Smoke curled from the ceremonial torches as dusk fell over the high mountain range. The clearing was hushed, ringed with the watchful eyes of the Black Blood Pack. Their alpha stood tall at the altar stone, his armor black as midnight, his expression carved from stone. Kaelen was every inch the warrior—broad-shouldered, scarred, revered—and tonight, he would take a mate.

But not just any mate. A boy from the Moonmist Pack.

It was a union whispered about in disbelief for weeks. No one could understand why their dominant, battle-hardened leader had chosen someone so… delicate. The Moonmist were known for their rituals, their songs, their ethereal beauty. Not for their strength. Not for survival.

Still, Kaelen had made his choice.

The forest hushed.

A chime rang softly through the trees—small bells, delicate and clear.

Then, through the shifting mist, Riven appeared.

He wore silver, sheer and fluid, trailing behind him like moonlight woven into cloth. His long black hair had been braided down his back in the traditional style of his people, with tiny charms hidden within the strands that tinkled with every step. His frame was lithe, his skin glowing under the last touch of sun, and his expression…

Calm.

Not nervous. Not afraid. Not even uncertain.

Riven walked with the elegance of a falling petal, and when he stepped into the circle, the Black Blood warriors stared in silence.

He knelt before Kaelen, bowing his head with grace and offering his neck—a silent symbol of trust, submission, and union.

Kaelen looked down at the boy who would become his, not with coldness but with something unreadable in his eyes. He stepped forward slowly, then bent, brushing his lips over Riven’s neck before letting his fangs pierce gently into his skin. Just enough to mark. Just enough to seal the bond.

Riven didn’t flinch. He exhaled softly, tilting his head further, letting Kaelen take what he needed.

Gasps spread through the crowd. The Moonmist boy hadn’t made a sound.

Kaelen withdrew and pressed his forehead to Riven’s, speaking low so only he could hear. “You’re mine now.”

Riven’s lips curled into the faintest smile.

“I was always going to be.”

The blood ritual complete, the pack was supposed to cheer—but the silence lingered, filled with a strange kind of awe.

Kaelen took Riven’s hand and raised him up. Their bond was official.

As the moon crested over the horizon, drums began to beat in the distance, and the pack finally roared approval. Wine flowed, firelight danced, and warriors howled into the night sky.

But Kaelen didn’t linger.

Just hours later, news of a northern invasion arrived. Kaelen gave Riven one last look before he mounted his horse. No promises, no soft goodbyes. Just a nod—as if to say, stay alive.

Riven stood at the edge of the stone steps as the warriors rode off, wind tugging at his hair, fire casting shadows across his face. He said nothing, but his hands curled tightly around the ends of his sleeves, long after Kaelen disappeared from sight.

He was alone in a pack that didn’t want him.

And still, he didn’t run.

He stayed.

The howl split the sky just as the sun dipped below the ridge. Deep, guttural, and ancient—it rolled down the mountain like thunder.

Riven lifted his head at the sound, heart pounding in his chest. For days, there had been no word. The warriors had vanished into the borderlands, led by Kaelen himself, and those left behind had kept their silence. But now… now the sound of horns followed the howl, three long blasts that signaled only one thing.

Victory.

“They’re back!” someone cried from the village square.

Riven didn’t rush. He stood in the stone archway of the high hall, his hands gently folding together, long crimson sleeves falling like waterfalls around his wrists. The robe he wore was stitched with thin silver thread—a gift from his mother before he left his homeland—and he had painted his lips the soft red of crushed berries, the same way Moonmist dancers did before ceremonial prayers.

His heart raced. But his face stayed calm.

Down below, the pack was already gathering. Wolves in human form and wolf form alike clustered near the forest’s edge. Elders stood tall in dark cloaks, while children clambered up crates and rooftops to get a better view.

And then, hooves—followed by paws.

The first of the riders burst through the treeline, black flags held high, fangs bared in grins of triumph. Mud covered their armor, blood stained their axes, but they moved like shadows, like kings of the forest returning home.

At the center rode Kaelen.

He sat atop a massive black direwolf, the reins in one hand, his other resting on the hilt of his sword. His dark hair was tangled and wet, stuck to his neck. There was a cut over his cheekbone, and blood on his knuckles, but his eyes—those sharp, winter-storm eyes—searched the crowd until they found Riven.

Riven didn’t smile.

He just looked at Kaelen, unblinking, chin slightly tilted. A silent statement: I waited. I didn’t doubt you.

Kaelen’s mouth twitched upward for half a second.

Then the pack swallowed him up, warriors clapping him on the back, howls erupting like wildfire. The drums started not long after, low and deep, pulsing through the ground like a second heartbeat. Torches were lit along the stone paths, smoke rising into the night air.

Celebration had begun.

“Bring the meat!” an elder shouted. “Tonight, we feast!”

“The wives will dance!” someone howled.

“Yes, let the spirits see our joy!”

All around the great bonfire, the pack formed a circle. The older women passed goblets of spiced wine and handed out silver bells to the spouses of warriors. It was an old tradition—when the warriors returned victorious, their mates would dance in offering, in pride, in joy. It was sacred. It was expected.

Riven remained seated on the wide stone steps, just beyond the circle. He held no goblet. He wore no bells.

He wasn’t from this pack.

“He won’t dance,” someone whispered behind a hand. “Moonmist don’t celebrate like we do.”

“I heard they only dance behind temple walls, in silence.”

“Maybe he’s afraid.”

“He’ll humiliate our alpha.”

Riven heard it all. He always did. Even when they spoke in low tones, even when they smiled politely to his face. They thought he didn’t belong. That Kaelen had married him for diplomacy, not love. That he was soft. A pretty thing tucked behind silk and stillness.

