Chapter 4 #2
Seven years had faded her scent from these pages almost to nothing. But I could still catch traces—rose essential oil, and something more subtle, uniquely hers.
The scent of love.
Love. I couldn't remember when I'd last truly felt that word.
In my understanding, love was twisted. Dangerous. Destructive.
Like my parents.
They were once the pack's most devoted pair—young, handsome Alpha and gentle, beautiful Luna. Their union was blessed and envied by all.
I retained only fragments: Mother's warmth as she held me, Father's laughter when he lifted me high.
Then everything shattered.
Father got blackout drunk at a pack banquet. Next morning, he woke in an abandoned cottage at the territory's edge, beside a stranger—a wolf disfigured by accident, the pack's lowliest cleaner.
Worse still, they were fated mates.
That damned bond had formed the instant they coupled. Undeniable. Unbreakable.
Overnight, the pack erupted in scandal.
The Alpha had a fated mate—but not his wife, the Luna?
Father desperately insisted it was an accident, drunken loss of control—his true love was Mother.
Just as people seemed ready to accept this explanation, that their Alpha had merely erred, came the final blow: the woman was pregnant.
Nothing could stem the tide of vicious gossip then.
Some claimed Father had long since strayed. Others said Mother wasn't enough to keep her husband. Still others insisted fated mates were true love, and Mother merely a substitute.
Mother became a laughingstock.
A pathetic creature whose husband was stolen by fate itself.
I was only two. Years later, fragments reached me through Mother's personal maid, Alena.
My poor, devoted mother, crushed beneath it all. She sat before her mirror, asking endlessly, "What's wrong with me? Why not me?"
She withered. Withdrew. Refused to leave her rooms, refused even to see me—until Alena's scream shattered that morning's silence.
Mother in the bathtub, wrists slashed, blood turning the water crimson.
She left one line: I lost to fate.
Alena said Father changed after that.
Started drinking heavily. Raging. Became volatile and unpredictable. He removed all Mother's portraits, sealed her chambers, and forbade anyone entry. In his final mercy, he allowed the woman to bear her child—Finn—then exiled her from the pack.
After the grand funeral, Mother became merely the past. Everyone assumed Father would recover—grieve appropriately for a few months, then select a new Luna. Even Alena thought so. After all, he was a man...
But she was wrong. Everyone, including Mother, was wrong.
Father truly loved her. He spared Finn not a single glance, never chose another Luna.
Declared he'd have only one wife this lifetime.
But he also grew increasingly obsessed. From my earliest memories, the first lesson Father taught me wasn't courage, strength, or ambition—it was:
"Fated mates are a curse."
As I grew, he repeated it ceaselessly. From the tall, warm father of my early memories to the gaunt, bitter man on his deathbed. Twenty years of the same refrain.
"Fated mates aren't love—just instinct. Physical attraction. Nature's trap."
"Real love is rational. Your mother was my true love. I lost her forever."
"If you ever meet your fated mate, you must reject her. Or you'll destroy everything."
Those words carved themselves into my bones.
That night I lost control with Layla... But when I came to my senses, felt the bond's undeniable connection—tidal panic drowned me in that instant.
No. This couldn't be happening.
I couldn't be controlled by instinct, couldn't destroy everything.
I couldn't become Father!
So I called it a mistake. Rejected her. Denied the bond before everyone—convinced I was doing right. I hypnotized myself repeatedly, ignoring my wolf's fury inside. I simply refused to become Father. I was protecting myself, the pack, and our future.
But I was wrong.
I began dreaming of her, thinking of her in countless mundane moments. Obsessively kept her diary close—the only thing that could restrain the violence churning inside me.
Kayden Blackwood, how pathetic you are. You feared nothing more than becoming your father. But look—look at everything you've done, the ruin you've wrought with your own hands. You've already become him.
No. You're worse than him.
Only after losing Layla Gray did you realize you cared.
A knock at the door.
"Alpha?" Evan's voice. "The gala is beginning. Guests are waiting."
I drew a steadying breath, carefully returned the diary to my inside pocket, and pressed against my heart. Then, I stood, walked to the mirror, and straightened my tie.
The man reflected there wore a perfectly tailored black suit, silver eyes calm, expression composed. No trace of the breakdown moments before, no hint of inner turmoil.
I opened the door. Evan stood waiting respectfully.
"Tonight's agenda?" I asked, voice restored to its usual control.
"Jewelry exhibition, charity auction, several key clients requesting meetings." Evan's report was crisp. "Also, the James Family from the north and Morrison Family from the east have both arrived, hoping to discuss partnerships..."
I crossed to the VIP room's floor-to-ceiling windows, gazed down through the one-way glass at the venue below.
Hundreds of guests already mingled—society's elite in gorgeous gowns and priceless jewelry, engaged in elegant discourse. This was high society's theater, and I was among its principal players.
Kayden Blackwood. Sole Alpha of Silver Moon Pack. Commander of the vast Blackwood empire.
I appeared to have everything—power, wealth, status, respect. Yet inside, I'd always been hollow.
"Alpha, we should go down," Evan prompted.
"Right." I turned to leave.
Then my wolf suddenly erupted.
Not ordinary restlessness—violent, nearly uncontrollable agitation. It roared inside me, clawed frantically, desperate to break free.
What the hell—?
I frowned, exerting willpower to suppress it. But it grew wilder, growling savagely in my mind.
Evan noticed my disturbance. "Are you all right?"
"Fine," I said, though my voice was strained.
My wolf had never lost control like this—not since seven years ago, that night by the lake, when I first caught Layla's scent...
Impossible.
I shook my head, banishing that absurd notion.
"Let's go," I said.
Evan and I left the VIP room, descended to the banquet hall.
Music swelled, conversation hummed, glasses clinked. Countless eyes turned toward me—respectful, ingratiating, calculating.
I smiled mechanically, exchanged pleasantries with various luminaries.
"Mr. Blackwood, such a pleasure..."
"Regarding that venture..."
"Alpha, our family hopes to discuss..."
My responses flowed smoothly—standard, appropriate, flawless. Years had honed this social performance to perfection.
But my wolf kept stirring.
Urging me. Calling me. Guiding me toward some unseen direction.
I tried impatiently to suppress it. Something was wrong tonight—it was especially unruly.
Then I caught it.
Not saw her—smelled her.
That scent: rose, honey, and something deeper, uniquely hers. Achingly sweet.
Impossible.
This couldn't be—
But my wolf was roaring, screaming, frantically struggling to burst free.
I whirled, scanning the crowd desperately.
Then I saw—
That face.
My legs moved without permission, shouldering through the throng toward her. People parted in surprise, but I didn't care about decorum, about appearances—my stride quickened to nearly a run, I just needed, I just needed...
I had to know.
I had to be certain.
"Layla—" Her name tore from my throat, voice ragged.
The woman turned, met my gaze.
And I saw her eyes.
Not amber.
Blue.
Cold, unfamiliar blue.
"Sir," she said with a polite, distant smile. "You're mistaken. I'm Ella Ross."