By the time I arrived at the Thornecrest Pack's central den, the whispers had already begun.
The sprawling compound sat behind high stone walls reinforced with wolfsbane-laced iron. To outsiders it looked like a grand estate, but every corridor held enforcers disguised as attendants. Their sharp eyes, occasionally flashing amber, scanned constantly for threats. The scent of dominance hung heavy in every room, layered thick with Caspian's territorial markings. This was the heart of one of the most dangerous packs in the region.
Minutes later, Caspian arrived. He stepped out of a sleek black vehicle alongside his Omega Attendant, Scarlett Ashwood. Her soft laughter drifted through the main hall, and every wolf in the lobby turned to look. Ears practically swiveled. Nostrils flared. The scent of her, cloyingly sweet like overripe honeysuckle, wrapped around everything.
Scarlett. The thorn buried deep in my side.
The whispers grew louder as Caspian walked with her into the den. Every wolf under his command knew I was his chosen mate. But Scarlett's constant presence had begun to blur the lines of rank and loyalty. Caspian was involved with her in ways he had never been with me. He gave her rides in his personal vehicle, shared meals at his private table, and even granted her access to restricted sections of the den where pack strategy was discussed. Areas I, his supposed mate, had never been invited into.
Inside me, my wolf stirred with a low, bitter growl. She had stopped fighting about this a long time ago. Now she simply watched with flat, golden eyes, waiting.
Ignoring them both, I made my way to the common area where the shared records were kept. I was only there to copy patrol documents, and I pretended not to notice the sidelong glances the other wolves threw my way. They wanted a show. A spectacle. Some sign that I was cracking under the weight of Scarlett's growing influence within the pack.
But I refused to give them the satisfaction.
The whispers grew bolder as I passed two lower-ranked wolves near the corridor.
"The Shadowmere female is too cold," one of them muttered, loud enough for my wolf-sharp hearing to catch every syllable. "Males prefer females who are soft and yielding. Delicate, like Scarlett."