The drive to the gathering grounds was as familiar as the bruises she never bothered to explain. Gravel roads winding through dense woods, the trees leaning in like they wanted to hear secrets. Her parents sat in the front seat, a quiet war of bitter glances and sighs filling the car. Her mother's perfume was too sweet, clashing with the sour stench of tension.
Velessa looked out the window, ignoring the ache in her chest. She had promised herself this would be the last time she let them parade her like a puppet. One more night, one more mask, and she'd be free. She just had to get through it.
The gathering was already in full swing when they arrived—shifters from every nearby pack mingled under the vast pavilion, lanterns casting golden light over sharp suits and flowing gowns. The scent of wolves was thick in the air—dominance, excitement, tension barely veiled beneath polite words.
Velessa slipped away the moment they crossed the threshold, weaving through the crowd like a shadow. No one noticed. No one ever really noticed her. That was the blessing of being forgettable in a world obsessed with strength.
"Hale," a voice called behind her. A familiar sneer.
She turned slowly, her face calm, detached.
"Cole." She didn't hide the lack of warmth in her tone.
Cole Knightley was everything her parents wanted her to want—Alpha-blooded, well-trained, pack favorite. And a complete bastard. He used to pull her braid in school and call her "Dead Eyes." Now, he just stared like she was a thing to conquer.
"Didn't think you'd show," he said, stepping closer. "Not like you ever belong at things like this."
She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "And yet, here I am. Must be fate."
His smirk faltered.
Before he could say more, a ripple of awareness moved through the crowd. It was almost electric—dozens of shifters straightened, whispers stilled. The Alphas were arriving.
And with them, he walked in.
Rhydan Vale Thorne.
She didn't know his name yet, but her wolf did.
Velessa froze.
Everything inside her screamed run.
He was taller than she imagined, broad-shouldered and confident. A storm in a suit. His raven-dark hair was slicked back, and his presence was sharp, a knife wrapped in silk. His arm was around a beautiful girl with soft hazel eyes and a smile that made people lean closer. They looked perfect together. Like a promise.
The moment Rhydan stepped onto the platform, his eyes swept the crowd—and for a breathless heartbeat, they landed on hers.
It wasn't recognition.
It was impact.
His jaw clenched. "Fuck" he muttered under his breath.
Her heart didn't flutter. It stilled.
Her wolf stirred uneasily.
He looked away.
So did she.
The bond didn't explode to life, not like the stories said. There was no golden thread, no aching pull. Only a quiet shift in her chest. A knowing.
And yet, nothing changed.
He was just a name. A future Alpha.
And she… she was still the girl with dead eyes.