Malcolm woke with a searing headache and the bitter taste of regret on his tongue.
The sunlight creeping through the heavy drapes did little to soothe the turmoil within him. His bed—once sacred and untouched by anything but solitude—now reeked of guilt. The soft rustle of sheets beside him forced his eyes open, and there she was. Katrina. Her golden hair spread across his pillow, a satisfied expression on her sleeping face.
Panic slammed into his chest like a battering ram.
"No," he breathed, pushing himself out of bed, staggering toward the window. His head throbbed with the force of his hangover, but it was nothing compared to the chaos erupting inside him.
How could he let this happen?
He had been vulnerable, intoxicated, and her presence... comforting. But it wasn't right. It wasn't her he wanted. Not truly. His Lycan had not claimed her. His soul had not sung. There had been no spark, no binding force. It had been sex. Nothing more. And yet, it was everything he despised about himself in one night.
Katrina stirred. "Malcolm?"
He didn't respond.
She sat up slowly, the sheet clutched to her chest, her voice tentative. "I… I didn't mean to—"
"You should've stopped me." His voice was harsh, raw.
"I tried," she whispered. "But you needed someone. I thought if I could be that for you—"
"You're a commander," he cut in. "You should've contacted Michael. Fought me off. Anything."
Silence stretched between them. Shame clouded her face, and she nodded slowly. "You're right."
Malcolm looked away. "Get dressed."
Katrina rose, dressing quickly, her pride shattered. Before leaving, she paused at the door, her back to him.
"I didn't do it to trap you," she said softly. "I know what you believe about your mate. I just… wanted to matter."
And then she was gone.
Malcolm stood in silence, the weight of what he'd done heavier than ever. His wolf remained silent—disappointed, perhaps. Distant.
He ordered the sheets burned and his chambers aired out.
From that day forward, he kept Katrina at arm's length. Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. He could not afford blurred lines, not when his kingdom teetered on the edge of conflict, and certainly not when his mate could still be out there—waiting.
And so, he returned to the silence he had always known.
His private residence outside the main packhouse was more secluded than ever. A sanctuary of cold stone and solitude, where no one dared disturb him. The people said his presence was suffocating, and they were right. His Lycan aura was choking, oppressive. Even his closest guards avoided prolonged eye contact.
He preferred it that way.
But change often crept in when one least expected.
Far away in the packhouse, among the servants and commoners, Mara Evans scrubbed a hallway with hands chapped and sore. A maid by circumstance, not choice, her lineage was far more noble than her tattered uniform suggested. Once middle-class and educated, Mara's life had spiraled into servitude after her parents died tragically.
No one knew the full story.
Her parents, true mates, had been inseparable—soul-bound by fate. But their love had drawn the envy of a powerful woman, Thea Mark, a dark witch who had long desired Mara's father. When he refused her time and time again, fate finally gave her a chance to destroy him.
One fateful night, Thea used forbidden magic to break into their home. The spell was meant to kill Mara as well, but something interrupted the curse's full impact. Only her parents perished, and Thea, furious and wounded, laid a curse upon the baby girl that remained.
Mara Evans would grow up scentless.
No mate would ever find her. Her wolf would remain dormant until she experienced a pure, true love—the kind that could break even the deepest magic.
And so, Mara grew into womanhood as an invisible presence in a world of wolves.
She had no scent. No aura. No wolf.
To most, she was human. And therefore, disposable.
But not to the universe.
One night, long after the packhouse had settled into silence, Malcolm left his home in search of Michael. The Beta had ignored mindlink summons—a habit Malcolm had grown tired of. Michael had a weakness for women, and when he was in bed with one, he became unreachable.
Determined to confront him face-to-face, Malcolm cut across the grounds, cloak fluttering in the night breeze.
That's when he saw her.
A small figure, clothed in a maid's uniform, walking hurriedly across the path. Her head was bowed, a basket in hand. But what caught Malcolm off guard was what he didn't sense.
Nothing.
No scent. No aura.
Just… emptiness.
His Lycan surged.
It pushed forward so fast, Malcolm nearly lost control. His eyes glowed gold, his vision narrowed, and a growl slipped from his throat.
He approached the girl. The Lycan inside him howled—not in rage, but recognition. It was confused, excited, yearning.
The girl—Mara—froze. The weight of the Alpha King's presence hit her like a tidal wave. Her knees buckled. The basket fell.
"Who are you?" Malcolm growled, stepping closer.
Mara couldn't speak. She shook violently, terror flooding her limbs.
But the Lycan didn't want to harm her. It wanted to hold her.
Malcolm reached out, grasped her arms. His hands trembled.
"No scent…" he whispered. "But… you…"
The Lycan emerged fully.
He picked her up as if she weighed nothing, carried her to the nearest chamber—a vacant guest room—laid her gently on the bed. He sniffed her again and again, trying to catch even the faintest scent. But there was none.
Still, he couldn't stop himself.
Mara, terrified and trembling, didn't fight. The energy he radiated was too powerful. She was powerless. But he didn't hurt her. Instead, he kissed her—softly at first, then hungrily. He caressed her, worshipped her, as though her very presence soothed centuries of torment.
He didn't mark her. Didn't bite. But he took her—fully.
It was wild. Pure. And unlike anything he had ever known.
By dawn, Mara was barely able to move.
She washed quietly, avoiding every reflective surface, and limped her way to the head maid. With a pale face and trembling voice, she pleaded to be transferred somewhere far away.
The head maid, no fool, took one look at her and knew.
"You look like you've been through a war," she muttered. "Fine. I'll send you to the pack hospital. Near the border. You'll be far from here."
Mara nodded, grateful. Terrified.
Meanwhile, Malcolm awoke in that same guest chamber, alone. Only blood-stained sheets and the ghost of peace remained.
His Lycan was quiet—more than it had ever been.
He felt… serene. But the girl was gone. Her scent hadn't lingered. There was no way to track her.
He summoned Michael.
"I think I found her," he said. "My mate."
Michael blinked. "What? Who is she?"
"I don't know," Malcolm admitted, voice thick with frustration. "No scent. No name. Just… nothing. But my Lycan—he recognized her. He's calm. That's never happened before."
Michael frowned. "No scent? Could she be human?"
"That's what I thought… but no. She couldn't be."
Michael promised to investigate. But without a scent, without a name or lead, ev
en the Beta was chasing shadows.
And far away, Mara Evans nursed the beginnings of a life she never expected.
A child.