Scent of the Chosen Mate
In the third year of my engagement to Jack, he found himself a pureblooded, sharp-fanged huntress up in the Northern Territory.
The night before my birthday, he brought her to me—just to call off the bond.
He looked at me, cold and distant. “Bethel and I both live for the thrill of the night hunt. You're just a greenhouse wolf—soft and sheltered. You’ll never get what makes it all so addictive.”
I asked, holding back the hurt, “Did it really have to be today?”
He chuckled, “Did breaking a bond require a date on the calendar?”
I nodded without arguing.
But the next month, we ended up in the same Blood Moon Trial up north.
What he didn’t know was—I tasted the rush of the hunt, the heat of blood, and got the champion long before he even came of age.
Later, on his birthday, I sealed a life bond with another powerful wolf.
He looked at me, red-eyed and hoarse, voice barely his, “Did it have to be today?”
I smiled back, “Life bonds need good omens. The moon’s just right tonight.”