A wolfs desperation: Chasing her

Gabriel POV: The throne room smelled of smoke, steel, and the faint sweetness of fear. Gabriel sat on the carved obsidian throne that generations of Alphas before him had ruled from, but he felt none of their certainty—only the growing irritation scraping at his bones. A cigar burned slowly between his fingers, the ember glowing like a dying star in the dim hall. Along the sides of the room, murals of wolves and ancient battles glared down at him, reminders of legacy, duty, and expectations that had begun to feel like chains. Across the marble floor, a line of young, unmated she-wolves stood stiffly, their eyes darting everywhere but at him. They had been brought from villages across the region at dawn, fussed over, perfumed, dressed in a way that made his wolf recoil. All of them waiting for something impossible. Him. Waiting for him to feel something. Recognize something. Claim someone. And every single time, the same crushing nothingness. He took another drag of his cigar and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl toward the high ceiling. A couple of the girls flinched. He could hear their hearts racing, smell their anxiety thickening in the air. His wolf snarled quietly inside him—not at them, but at the entire situation. At the elders. At the cursed tradition. At fate. Twenty-six. Twenty-six years old. Too old, apparently, to still be mate-less. Too old to keep believing the one destined for him would ever appear. The elders had stopped saying it aloud, but their stares said enough: an Alpha without a mate is an Alpha without control, without balance, without a future. "Alpha Gabriel," his Beta, Tomas, called from the foot of the throne. "The next—" "No." Gabriel didn’t raise his voice, but the denial split through the room like a blade. He pressed the cigar into the ashtray beside him, grinding it until the ember died. "Enough." Tomas blinked. "Enough…today, or—" "Enough altogether." A ripple of shock traveled down the line of she-wolves. One gasped. Another went pale. Tomas swallowed, stepping forward. "Gabriel, the elders will—" "The elders," he interrupted, rising from the throne, "have wasted enough of my damn time." He pulled on his dark coat, feeling the familiar weight settle over him. His wolf surged with restless energy, claws raking just beneath his skin. For months, it had been pacing, suffocating under the constant forced ceremonies, the hopeful faces, the pressure. If she existed—his mate—he would have found her by now. He had traveled. He had searched. He had answered summons from every pack within a thousand kilometers. Nothing. Not a spark. Not a scent. Not even a whisper in his chest. Just silence. Maybe fate had changed its mind. Maybe the moon goddess had made a mistake. Maybe some wolves simply weren’t meant to be whole. He walked down the steps of the dais, each boot step echoing through the enormous hall. The young wolves parted like water, lowering their heads, unsure if he was angry or indifferent. He wasn’t sure himself. "Where are you going?" Tomas called after him, his voice cracking slightly. Gabriel didn’t slow. "Away." "Away where?" "Away from here. Away from them. Away from this." He gestured at the throne, the girls, the suffocating expectation in the room. "Far enough that I can breathe again." "Alpha—" "Do not try to stop me." Tomas froze, the command biting into the air like frost. Gabriel reached the heavy doors and pushed one open. Cold winter light spilled into the hall, washing over his face, cooling the heat simmering beneath his skin. He didn’t look back. If his mate existed for him, she wasn’t here. She had never been. So he would burn the idea from his mind, and he would leave before hope could grow back like a weed. Ashley POV: France in December had a magic that Ashley still couldn’t quite describe. Maybe it was the way the light looked—pale, soft, like the world had dipped itself into a watercolor palette. Or maybe it was the way everyone walked a little quicker, tucking scarves tighter around their necks, chasing warmth and the promise of Christmas. She shoved her hands deeper into her coat pockets, breath puffing in the air as she made her way down the narrow alley that she’d grown unexpectedly fond of. It wasn’t pretty, not like the glossy postcards tourists loved. The walls were tagged with old graffiti, the cobblestones uneven, puddles reflecting the morning sky. Yet it felt lived-in. Honest. A little messy—like her life. Her studio apartment just down the street felt more like a shoe box with a bed, and she couldn’t sit there any longer replaying old messages from Matt and pretending she didn’t know exactly what they meant. We’ll talk when you get back. Money’s tight right now. It’s not the right time. She loved him. She did. They’d been together for years. But she was twenty-two, graduating soon, and she’d started to hope he might take the next step—any step. A ring? Maybe not yet. But a promise. A sign. Instead, she’d allowed his excuses. She breathed out a sigh and stopped in front of the chocolate shop she always passed but had never entered. Lupin’s Chocolat. The lights flicked on as she watched, illuminating rows of glossy pastries and chocolate sculptures shaped like wolves, moons, and winter trees. Cute. Artsy. Very French. She pressed her gloved hand against the window without realizing it. She only had a few days left in France before returning to America—before returning to Matt, to decisions she didn’t want to think about. She should try the chocolate before she left. Little joys mattered, right? Even if the world felt uncertain. A bell chimed in the distance as one of the shop workers unlocked the door for the day. Ashley smiled politely then walked on, not in the mood to be the first customer of the morning. Her last class wasn’t until late afternoon, but she liked wandering. Watching people set up their cafés, stringing lights, sweeping steps. France at Christmas was like a book she wasn’t ready to finish. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and exhaled. She had no idea that with every step she took, with every turn she chose down the cold alleyways of Lyon, she was moving closer—unknowingly, impossibly—toward a world she didn’t believe existed. Toward a man who had given up believing she ever could. Toward the collision of fate and timing and the kind of danger no human heart could be prepared for.