My fingers tremble as I click the link. The article loads, revealing a professional photo of Conrad with his arm around… Marcy. My former tormentor beams at the camera, her perfect smile dazzling as she flaunts a massive diamond ring. Conrad stands beside her, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
“The engagement comes just two weeks after Clawford’s public rejection incident,” the article states. “Sources close to the couple say they immediately felt a strong connection and plan to mate within the month. Miss Marcy Frostpaw, daughter of prominent businessman Harold Frostpaw, quickly captured Conrad’s heart.”
I snort. But then I keep reading, and my amusement dies.
“When asked about his previous scent match rejection, Clawford stated: “Sometimes fate makes mistakes. Marcy and Iare proof that true love transcends biology. I dodged a bullet with that savage.”
My throat tightens, but it’s not hurt; it’s rage.
“Fuck you, Conrad.”
I force myself to keep reading the comments.
@packqueen: FINALLY! Conrad deserves someone beautiful. They look perfect together! #PowerCouple #BetterChoice
@marcyqueenie: Dreams do come true! Thank you all for your support during this magical time! #Blessed #EngagedLife
@saramoondreamer: Anyone else think this is suspicious? Two weeks after rejecting his SCENT MATCH? Something’s not right. #TeamLuna #SomethingFishy
@lonewolflover: Poor Luna. First rejected, now this slap in the face. Conrad’s a piece of shit. #JusticeForLuna
@silvermoon123: Wait, wasn’t Luna his scent match? How is he engaged to someone else? This doesn’t make sense. #Confused
I toss my phone onto the bed.
My wolf stirs restlessly, sensing my anger. She’s confused—shouldn’t I be devastated? Heartbroken? But all I feel is fury and something like relief.
“Good riddance,” I mutter, pacing my room. “They deserve each other.
I storm downstairs, swipe a granola bar from the pantry, and head outside for a quick walk around the grounds to clear my head.
When I circle back to the house, I hear the muffled grunts and music thumping from the gym.
I pause outside the door, listening for a beat, and then open the door, bracing myself for the onslaught of testosterone.
All five of them are inside, engaged in various forms of combat.
Hudson and Ethan circle each other on the sparring mat. Axel is decimating a punching bag in the corner, his fists a blur of motion. Oli is practicing some kind of martial arts sequence in front of the mirror.
And Damien—my breath catches—is lifting weights that look impossibly heavy, his muscles straining with each repetition. Sweat glistens on his bare torso, highlighting every defined ridge and plane.
I must have made some sound, because five heads suddenly turn in my direction.
“Take that off,” Damien snaps, pointing at his T-shirt.
What the hell?
“No,” I shoot back, meeting his glare.
His brow furrows, lips curling into a snarl. “I said, take it. Off.”
I cross my arms and plant my feet. “And I said no. What’s your damage?”
Damien stalks towards me, each step rippling his muscles.
“My damage,” he snarls, “is that you’re wearing my fucking T-shirt.”
“Oh. Well, mine had all your cum on it, asshole.”
