Chapter 1
“Worst. Birthday. Ever.”
Raine's POV
Birthdays, in theory, are supposed to be joyful.
Cake, presents, off-key singing, maybe even a magical moment that makes turning twenty feel like fate giving you a wink rather than a slap.
Mine? Mine began with a scream.
Not mine, surprisingly.
Aunt Edda shrieked when she opened the Alpha’s front door and saw a raven perched on the railing — glossy black feathers, intelligent eyes, and in its beak, a sealed scroll pressed with black wax.
A raven from them.
The Bloodclaw Clan.
Every spine in the packhouse stiffened. Conversations died mid-sentence. Even the pups stopped tumbling around and stared at the creature like it carried death itself in its talons.
“Moon preserve us,” someone whispered.
Beta Rowan Hale stepped forward with the caution of a man approaching a live grenade. He took the scroll. The raven dropped it and flew off without a sound, wings slicing the air like blades.
I swallowed.
Not today. Please not today.
But the look on Aunt Edda’s face told me the moon rarely listened to Omegas.
Beta Hale handed the scroll to Alpha Evan Jameson — my adoptive father, ruler of Frostmoor, and expert at pretending I didn’t exist unless it benefited him.
He turned the scroll over in his hands. His jaw tensed.
“This… this is a summons.”
The words sent a ripple of dread through the gathered pack.
A summons meant only one thing.
The Bloodclaw Lycans — the strongest shifters in the north, a clan so feared mothers used them in bedtime stories to make pups behave — were demanding tribute.
Again.
Every few months, a new pack was chosen to present pure she-wolves, unmarked and unmated, for the Lycans to examine. Legend said their King — Seth Nicholson — was cursed, scarred, and forever mateless unless the Moon herself intervened.
Until he found his mate, no Lycan could fully bond either.
So they searched.
And searched.
And searched.
Women were taken away by masked warriors… never to be seen again. Rumours said they were locked in dungeons, used as breeders, sacrificed, or worse.
No one knew the truth.
And the summons was addressed to Frostmoor.
On my birthday.
Of course.
Happy birthday, Raine.
Fate has jokes.
Alpha Jameson broke the wax seal and read aloud:
“By decree of King Seth Nicholson of Bloodclaw, Frostmoor will present all eligible she-wolves to His Majesty’s warriors for selection. Failure to comply constitutes an act of war.”
My breath hitched.
Not today. Not on my birthday. Not when I had something beautiful — something hopeful — to hold onto.
Because earlier, when Robert Hale walked past me in the hallway, my wolf had lifted her head for the first time in years. My heart skipped. My stomach fluttered. The world sharpened.
It felt like a sign.
I needed to tell someone. Someone I trusted.
I ran to find Daphne.
My sister. The Alpha’s biological daughter. Beautiful. Powerful. Born of the main bloodline.
She’d know what to do. She always did.
I reached Daphne’s room, breathless but smiling.
Halfway down the hall…the smell hit me.
Pine. Cedar. Male warmth. Robert.
Why would he be—?
I pushed open the door.
And the fragile, hopeful little world I’d built inside my chest shattered like thin ice.
Daphne was wrapped around Robert.
Lip-locked. Half-dressed. Legs around his waist. Hands in his hair. Faces flushed like they’d been at it for a while.
They didn’t even look guilty.
Robert smirked.
Daphne pushed her hair back and sighed. “Moons, Raine. Ever heard of knocking?”
“Mate?!” The word tore out of me before I could stop it.
Robert actually laughed. Loudly. Cruelly.
“Me? Mate to an Omega?” He shook his head. “You’re delusional.”
I flinched.
Daphne twisted the knife.
“You don’t really think you belong here, do you? Father only took you in because he owed a debt. You’re lucky to even live under this roof.”
My vision blurred.
The birthday. The mate-bond flutter. The hope.
Gone.
Robert’s smirk widened, cruel satisfaction dripping from every word.
“I, Robert James, reject you, Raine Jameson.”
The words hit like a blade. My wolf whimpered, folding in on herself. My chest burned, my stomach dropped, and for one ridiculous second I thought: Wow. Worst birthday gift ever.
Daphne laughed softly, smug as a cat with cream. “See? Even fate doesn’t want you.”
I backed away before either of them could see the crack splitting through my chest. My vision blurred; the fragile hope I’d carried all morning lay shattered. My mate bond—gone. My birthday—ruined. My dignity—currently being stomped on by my sister’s designer heels.
I didn’t stop walking until the hallway blurred into nothing. I didn’t stop until the cold air hit my face and the packhouse noise faded behind me.
I needed to disappear.
Somewhere no one would think to look.
So I slipped behind the old greenhouse—half‑collapsed, overgrown, and avoided by everyone because a family of raccoons had once taken up residence there. Perfect.
