The Mate Hunt

Excited whispers fill the air, layered with nerves and fear.

I feel none of these emotions. Only a hollow numbness sits heavy in my stomach, spreading like frost through my limbs. Not even the bonfire, fierce and bright at the center of our circle, can chase the cold from my bones.

All thirty-seven of us sit in silence, arranged in a wide ring around the flames. The fire casts an amber glow over our faces, while shadows flicker behind us. We’re dressed in our finest, though it’s a pointless gesture. None of our would-be mates will see us like this.

Some of the girls have been through the ceremony before. Most haven’t. Around me, familiar and unfamiliar faces blur together. There are more girls than I expected tonight, many from other packs who have traveled far to be here.

It is a good thing for me. More options means less chance of getting picked.

I dismiss the thought as soon as it comes.

Wishful thinking. I have never been this naive. I suppose desperation makes you strange, makes you lie to yourself and hope.

Movement flickers at the edge of my vision, and instinct turns my head. Perched atop the massive rocks encircling the ceremonial site is my Alpha, his eyes glowing silver as they scan the gathered girls one by one. Nothing escapes him. Not the whispered exchanges, not the nervous hands smoothing wrinkled skirts or tucking stray hairs behind ears. And he sees me, watching him.

He remains still, a statue carved from stone, betraying no emotion. But I feel his disapproval like an itch under my skin, unmistakable and sharp. The feeling is mutual. He knows exactly what I think of this farce, of him and his sacred laws. And I know he knows. I’ve never defied him openly, never given him a reason to punish me. But true submission is easy to scent.

And he’s never smelled it on me.

A sour taste rises in my throat as a realization settles in. He might get his chance soon.

A second figure steps from the shadows and my spine locks tight. I recognize the slow, deliberate gait instantly. The old grey wolf, his chest thick with shaggy white curls that match the tufts sprouting from his ears, limps forward, each step strained as if his bones have frozen stiff and every step pains him. He takes a seat beside the larger, darker wolf and lowers his head in reverence.

I stare, horror filling me at his presence. He feels my eyes but does not meet them. Guilt, I'm sure.

Despite my understanding of his role as the Wise Wolf of the pack, I do not want Pops here. It was only a week ago that he'd been forced to bed by a terrible lung sickness. For five agonizing days, Sylvie and I had watched over him, doing everything in our power to stop him from joining our Goddess in the heavens. And now he’s here, still sick, still fragile, forced into duty by pride or obligation or some foolish demand from the Alpha himself.

My fists tighten in my lap. Anger swells in my chest, hot and relentless, as I shift my glare back to Rolan. How the devil could Sylvie let Pops do this?

"Silence."

The command is met immediately. Every whisper dies, replaced by breathless stillness as all eyes shift to the Alpha.

It’s beginning.

I smell their anticipation — see it in every girl's eyes. It disgusts me how eager everyone is to lose their freedom to this barbaric tradition soaked in dominance and submission.

Rolan's steely gaze glides over all of us, pausing on me before he speaks again. "Tonight, you honor our Goddess."

Where is the honor in being hunted like weak prey?

His gaze flicks to mine again, sharp as a blade, as if he heard the thought I didn’t speak. His voice is louder this time. "You honor her by way of our ancient traditions, and by accepting the mate she chooses for you."

Lies. All lies, I want to hiss. The Goddess does not choose our mate. Instead, we are gifts, meat, laid out on silver platters for any male to choose, regardless of what or who we want. It is his right alone to fight for us, mark us, rut us… and we are supposed to be grateful.

"You bring pride to your pack by taking a strong and worthy mate, and by continuing our legacy through your pups. You are the soul of the packs, carrying a most sacred responsibility and purpose.”

I hear what he is really saying. Our only purpose, once we bleed and bloom into womanhood, is to breed. That’s it. To be claimed and bred. There is no honor — only rape and forced submission. But they have poisoned the minds of every girl here — telling us this is what we want, what the Goddess wants. And it’s working. I see the belief shining in their eyes.

I glance toward Pops, sitting solemnly beside the Alpha. He listens, silent and still. I want to believe that he doesn't believe any of this either, but he was the one who insisted I needed to do this, how it was my duty as a member of the Blood Moon Pack. He asked me not to bring shame to him and Sylvie. It hurt to hear him say that.

Drowning out the rest of the Alpha's propaganda, I look back into the dancing flames of the bonfire. I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them and resting my chin on top.

The truth is, I am already in too deep. I can loathe every part of this, but escape isn’t an option. Not unless I'm willing to face exile and possibly death. I need to conform to the traditions of old. My path is limited — but by the Goddess, the choice will still be mine.

Whether I accept a mate from another pack, one from Blood Moon, or remain mateless, haunted by the thought of enduring the Hunt all over again next year, I will decide my own fate. The choice of male is mine, too.

"All rise."

Pops’ voice cuts through my thoughts, and the room of stillness shatters with the sound of movement. Bodies shifting, rustling fabric, the soft scrape of feet on packed earth. Everyone obeys. I blink, disoriented, then slowly stand — the last to do so.

The Alpha turns without a word, vanishing into the shadows beyond the rocks. I know he has gone to join the men, who eagerly wait for the hunt to begin.

Pops steps forward, taking the space the Alpha left behind.

“We begin by offering our thanks to the Goddess,” his deep and unwavering voice echoes in my head, “for it is through her grace that we stand here tonight.”

His dark eyes rise to the full moon overhead. “Lift your gaze to the heavens and witness her radiant majesty. Bask in her silver light and feel the might of her power.”

All around me, the others lift their faces to the moon, smiles wide, and arms outstretched in a display of reverence I can’t bring myself to mimic. Let them worship. Let them pretend this is divine will. I won’t.

Still, my eyes lift on their own. Drawn to the moon, drinking in its stark, silver glow. It hangs low and full above us, swollen with power. Among wolves, it is the sign — fertility is at its peak, the narrow passage of time when the Goddess’s so-called blessing makes conception possible. It is why the Hunt only ever happens on a full moon.

But the longer I look, the more wrong it feels.

Heat stirs beneath my skin, blooming in slow, molten waves. My jaw aches, sharp pain blooming behind my teeth. A strange current pulses through my limbs, electric and erratic, like my body is caught between forms. My knees nearly buckle. I swallow against the nausea curling up my throat and wrench my gaze away. That has never happened before.

Pops’ voice breaks through the rising hum in my ears, deep and steady. "Tonight, we offer ourselves to tradition. To unity. To the will of the Goddess."

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. Pain sharpens my senses, anchoring me. Around me, the other girls are beginning to breathe faster, stripping off their clothes — some shyly, others with practiced ease. Silk, lace, and cotton flutter to the ground like discarded petals. One by one, bare skin glows in the moonlight.

I hesitate.

Then, slowly, I slip the red dress from my shoulders. It pools around my feet like spilled blood. I stare at it for a long moment. Sylvie gave it to me this morning, her hands gentle as she explained what was to come. I hated it then — the symbolism, the surrender — but now I wish I could keep it on.

Pops lowers his head, lids shut, voice soft and solemn. “Let the moon bear witness to the sacred rite of the Hunt.”

The words settle over the clearing like a veil.

And then — movement.

The trees rustle. Branches shiver. Shadows twitch. The edges of the forest breathe with anticipation.

They’re out there.

Waiting.

Then: "Run."

One word, and the night explodes.