The first Alpha arrived at sunrise. Calla felt him before she saw him—the scent of dominance carried on the wind, sharp as iron, threaded with arrogance and hunger. The neutral lodge sat quiet in the mountains, snow crusted along the stone steps, the world still and white. But the air around Calla wasn’t still. It hummed. She opened the door before he could knock.
He stood there with three wolves behind him—half-shifted, eyes bright, jaws tense. He wore a heavy coat over broad shoulders, scars along his throat like someone had once tried to silence him and failed.
“Luna Prime,” he said, voice smooth. “You’ve chosen solitude.”
“I’ve chosen neutrality,” Calla corrected.
He smiled faintly, eyes dipping to the mark on her neck—Adrian’s mark. “And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still claimed.
