I stood at the edge of the rose garden long after Amelia walked away, her hood pulled low like armor. The funeral crowd had thinned to stragglers—distant cousins shaking hands, business associates murmuring about the will. I barely heard them. My wolf paced inside me, claws scraping at the cage I’d built over seven years. The mate bond burned hot again, raw and alive, like someone had ripped the scar open and poured fire into it.
Seven years. Hollow. That’s the only word that fit.
I’d thrown myself into hockey like it could fill the hole she left. Captain of the team by twenty-five, MVP twice, endorsements rolling in. The ice was the only place the noise quieted—skates cutting, puck slamming, crowd roaring. On the road, hotel rooms looked the same: minibar, king bed, silence that echoed.
