion settled into my bones as I walked home under a sky painted in deep indigo. Clara listened as I recounted the events, her expression unreadable until I finished.

“You walked a dangerous line,” she said gently.

“I know,” I admitted.

“But you didn’t cross it,” she added, a faint smile touching her lips. “That matters.”

In my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely in my lap. My wolf stirred, calm and approving.

You chose restraint, she said. That is a strength they don’t understand yet.

“They don’t need to,” I replied softly. “Not now.”

I stared out the window at the sleeping pack, my thoughts heavy but steady.

Silvercrest had seen me again tonight.

Not as weak.

Not as loud.

But as capable.

And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my chest, that each moment like this made it harder to remain unseen. Not because I was revealing myself—but because people were beginning to look more closely.

I had stepped forward when it mattered.

I had saved a life without claiming credit.

And somewhere within Silvercrest, something fundamental had shifted.

The pack no longer wondered whether I belonged.

They wondered what I was.

And that question, unanswered, carried more weight than any truth I could reveal.