Chapter 7 - Layla
When she stepped outside, the air hit her like a slap.
The sun had gone down without her noticing, and the streetlights had already flickered on, halos of gold in the fog.
The road leading toward the Old Sawmill was crowded with shadows moving in the same direction, people walking in twos and threes, silent or murmuring under their breath.
The unease was contagious; even the youngest wolves moved with purpose.
Layla tucked her hands into her coat pockets and followed the current.
The path wound downhill through the edge of town, where the houses thinned, and the air took on the damp, resinous scent of the forest. The Sawmill had stood there since before the pack settled in Skymist, an old, ribbed skeleton of a building half-swallowed by moss and time.
The Volkhovs had claimed it as their gathering hall generations ago, long before The Anchor had been built, when secrecy from the humans was even more important.
By the time Layla reached the clearing, torches already burned outside the doors.
Layla hesitated at the edge of the crowd, pulling her coat tighter. Every instinct told her to stay at the back. Blend in. Be invisible.
But even she could sense the eyes that followed her.
She could feel them, pack members she’d grown up with, their curiosity tinged with the same mixture of pity and unease she’d felt for years. The Hawthorne girl, the one who couldn’t shift. The one who’d fallen out of favor. The one whose brother had climbed high out of the dreck.
A sharp laugh carried from somewhere near the doors, “Didn’t think she’d show up,” a woman said, not quietly enough.
Layla didn’t turn.
Instead, she fixed her eyes on the entrance. The heavy double doors stood open, the space beyond pulsing with firelight. She could see movement inside, rows of benches, the central platform raised against the far wall.
Her throat tightened when she spotted Theodore.
He stood near the front, just below the platform, dressed in the dark uniform of the Volkhov guard.
His posture was impeccable: shoulders back, head high, every inch the lieutenant he’d fought to become.
From a distance, he looked older than she remembered.
Or perhaps she just never got the opportunity to see him like this.
She wondered if he’d notice her. Part of her hoped he wouldn’t.
Beside him, Dominic Volkhov stood unmovable as he surveyed the crowd. The Alpha’s presence anchored the room; even from where she stood at the threshold, Layla could feel the weight of it. He wasn’t speaking yet, but the pack stayed quiet nevertheless, waiting for him to step forward.
She crept inside, trying to be small, but the sound of the door creaking behind her drew several heads her way.
A few people fell silent when they recognized her.
She walked faster, slipping toward the shadowed side wall, where she could stand near the edge of the benches without drawing attention.
She took a place near one of the side pillars, half-hidden.
Her heart hadn’t stopped its steady pounding since she’d left home.
The pack always looked different when gathered like this.
Hundreds of people pressed into one small space, their energy mingling together.
Even the few members of the Nordan pack, invited no doubt in the interest of diplomacy, seemed part of it.
She recognized Chase, second-in-command to the Nordan and Arthur’s younger brother, murmuring in low tones with a few Volkhov warriors.
Of course they were so readily accepted. Despite their white and blue uniforms, they were wolves, the same as everyone in the room.
Everyone but her.
Her gaze drifted back to the front.
Dominic’s expression was carved from stone, but she could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed once at his side before going still again. To his right stood Julian Rook, silent, watchful, his sharp profile illuminated by torchlight.
Layla’s stomach twisted. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a routine council announcement. Not with Julian there. Not with the whole pack summoned with no notice.
She looked toward Theodore again. He was speaking quietly to another officer, his face unreadable, eyes flicking toward Dominic and back. There was a flash of something she couldn’t quite name. Worry, maybe. An alpha’s unease.
Her chest tightened.
She hadn’t spoken properly to her brother in months.
Every conversation since they’d lost their parents had ended with silence or anger.
He’d built a life with no space for her.
Still, seeing him there, close to the Alpha, trusted and belonging in a way she never would, hurt with the kind of depth she’d never be able to truly hide, not even from herself.
She forced her attention back to the front as Dominic stepped forward
The murmur of voices stilled instantly. Every pair of eyes fixed on him.
Layla swallowed hard, pulse climbing.
The air changed, thicker, expectant. The weight of the pack’s attention pressed against her, threatening to choke.
Dominic’s gaze swept across the crowd once, measuring, assessing. When it passed over her, just for a heartbeat, she felt its touch, cold and electric all at once.
Then he looked away, and the moment broke.
Layla barely dared to breathe. Whatever he was about to say, it wasn’t good.
The hall was utterly still now, every flicker of flame reflected in a hundred watchful eyes.
Dominic didn’t raise his voice, but it carried anyway. Low, even, threaded with power.
“You all know why I’ve called you here.”
No one moved.
“Over the past month,” he continued, “our borders have been tested. Humans have gone missing. Patrols have found tracks that don’t belong to us. The rumors are true. The hybrids are growing bolder.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, frightened and angry. Layla held her breath, shrinking further back into the shadows, instinctively recoiling from the pack’s fury.
Dominic didn’t let the noise grow. “Enough.”
The single word silenced them.
He waited a beat until the hush settled again. “We’ve confirmed movement near the Volnoye border. They’re watching us, gauging how we respond. And they will come for Skymist if we show weakness.”
At the mention of the neighboring pack, a few wolves exchanged uneasy glances. The Volnoye Pack’s shadow stretched long over them, Leonid’s presence like a ghost. A few of the stronger alphas, both Volkhov and Nordan, sneered mockingly. There was still caution in their eyes.
Dominic’s expression didn’t change. “We will not show weakness,” he said, “and we will not panic. We will not fall.”
He looked toward his lieutenants then. Theodore straightened immediately, shoulders squared, but Julian didn’t move, only watched, sharp-eyed, unreadable as ever.
