THE REJECTED WOLF’s SECOND CHANCE

THE GIRL WITHOUT A HOWL Aria Larkwood learned early that silence was safer than hope. Hope made people careless. It made them look too closely, ask the wrong questions, notice things that were better left unseen. In a pack like hers—where strength was worshipped and weakness treated like a contagious disease—hope was a luxury Aria could not afford. So she stayed quiet. She moved through the Nightfall Pack like a shadow, careful not to draw attention, careful not to make mistakes. Careful not to remind anyone that she existed at all. It didn’t always work. “Aria.” The sound of her name—sharp, irritated—cut through the morning air. She froze where she stood, fingers tightening around the bundle of herbs she’d been collecting near the treeline. Slowly, she turned. Elder Merek stood a few paces away, his gray eyes narrowed with familiar displeasure. Behind him, two younger wolves lingered, their expressions already hardened with judgment. “You’re late,” the elder said. Aria lowered her head. “I’m sorry. I had to go farther today. The frost—” “Excuses,” he snapped. “If you were stronger, you wouldn’t need to go farther.” She swallowed the response burning her tongue. If she were stronger, she wouldn’t be standing here at all. If she were stronger, she’d have a wolf. A howl. A place. But she had none of those things. “Yes, Elder,” she murmured. Merek’s gaze flicked briefly to her shoulder, where the edge of a faint, crescent-shaped scar peeked from beneath her tunic. His mouth tightened. “Just make sure you don’t poison anyone this time,” he said. “The last thing we need is more misfortune.” The younger wolves snickered. Aria felt the familiar ache settle into her chest—dull, heavy, practiced. She had learned how to carry it without letting it show. “I won’t,” she said softly. Elder Merek snorted and turned away, already dismissing her. The others followed, their laughter fading into the bustle of the pack grounds. Aria waited until they were gone before she let out a slow breath. Misfortune. They used that word often when it came to her. A hunt gone wrong. A pup born sick. A storm that lasted too long. Somehow, it always circled back to Aria Larkwood—the wolf-less girl with the strange moon mark and no place in the hierarchy. She adjusted the basket in her arms and headed back toward the pack. The Nightfall Pack bustled with unusual energy. Wolves moved quickly between lodges, voices raised in excitement, anticipation crackling through the air like static. Decorations were being hung—woven vines, carved symbols, fresh banners dyed in the pack’s colors. Aria slowed. Her chest tightened. She already knew what it meant. “Did you hear?” a she-wolf whispered nearby. “Alpha Rowan is finally announcing it tonight.” “About time,” another replied. “Everyone knows Lyra is the strongest choice.” Aria kept her head down as she passed, but the words still struck, sharp and unavoidable. Tonight. She had known it was coming. Everyone had. Rowan Blackthorn had been Alpha for nearly a year now, and tradition demanded he choose his mate before the next full moon. Still, something inside her twisted painfully at the finality of it. Rowan. Her childhood friend. Her constant. The one person who had never looked at her like she was broken. At least… not until recently. Aria entered the storage lodge and carefully set the herbs aside. Her hands trembled slightly, and she clenched them together to steady herself. She shouldn’t think about him. Thinking led to remembering, and remembering led to hope. And hope was dangerous. She found Rowan near the training grounds by accident. Or maybe fate simply enjoyed cruelty. He stood at the center of a loose circle of wolves, tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair tied back, his presence commanding without effort. Even without shifting, there was something unmistakably alpha about him—the way others instinctively leaned toward him, the way space opened where he stood. Aria stopped short. For a moment, she considered turning away. But Rowan looked up. Their eyes met. Something flickered across his face—surprise, hesitation, something unreadable—and then it was gone, replaced by the composed mask of an Alpha. “Aria,” he said. Her name sounded different on his tongue now. Formal. Careful. “My Alpha,” she replied automatically, dipping her head. A few wolves glanced between them, curious. Whispers rippled outward. Rowan cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t be here. The grounds are busy.” “I was just passing through,” she said quickly. “I’ll go.” She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. “Aria. Wait.” Her heart betrayed her, leaping painfully at the sound. She turned back slowly. Up close, she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flexed at his sides. For a brief, foolish moment, she wondered if he felt it too—the pull she’d sensed since they were young. The quiet awareness. The almost-bond that never fully formed. “I wanted to tell you,” Rowan said, lowering his voice, “before you heard it from someone else.” Her breath caught. “I’m announcing my mate tonight.” The words landed softly. Gently. Still, they shattered something inside her. “I know,” Aria said. She surprised herself with how steady her voice sounded. “The pack has been talking.” Rowan hesitated. “I didn’t want you to think—” “That I expected anything?” she finished for him. His eyes darkened. “Aria—” “It’s fine,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I understand.” Did she? She had known, logically. Known that an Alpha needed a strong mate. Known that a wolf-less girl with a strange scar and a history of blame was not a reasonable choice. But knowing something and accepting it were very different things. Rowan studied her face as if searching for something—anger, resentment, pain. She gave him none of it. Finally, he nodded. “Good. Then… I’ll see you tonight.” She forced a small smile. “Congratulations.” He turned away, already pulled back into the orbit of the pack. Aria stood there long after he was gone. That night, the moon rose pale and full. Aria sat alone at the edge of the pack grounds, the sounds of laughter and celebration drifting toward her. She hadn’t been invited to the announcement feast, but no one had explicitly told her to leave either. She never was. The moonlight brushed over her bare shoulder, and the crescent-shaped scar there tingled faintly—not painful, just warm. It always did when the moon was full. She pressed her fingers to it absently. “Why?” she whispered. The mark had been with her for as long as she could remember. No one knew where it came from. The elders said it was an omen. A warning. Proof that she was different in ways that unsettled them. Aria had learned not to ask questions. Below her, the pack gathered. Rowan stepped forward, Lyra at his side—tall, confident, glowing with health and strength. The crowd quieted instantly. Aria watched from the shadows, her heart heavy but strangely numb. “Tonight,” Rowan’s voice carried, “I claim my mate before the pack.” Cheers erupted. Aria didn’t look away. She watched as Rowan turned to Lyra, his hand lifting to rest on her shoulder. Watched as tradition unfolded exactly as it was supposed to. Nothing went wrong. Nothing dramatic happened. And somehow, that hurt more than anything else. As the pack celebrated, a strange sensation rippled through Aria’s body—a sudden wave of dizziness that forced her to grip the stone beside her. Her vision blurred. For a heartbeat, the moonlight seemed to brighten, the world sharpening around her. Then it passed. She exhaled shakily. Just fatigue, she told herself. Hunger. Too many thoughts. She stood slowly, turning away from the celebration. She didn’t see the elder watching her from the crowd. Didn’t hear the whispered words carried on the wind. “The mark reacted again.” “She shouldn’t be here.” “She’s bad luck.” Aria walked back to her small, quiet shelter at the edge of the territory, unaware that this night—quiet as it seemed—was the last one she would ever spend as part of the Nightfall Pack. The moon watched her go. And somewhere deep within her, something long buried stirred… and waited.