What Remains Unclaimed

CHAPTER 3

**DEREK’S POV**

I should have been watching the sun.

That thought hits me too late, like most regrets do. Not as a whisper, not as a warning, but as a blunt realization that lands heavy in my chest when the world finally slows enough for me to notice what time it is.

The council chamber smells like old stone and frustration. Candles burn low along the walls, their light flickering over faces pulled tight with worry. Voices overlap. Arguments circle. Maps are spread across the table in front of me, weighed down with daggers and smooth river stones marking territory lines and patrol routes.

This meeting was never meant to take this long.

A border dispute with the eastern scouts. A report of missing livestock. A disagreement between two senior warriors that escalated into something personal. Then a messenger arrived late, breathless, carrying news about increased rogue movement near the southern tree line.

One thing stacked on another.

Responsibility has a way of multiplying when you are not paying attention.

I lean forward, palms flat on the table, listening as my Gamma finishes his report. My mind stays sharp, focused. This is what I was raised to do. This is what I trained for. Every decision I make here matters. Every order ripples outward through the pack.

I give instructions. I delegate. I settle disputes with a steady voice and measured words.

And all the while, somewhere beyond these walls, the sun is sinking.

It is not until the chamber finally empties, until the last council member bows and leaves, that the silence presses in hard enough for something else to break through.

A scent.

Faint. Familiar.

Wildflowers and river water.

My heart stutters.

The image hits me all at once. Lila standing by the lake. The way her eyes caught the light when she smiled. The sound of her laughter from the night before, bright and fearless. Her voice when she said tomorrow at sunset, like it was a promise she trusted me to keep.

I look toward the doorway, then back to the maps, as if the answer might be there.

The candles have burned low. The chamber feels too warm. Too closed.

I turn sharply and stride out into the night.

The sky outside is darkening fast, streaked with the last fading colors of dusk. I inhale deeply, searching for her scent. It is there, but thinner now. Fading. Lingering only in memory and traces.

No.

I break into a run.

The path to the lake blurs beneath my feet as I push myself harder than necessary, lungs burning, pulse pounding. Every step carries a growing weight of dread. The clearing opens up ahead of me, moonlight spilling over the water in silver ripples.

The bench is empty.

The lake is still.

No pale dress. No familiar presence. No laughter.

I stop short, breath coming hard, and scan the shoreline. I call her name once, quietly, then louder. My voice echoes back at me, unanswered.

Her scent is here, but it is old now. Hours old. It clings faintly to the bench, to the grass near the water, to the path where she must have waited.

Alone.

I drag a hand through my hair and swear under my breath.

How could I forget.

The answer rises immediately, sharp and uncomfortable.

Because I am my father’s son.

The thought makes my stomach twist.

I turn and head for her house without letting myself hesitate. The walk feels longer than it ever has. Each step brings memories I would rather keep buried. My father standing in doorways with apologies already forming on his lips. My mother pretending she was not disappointed. Promises postponed. Moments missed.

Pack first. Always pack first.

That was his mantra.

That was his excuse.

Lila’s house is dark when I reach it. Only one window glows faintly from within. I pause at the door, forcing myself to breathe, then knock.

Once.

Twice.

No answer.

I knock again, harder this time. I can smell her now, sharp with distress. Salt and sorrow. The bond hums uneasily in my chest, tugging, aching.

“Lila,” I call through the door. “Please.”

Footsteps approach from inside. Slow. Hesitant. They stop just short of the door.

I wait.

Nothing.

“I am sorry,” I say, my voice low and steady even though everything inside me feels anything but. “I should have been there. I should not have let anything stop me.”

Silence stretches.

I press my palm against the wood. “I know I messed this up. I know it looks bad. But please let me explain.”

Her scent spikes suddenly, raw and overwhelming. Pain. Humiliation. Something that feels dangerously close to resignation.

“I waited,” she says softly from the other side of the door.

The words hit harder than any accusation could.

“I waited until it was dark,” she continues. Her voice wavers, then steadies again, like she is forcing herself not to break. “I told myself you were just running late. That something important came up. That you would show up any second.”

I close my eyes.

“I am so sorry,” I repeat, and hate how weak it sounds.

There is a pause, then a small, broken laugh. “You did not even come,” she says. “Not until now.”

“I came as soon as I realized,” I say. “The council meeting dragged on. There was an issue with the borders and then a messenger arrived and I lost track of time. That is not an excuse. I know that. But it is the truth.”

“You forgot,” she says flatly.

“Yes,” I admit. The word tastes bitter. “And that is on me.”

The bond tightens painfully, reacting to her hurt. I can feel it echoing inside my chest, like a mirror held too close.

“I thought,” she starts, then stops. I hear her inhale shakily. “I thought maybe I imagined it. Maybe I read it wrong. Maybe you just felt sorry for me.”

“That was never true,” I say immediately. “You mean more to me than I can explain.”

“Then why does this feel so familiar?” she asks quietly.

The question cuts deep because I already know the answer.

Because I have seen this before.

Because I have lived this pattern from the other side.

I rest my forehead against the door. “I do not want to be him,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

There is a long silence.

“My father,” I continue, my voice rough. “He missed things. Important things. Not because he did not care, but because he always believed there would be time later. I hated that about him. I swore I would be different.”

“And yet,” Lila says softly.

“And yet here I am,” I finish. “Standing outside your door after breaking a promise.”

I straighten slowly. “You have every right to be angry. To shut me out. I will not force you to forgive me tonight.”

The doorknob turns slightly, then stops.

“I just need you to know this,” I say. “You are not an afterthought. You are not something I pencil in when it is convenient. I failed you tonight, and I will own that. But I will not make a habit of it.”

Her breathing is uneven now. I can hear it clearly through the door.

“I felt stupid,” she admits. “Sitting there all dressed up. Watching the sun go down. Wondering what I did wrong.”

The words feel like a knife.

“You did nothing wrong,” I say firmly. “Nothing.”

“I do not want to be someone who waits,” she says. “I watched my mother wait. I promised myself I would never do that.”

The bond flares, sharp and aching.

“Then do not,” I say. “Do not wait for someone who does not show up. Hold me accountable. Demand better. I can take it.”

The door does not open, but I sense her leaning closer.

“I like you,” she says, barely above a whisper. “That is what scares me.”

“I like you too,” I reply. “Enough to know that tonight matters. Enough to know that I cannot afford to repeat this mistake.”

Another long pause.

“I am not ready to see you,” she says finally.

I swallow, nodding even though she cannot see it. “I understand.”

“But,” she adds, hesitating. “Do not disappear again.”

“I will not,” I promise. This time, the words feel carved into something solid.

I step back from the door slowly, every instinct urging me to stay, to fix this immediately. But some wounds need space before they can heal.

As I turn to leave, the weight of the night settles over me fully.

This is not just about a missed date.

This is about the kind of Alpha I am becoming.

And whether I will let the past shape me, or finally break the cycle I swore I never would.

The moon watches silently overhead as I walk away, its light cold and unforgiving.

I do not deserve its blessing tonight.

But I intend to earn it.