I sank onto an overturned flower pot, hugging my knees to my chest. The glass panes above me were cracked, letting in thin stripes of winter light. Dust motes drifted lazily, completely unbothered by the fact that my entire life had just imploded.
My wolf whimpered softly.
He wasn’t our mate. He wasn’t meant for us.
“Yeah,” I whispered, wiping my cheeks with my sleeve. “Tell that to my chest cavity.”
Hours slipped by in a blur of numbness and self‑pity. At some point, Aunt Edda’s voice echoed faintly from the packhouse, calling for people to gather. Doors slammed. Boots thudded. The pack was moving with purpose.
I stayed hidden.
If I didn’t move, maybe the world would forget I existed for one blessed moment.
But fate, apparently, had a personal vendetta against me.
Because just as I finally exhaled—just as I thought maybe, maybe, the universe would give me a break—
The drums started.
Deep. Thunderous. Final.
The kind of sound that didn’t just echo through the packhouse.
It echoed through bone.
I froze.
No. No no no—
They were here.
The Bloodclaw Lycans.
On my birthday.
Of course.
Happy birthday, Raine.
Fate really did have jokes.
The courtyard filled with the heavy rhythm of hooves and armour. The Bloodclaw Lycans had arrived.
By the time I reached the courtyard, the entire pack had gathered outside, trembling women lined up in the snow as Beta Rowan barked orders.
The ground trembled.
Hooves. Wheels. Armour.
As The Bloodclaw convoy emerged from the treeline, the courtyard froze.
Massive black horses snorted clouds of steam, hooves pounding like war drums. Warriors dismounted in unison, bone masks carved with snarling fangs hiding their faces. Armour gleamed; runes etched in silver pulsed faintly.
The air thickened—heavy, suffocating—like the Moon itself had dropped a blanket of dread over Frostmoor.
Pack members bowed their heads. Knees buckled. Even the Alphas trembled.
I blinked. Tilted my head. Waited for the crushing weight everyone else seemed to be feeling.
Nothing.
The silence pressed in, but it wasn’t heavy. Just… awkward. Like being the only sober person at a party where everyone else was suddenly terrified of the DJ.
“Is it just me,” I muttered under my breath, “or did someone forget to turn the intimidation dial up?”
Aunt Edda clutched her pearls like the apocalypse had arrived. Beta Rowan looked ready to faint. Daphne, of course, stood front and centre, chin high, lips pursed, radiating entitlement.
The warriors dismounted.
Not wolves. Lycans.
Bigger. Faster. Stronger. Almost feral.
The kind of creatures that made regular werewolves look domesticated.
The pack fell silent.
One warrior stepped forward. Tall, muscle-bound, wrapped in dark leather and furs stitched with metal. His mask was marked with silver runes.
The Captain.
He surveyed the women with cold detachment.
But the air changed — thickened — when his attention snapped behind him as another figure dismounted.
A murmur rippled through the pack as the tallest Lycan I’d ever seen, stepped forward.
He moved like a shadow given purpose — towering, broad-shouldered, wrapped in dark armour that looked forged from night itself.
Heat seemed to drain from the world as his aura rolled out like a storm.
Someone near me whispered, voice trembling, “The King…”
Everyone stiffened. Heads lowered. Breath held.
Wolves all around me were dropping like someone had cut their strings. Omegas whimpered. Betas bowed. Even Alpha Jameson was shaking so hard his knees left dents in the snow. Even Daphne’s smug smile faltered.
And me?
I remained standing.
I felt absolutely nothing.
No crushing aura. No suffocating dominance.
No “bow before your king” instinct.
Just… a tall guy in a scary mask.
A very dramatic mask, sure. Black metal, etched with runes, glowing eyes behind the slits—ten out of ten on the intimidation scale. But still. A mask.
I looked around, confused.
That’s the King? Really?
He looked like every other giant murder-wolf in armour to me. Maybe slightly taller. Maybe slightly broodier. Maybe slightly more likely to kill someone with a stare.
But that was it.
My wolf, traitor that she was, perked up like someone had just thrown her a steak.
Oh, he’s powerful. I like him.
I shoved her back.
“No. Bad wolf. We just got rejected by Robert, and now you’re swooning over Mr. McScary Mask? Get it together. We don’t swoon for masked strangers.”
Aunt Edna dragged me down beside her.
The masked Lycan’s gaze swept the line of women.
Calm. Cold. Deadly.
It landed on Daphne. He inhaled sharply, then recoiled like her scent offended him.
A low growl rumbled beneath the mask — so deep it vibrated in my bones.
Daphne stepped forward like she was about to win a beauty pageant. Chin high. Lips pursed. Entitled as ever.
The man in the metal mask stopped in front of her.
That growl deepened.
He inhaled again, rejecting her scent like it burned.