Dominic’s gaze swept the crowd again. A muscle in his jaw ticked. Layla knew the sign. Knew that whatever he was about to say, the words would not come easy to him. He was fighting a battle of some kind. And that rarely boded well.
Her stomach tightened.
“There are times,' he said slowly, “when raw strength alone isn’t enough. When opportunity comes to find power in new places.”
A rustle went through the crowd, confused at first, then curious.
Dominic’s tone shifted, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “The God Lunarion has made his will known to me.”
The murmur grew louder. Some bowed their heads instinctively; others gasped or whispered prayers. The last time anyone had claimed divine visitation had been before Layla was born.
Her mouth went dry.
“I can no longer resist the will of our God,” Dominic continued. “He calls for renewal. For the binding of strength and balance. For the Alpha to stand not as one, but as two halves joined.”
Layla’s pulse quickened. She knew the words, their ritual cadence, the phrasing used in old texts to mark a mating declaration.
Her eyes darted to Theodore. He looked as startled as the rest, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed thin. His gaze flicked between Dominic and the gathered crowd, calculating.
Dominic’s tone didn’t waver. “I have waited long enough. The time for hesitation is past. Skymist needs every protection the moon can grant.”
Someone near the front spoke without permission, “You mean, you’re taking a mate?”
A ripple of sound, shocked laughter, approval, disbelief.
Dominic’s gaze cut sharply in that direction, and the noise died immediately.
“I mean,” he said, “that I have received God’s call to do so. The bond will strengthen the pack. The ceremony will be held tonight.”
The word tonight landed heavily. No preparation, no courtship, no ceremony planned months ahead as tradition demanded. Immediate. Unchangeable as the tide.
Layla’s breath caught. She wasn’t sure why.
Dominic’s voice deepened, quieter now, but the kind of quiet that makes the world lean in to hear. “There is no time to waste. The decision belongs to Lunarion, and it is made.”
All around her, the pack buzzed, whispers under breath, fragments of speculation. Mating was a common occurrence, similar to marriage, but a mate chosen by Lunarion? That was a rare thing indeed. Those alphas who found their chosen mate were rumored to receive special powers from Lunarion himself.
Of course, many claimed to have a chosen mate. To strengthen an alliance, to garner support, even in the interests of being romantic. A true mating, as it was known, was rare indeed.
Someone said, “A Nordan girl, perhaps?”
And someone else, “He’ll choose from the Severney Pack, strengthen ties to that slippery lot against the Volnoye.”
Layla felt the edge of a bitter smile rise unbidden. They were probably right. That was how it worked. Politics first, heart second. If there was room for heart at all.
She was barely paying attention now, her thoughts drifting to how quickly she could leave once the announcement was made. She needed to check the basement again, to make sure nothing had—
“Before the God,” Dominic said, “and before the pack, I name my mate.”
The words froze her where she stood.
The hum of the crowd ceased as if cut by a knife. The silence was total.
He paused, not for effect, she thought, but for grounding. Like he was steadying himself before a blow.
Layla’s stomach turned.
And then his eyes found her.
The look was brief, unreadable, but it pinned her in place.
Dominic’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
“Layla Hawthorne.”
The name struck her like a physical force.
For a second, she didn’t understand it. It didn’t make sense. Someone else must have that name, another Hawthorne, a cousin, anyone. The words couldn’t possibly mean her.
But then the silence broke, and the whispers began, sharp, gasping, incredulous.
“Her?”
“The unshifted girl?”
“Isn’t she an outcast? Or was that just a rumor?”
Layla’s body went cold. Her throat worked, but no sound came out.
She felt every gaze in the hall turn toward her, hundreds of eyes burning through the dark. Heat flooded her face. Her hands clenched at her sides, but they trembled anyway.
Dominic stood unmoving at the front of the room, his expression calm, but there was something beneath it, a tension, a kind of grim inevitability.
Theodore’s face was white. His mouth opened, then shut again. Whatever he wanted to say, he didn’t dare.
Julian didn’t move at all. His gaze flicked briefly from Dominic to Layla, assessing, and then away again, as if already calculating what came next.
Layla wanted to disappear. To vanish into the floorboards, to simply disappear.
Someone whispered, “She’s not even—”
Another voice hissed, “Quiet.”
Dominic’s gaze didn’t leave her. “The ceremony will take place at midnight,” he said, “in accordance with our laws.”
He turned then, signaling an end. His lieutenants straightened. The murmur turned into a roar.
The pack began to move as one, angry and writhing, confused and fearful.
Layla remained still.
She could feel the sound of her heartbeat, fast and loud, in the hollow between her ears. She couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t think.
Dominic had said her name. Her name.
When she finally managed to take a breath, it came in ragged. The torches flickered, their light too bright, too hot. The smell of smoke made her dizzy.
Across the room, Dominic descended from the platform. Theodore followed close behind him, face tight.
Everyone was talking about her. Looking at her. Some were fearful. Some were scornful. None was kind.
Her knees trembled. She couldn’t collapse, not here, not now.
But it was as if someone had ripped the floorboards from beneath her.
Her name was still echoing in her head.
Not her. It couldn’t be her. Why would he choose her? Now? After all these years?
He was walking towards her now, slowly, reluctantly.
She considered running.
There was no point. If he didn’t stop her, one of his warriors would.
Bitterness clawed her throat, acrid and choking.
It had to be some sort of joke. It had to be.
Why else would he choose her?
He’d had his chance to claim her years ago. And instead, he’d rejected her. Left her all alone.
Dominic Volkhov.
The only male she’d ever loved. The only one to whom she’d ever given herself.
The one who had broken her heart.