CHAPTER 13
1208 Words
Damien’s POV
The first time I heard her name again, I dismissed it.
Silvercrest was always full of rumors. Wolves talked—about training results, about alliances, about who impressed a visiting warrior and who embarrassed themselves during drills. Noise like that blended into the background of pack life, and I had learned long ago how to filter it out.
So when I overheard two warriors speaking near the armory, their voices low but animated, I didn’t slow my steps.
“…handled it better than anyone expected,” one of them said.
“Didn’t freeze. Didn’t shout. Just moved.”
I assumed they were talking about training.
Then I heard her name.
“Aria Williams.”
My steps faltered before I could stop myself.
I told myself it meant nothing. That curiosity was natural. That hearing a familiar name didn’t mean I cared. Still, I found myself lingering just long enough to hear the rest.
“They said if she hadn’t stepped in, someone would’ve gotten seriously hurt.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when people looked at her first.”
I walked away before they noticed me standing there.
The sound of their voices followed me longer than it should have.
Aria Williams.
For months after the rejection, her presence had faded into the background of my life exactly the way I intended. I didn’t look for her. I didn’t ask about her. I didn’t acknowledge her existence even when we crossed paths. Ignoring her had been easy at first, a simple extension of a choice I believed was necessary.
I had done what was expected of me.
Silvercrest did not reward hesitation.
And yet, over the past week, her name had begun to surface again. Not with mockery. Not with the same cruel satisfaction I had once heard in others’ voices.
But with something else.
Respect.
I noticed it first during training. The way warriors spoke differently when recounting drills. The way instructors referenced “a student’s suggestion” without dismissive laughter. The way certain wolves paused before speaking her name, as if weighing their words carefully.
That alone unsettled me.
Silvercrest did not pause for anyone.
By the third day, it was impossible to ignore.
I heard it in the council chamber, when an elder mentioned a school incident that had been “handled remarkably well by a student.” I heard it in the training grounds, when someone remarked that discipline didn’t always look the way we expected it to. I heard it in passing conversations, fragmented pieces that painted a picture I hadn’t anticipated.
Aria Williams had not broken.
She had not withdrawn.
She had not become bitter or loud or desperate.
She had endured.
That realization sat poorly with me.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That whatever growth she experienced now didn’t change the reality of what she had been when the bond revealed itself. I had judged based on what I saw then, and an Alpha could not afford to make decisions based on potential rather than certainty.
That was what I told myself.
But certainty was becoming harder to maintain.
One evening, I found myself standing at the edge of the training field long after drills had ended. The grounds were quieter than usual, the sun dipping low enough to cast long shadows across the dirt. A few students remained, practicing movements under the fading light.
She was among them.
I hadn’t intended to look for her. I hadn’t even realized I was watching until my gaze settled on her without conscious thought. She moved differently than she once had—not stronger in the obvious sense, not faster or more aggressive, but steadier.
More precise.
There was no hesitation in her movements. No frantic attempt to prove herself. She executed each drill with controlled focus, adjusting calmly when something didn’t go as planned. Others worked around her now, not avoiding her, not isolating her.
They listened.
That was the part I couldn’t reconcile.
I had believed she lacked the presence required to stand beside an Alpha. That her quiet nature would fracture authority rather than support it. And yet here she was, influencing without demanding, guiding without asserting dominance.
It went against everything I had been taught.
And worse—it made me question whether my judgment had been flawed.
The thought irritated me.
I turned away before I could watch any longer, jaw tightening as I left the field. Questioning myself was dangerous. Doubt had no place in leadership. An Alpha made decisions and lived with them.
That was the rule.
Still, the unease followed me.
Later that night, I found my wolf restless, pacing within me in a way he hadn’t done since the rejection. He didn’t roar or snarl. He didn’t lash out in anger.
He waited.
That was new.
I had spent months forcing him into silence, burying his instincts beneath discipline and logic. I told myself it was necessary, that an Alpha ruled with his mind, not with sentiment. Yet now, his presence pressed closer, not in rebellion, but in insistence.
She is changing, he murmured.
“I don’t care,” I replied internally, though the words felt weaker than they should have.
You do, he countered calmly.
I ignored him.
The next day confirmed what I had been trying not to see.
During a routine briefing, an instructor spoke openly about a school incident involving an alarm breach. He detailed how panic had nearly caused serious harm and how one student had intervened effectively, stabilizing the situation before it escalated.
He didn’t say her name at first.
But everyone knew.
When someone finally mentioned Aria Williams aloud, there was no scoffing. No disbelief. Only acknowledgment.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Not pain.
Something sharper.
Regret was too simple a word for it. This wasn’t the sudden realization that I had made a mistake. It was the slow, grinding awareness that the version of her I had rejected might never have been complete to begin with.
I had judged her in a single moment.
I had assumed stillness meant fragility.
I had believed softness could not coexist with strength.
And now Silvercrest itself was quietly proving me wrong.
That realization threatened more than my pride. It threatened the foundation of everything I had been raised to believe. If I had misjudged her, what else had I misunderstood? What kind of Alpha did that make me?
I pushed the thoughts away, forcing myself to refocus on my duties. Silvercrest needed stability, not introspection. My role was clear. My path was set.
And yet, that night, as I lay awake staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t escape the image of her standing in chaos, calm and composed, moving without hesitation while others froze.
I wondered when that change had begun.
I wondered whether it had always been there.
And for the first time since the night of the bond, I allowed myself to acknowledge a truth I had refused to face.
Rejecting her had been easy.
Understanding her was proving far more difficult.
Whatever Aria Williams was becoming, Silvercrest was starting to see it.
And that meant the story I thought I had ended was no longer entirely under my control.
- Writer