“I refuse,” she snapped, offended before he could even speak. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The courtyard froze. You don’t refuse a Lycan King. Not unless you have a death wish.
The warriors bristled, growls rising like thunder. Blades shifted. One wrong move and there would be blood.
The Captain stepped forward, bristling. “You dare—”
Alpha Jameson paled, sweat beading at his temple. “Sire, please—my daughter—she is the finest Frostmoor has to offer—”
“I said no.” The masked Lycan’s voice cracked the air, rough and commanding. “She’s not pure. Her scent reeks of another.”
Daphne’s face drained of colour, eyes widening in horror.
The courtyard gasped as one—Robert paling beside her, the truth slicing their smug façade like a blade through silk. Alpha Jameson sputtered, hands wringing, as warriors’ growls deepened, silver runes flaring on their armour.
Tension thickened. Daphne’s face crumpled. Robert looked kicked.
Then Alpha Jameson—desperate, eyes wild—blurted the words that sealed my fate: “W-Wait! I have another daughter!”
The world stopped.
“Sire,” he stammered, “if Daphne does not please you, perhaps Raine will. She is unmated. Pure. Quiet. Obedient.”
My stomach dropped.
No. No no no—
I stepped back instinctively.
Too late.
The masked Lycan’s head snapped toward me. Silver eyes locked on mine. The world fell away. Heat slammed my chest—sharp, electric. My wolf leapt, howling, clawing to reach him.
Oh no. Not this again.
He inhaled sharply, like he’d been punched.
“Her.”
Not a question. A verdict.
“Yes, that’s her,” Alpha Jameson quipped, voice oily with relief.
Daphne’s jaw dropped. “HER? She’s just an Omega! A charity case!”
The Captain’s growl sent her stumbling back.
Robert sneered. “What a joke. No one wants an Omega—”
In a blur too fast for my eyes, the masked Lycan crossed the courtyard. His hand closed around Robert’s throat.
Not choking. Just holding. A reminder of how fragile necks could be.
Robert’s smugness vanished. Eyes bulged. Fingers clawed at the iron grip.
The Lycan leaned in close, voice low and lethal, vibrating like thunder wrapped in steel.
“Speak of her again,” he murmured, “and you won’t live long enough to regret it.”
The courtyard fell dead silent. Even the wind held its breath.
My wolf swooned.
Oh, he’s terrifying. I like him.
I groaned inwardly.
Seriously? Tail-wagging during a murder threat? Pick a side.
The Lycan released Robert, who collapsed in a coughing heap—dignity shredded. Daphne rushed to his side.
The Captain barked something in their guttural tongue. The masked Lycan ignored him.
His silver eyes locked back onto me, sharp and unyielding. The air between us crackled, raw and dangerous.
“You,” he said, voice rough like gravel dragged over steel. “Come here.”
My brain said no but my legs moved of their own accord.
Traitor
Heat pulsed at my chest’s centre. My wolf whined, desperate, dragging me toward him like a tether I couldn’t snap.
I stopped inches away. He lowered his head — towering, terrifying, impossibly still — and inhaled deeply at the crook of my neck.
A shudder rippled through his massive frame. His growl was barely human.
“Mine.”
Gasps erupted around us.
Daphne’s jaw hit the floor.
Robert looked like someone had kicked him twice.
My breath hitched.
“There—there must be a mistake—”
“There is no mistake.”
He lifted his hands to the metal mask—slow, deliberate, like he knew the entire courtyard was holding its breath.
A scrape of metal. A click of clasps. A hush so deep even the wind froze to watch.
And then he removed it.
The world gasped.
Not because he was monstrous.
Because he wasn’t.
The rumours had promised a beast—a face twisted by curses, a horror mothers used to scare pups into behaving. But the truth was far more dangerous.
He had only one scar—just one—cutting from his temple down to the edge of his jaw. A single, clean strike. Not disfiguring. Not grotesque.
If anything, it sharpened him.
It drew the eye to the strong line of his jaw, to the fierce set of his mouth, to the lethal beauty of a man carved by battle rather than broken by it.
His features were all sharp planes and uncompromising lines. His mouth was firm, tense, as if unused to softness. His cheekbones looked like they’d been sculpted by a very impatient god. And his eyes—Moon above—his eyes burned silver, bright and ancient and wild, like they’d been forged in the heart of a storm.
He wasn’t hideous.
He was devastating.
Feral beauty wrapped in brutality.
A storm given a body.
A nightmare shaped like a man who could end kingdoms with a look.
And he was looking at me.
“You,” he growled, voice rough and reverent at once. “Are. Mine.”
My heart stopped.
Pretty sure my wolf just fainted.
And somewhere behind me, Daphne finally screamed.
Yeah…
Worst. Birthday. Ever.
