The Mate He Rejected

Too Close

Finn

I don’t go looking for her.

That would make it deliberate, and I’m not ready to admit that much to myself yet.

I just don’t stay where she isn’t.

The square is already shifting by the time I step into it. At first, it’s subtle. Conversations thinning at the edges. Movements slow just slightly. Wolves adjusting their positions without meaning to, drifting toward the main path like something is pulling them there.

Then the first of them steps into view, and the shift becomes real.

The daughters don’t arrive quietly.

They never do.

They move through the entrance with practiced ease, posture straight, smiles placed just right. Polished in a way that doesn’t belong to Iron Ridge. Their laughter carries differently too. Softer. Sharper. Designed to be noticed.

Half the pack is watching now. Enough that it settles in the air like expectation.

My friends are already there. Of course they are.

Thom leans back against the fence, arms crossed, watching without pretending not to. Ezra lets out a low whistle under his breath when one of the girls steps forward, her dark hair catching the light, her smile easy in a way that says she’s used to rooms shifting around her.

“Damn,” Max mutters. “That one’s not here to play.”

“None of them are,” Eli replies, though he’s watching just as closely.

Daniel nudges my shoulder as he passes, grin sharp. “Try not to scare them off in the first five minutes.”

A few of them laugh.

“Better get ready, Alpha,” Thom calls, voice carrying easily across the space. “Looks like you’ve got options.”

Another whistle cuts through the air as more of them step forward, different scents, different appearances, different expectations all wrapped into one moment.

My father moves to greet them, composed, controlled, immediately stepping into the role he was born into. His gaze flicks once toward me.

A reminder.

This matters.

This is what I’m supposed to step into. What I’m supposed to want.

I don’t move.

Because none of it lands.

My attention stays exactly where it shouldn’t.

On her.

Maeve moves along the edge of the square with that same controlled rhythm she always has, like nothing touches her unless she allows it, like the shift in the way people look at her hasn’t changed anything at all.

It has.

I feel it in every glance that lingers too long, in every pause that follows her, in every second someone forgets to look away quickly enough.

It settles wrong under my skin.

By the time she turns toward the narrower path behind the Great Hall, I am already moving.

Not close enough to call it following.

Close enough that I don’t lose her.

She knows.

I feel it in the way she doesn’t look back, in the way her pace doesn’t change, like she is letting it happen instead of reacting to it.

Like she is waiting.

That realization lands just as I step in front of her.

She stops.

Not startled, just still, like this was always where it was going to end.

“Maeve.”

Her eyes lift to mine, unreadable in a way that feels deliberate now.

“That’s becoming a habit,” she says.

“Of what?”

“Following me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It seems to happen a lot.”

The words are light, but they don’t leave room for argument.

I exhale slowly, forcing the tension down, trying to find a place to start that doesn’t immediately put me on the defensive.

“I need to talk to you.”

That shifts something, just enough that she doesn’t move past me.

“About what?”

The answer should be simple.

It isn’t.

“You should’ve said something,” I settle on.

The second it leaves my mouth, I know it’s wrong.

Her brow lifts slightly.

“About what?”

“In the hall.”

“That wasn’t my job.”

The answer is immediate, steady, and it lands harder than I expect.

“It wasn’t his either.”

“No,” she agrees. “But at least he chose a side.”

Simon.

Of course.

My jaw tightens.

“That’s not the point.”

“It is from where I'm standing.”

There’s no heat in it, and that makes it worse.

“I should’ve stopped it,” I say.

The words feel heavier than they should, like they don’t quite belong to me.

Her gaze doesn’t soften.

“It’s already done.”

Something in my chest tightens.

“I’m not part of that.”

“You stood there.”

“I didn’t let it happen.”

“You didn’t stop it.”

I feel it sit there, sharp and deserved, and there’s nothing I can say to it without turning it into an excuse.

I take a step closer.

Too close.

The bond reacts immediately.

It pulls hard enough that my body responds before my head catches up, my hand lifting like it already knows where it belongs.

I stop it.

Barely.

The tension locks through me instead, tight and unsteady.

Her breath shifts just slightly.

She felt it.

“That’s new,” she says quietly.

I don’t answer, because I don’t understand it either, and if I start trying to, I won’t stop.

“I heard about the party,” she says.

The shift is immediate, too controlled.

I latch onto it anyway.

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It seems to matter to everyone else.”

“I don’t care about that.”

“About the girls?”

There’s no accusation in it. Just observation.

“I don’t care about them.”

And that’s true.

More than I expected it to be.

Behind us, movement continues. Voices lift, greetings are exchanged, laughter threads through the square as more daughters are welcomed into Iron Ridge.

It should pull my attention.

It doesn’t.

“What about Kim?” Maeve asks.

“I don’t care about Kim.”

No hesitation.

No room for doubt.

Her eyes search mine for a second longer than necessary.

“Then you should probably tell her that.”

“I don’t need to explain myself.”

“Everyone else seems to think you do.”

I step closer again without meaning to.

The bond tightens instantly, sharper now, less patient.

“Maeve...”

Her name feels different this close, like it belongs somewhere I haven’t allowed it to go.

“I’m not part of that,” I say again, quieter now. “I don’t want…”

The words stop, because I do want something.

I just don’t know how to say it without breaking this open completely.

Her gaze doesn’t move.

“You don’t want what?”

The bond surges.

My control breaking just enough for my hand to close around her wrist before I can stop it.

The contact is immediate.

Grounding.

Wrong in how right it feels.

Everything else drops away. The noise behind us. The pack. The daughters. The expectation pressing in from every side.

There is only her.

Close enough that I can feel the heat of her skin, the shift in her breathing, the way something in me settles and tightens at the same time.

I pull her closer.

Not thinking, just reacting.

Her body aligns with mine naturally, her warmth pressing through my shirt, and something drops low in my stomach, sharp and dangerous.

It's still not enough.

It will never be enough.

“You’re not coming to greet us?”

The voice cuts in from behind us.

Light. Polished. Unfamiliar.

Maeve’s attention shifts first.

Mine doesn’t.

Not immediately.

I don’t let go. Not yet.

When I finally look, two girls stand at the edge of the path, both dressed in colors that don’t belong to Iron Ridge, their posture effortless in a way that is clearly practiced.

One of them smiles.

Bright. Expectant.

“You’re the Alpha’s son, aren’t you?” she asks.

I release Maeve.

Slowly.

Because I have to.

Because not doing it would say something I can’t take back.

“Yes.”

The word feels flat.

Wrong.

Her smile widens.

“We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Of course they have.

Behind them, more arrive.

More voices. More attention. More of what I’m supposed to want.

Maeve steps back.

The space between us widens too fast.

“I should go,” she says.

Not to me.

To the moment.

To all of it.

That lands harder than anything else.

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

She moves past me, slipping between expectation and obligation like she was never meant to be part of either.

I don’t stop her.

I don’t move.

The girl in front of me is still talking.

I don’t hear a word of it.

All I can feel is the absence where Maeve stood.

The pull that didn’t release with her.

The fact that even now, with everything aligning exactly the way it’s supposed to, this is the only thing that feels wrong.

And somewhere between the voices, the movement, and the attention pressing in from every side, one thought settles, sharp and undeniable.

I don’t want any of them here.

Not one.