Across the fire, Kaelen sat on the high log, a goblet in hand, cloak draped over one shoulder. His warriors filled the circle, already laughing and sharing meat and stories of bloodshed. But his eyes never strayed from Riven.

Riven met his gaze. Held it.

Then he rose.

The air shifted.

He walked barefoot across the stone ring, his robe fluttering around his legs like whispering flame. The drums faltered for a breath, unsure. Riven stepped into the center of the circle without speaking.

He raised both hands to the moon.

And the drums resumed—slower now, deeper.

Riven closed his eyes.

He moved like water.

His arms curved, slow at first, then faster—hips rolling with the rhythm, bare feet stamping in soft pulses. He twirled, robe flaring like a crimson flame, silver threads catching the firelight. His body twisted, arched, bent backward as if carried by unseen winds.

He wasn’t just dancing.

He was invoking something.

Gasps filled the silence. The music grew wilder. Riven’s breath came in soft pants, sweat gleaming on his collarbone as he dipped low to the earth, hands grazing the ground, then shot up again like a phoenix in full flame.

One of the older women whispered, “Spirits... he’s trained.”

Another said, stunned, “That’s not temple dance. That’s war praise.”

“I’ve never seen a body move like that…”

Kaelen stood slowly, unable to stay seated. His goblet fell from his hand unnoticed. He stepped toward the ring, eyes wide. It was the first time most had ever seen the hardened alpha look… breathless.

When Riven’s final spin slowed and he came to a stop, arms still raised, chest heaving, hair clinging to his flushed face, the fire flared behind him, lighting his silhouette like a god descending.

Silence.

And then—

Howls.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

The pack howled in awe, in respect, in thunderous celebration. Riven slowly opened his eyes and looked directly at Kaelen.

Kaelen stepped forward.

He didn’t speak.

He crossed the fire ring in five long strides, reached for Riven, and pulled him flush against his chest. The alpha’s hands were rough and warm, gripping his waist tightly.

“You waited for me,” Kaelen murmured into his hair.

“Always,” Riven whispered.

“And you danced. For me.”

“For the spirits too,” Riven added, smiling. “But yes. For you.”

Kaelen cupped his face and kissed him. Not roughly. Not possessively. Just full of heat and gratitude and awe.

And from all around, the pack watched—not with ridicule, not with doubt, but with reverence.

One of the elders muttered, “The Moonmist boy is not just pretty.”

“No,” another agreed. “He’s one of us now.”

That night, the celebration roared into dawn, but the only thing Kaelen wanted to hold onto was the warmth of Riven’s body, the memory of his dance, and the silent fire that lived in his mate’s eyes.

The fire was dying down. Embers floated in the air like tiny spirits rising to the heavens.

The howls of the pack faded into the background, laughter drifting like mist, drums beating softer now—a heartbeat slowing into silence.

Riven stood near the edge of the great ring, his body still humming from the dance. Sweat clung to the curve of his neck, his robe damp against his skin, the silver threads still catching the light like falling stars.

Kaelen didn’t ask.

He just stepped behind Riven, wrapping one arm around his waist, palm flat over his belly, pulling him back into the hard press of his body. His voice was low, barely a growl, but Riven heard it clear as breath against his ear.

“Come with me.”

Riven turned, silent.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The way he placed his hand into Kaelen’s, the way his eyes glimmered like moonlight over dark water—that was answer enough.

They left the ring quietly, slipping through the narrow forest path toward the alpha’s quarters. No one followed. No one dared.

The air was cooler beneath the trees. Dew sparkled on leaves, and night birds sang as they passed. Kaelen kept his hand on Riven’s lower back, thumb brushing skin where the robe had slipped open slightly. He didn’t say a word.

Not until they reached the door.

He opened it with a push and guided Riven inside.

The space was wide, lit only by a handful of flickering candles. A fur rug covered the floor, and thick blankets lay neatly on the bed of furs near the hearth. It smelled of pinewood and leather and something darker—something like Kaelen himself.

Riven didn’t move at first.

He stood in the doorway, letting the candlelight paint shadows across his skin. His robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing a long stretch of collarbone and a single mole just beneath his neck. His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

Kaelen shut the door.

Then turned to him.

“You were born to dance like that,” he murmured, voice thick, low with restraint.

Riven lifted one brow, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips. “Were you watching closely?”

Kaelen crossed the distance between them in two strides.

“I was burning.”

And then he kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. His hand gripped the back of Riven’s neck, tilting his head up as his mouth claimed him—open, wet, deep. Riven gasped into it, but didn’t pull away. His fingers curled into Kaelen’s chest, nails catching the rough fabric of his cloak.

Kaelen pulled the robe loose, the crimson silk whispering down Riven’s arms, pooling at his feet. Beneath it, Riven wore nothing but a moon-threaded sash wrapped around his waist, holding a sheer cloth against his hips.

Kaelen stepped back, just to look.

“You’re not soft,” he said, breath catching. “Not like they think.”

“No,” Riven agreed, steady. “But I am yours.”

The words snapped something in Kaelen.

He grabbed Riven again, lifting him up with ease—one hand beneath his thighs, the other around his back—and carried him to the bed. Riven didn’t resist. His arms wrapped around Kaelen’s shoulders, breath brushing the curve of his ear.

Kaelen laid him down slowly, reverently.

Then tore off his own cloak.

His chest was bare, smeared with dried blood and ash, muscles carved from years of war. He undid the bindings around his waist, the black leather falling away until his body was bared to the firelight.

Riven reached up, tracing the long scar down Kaelen’s abdomen.

“You brought back blood,” he whispered.

Kaelen caught his wrist. “And tonight, I want to give you fire.”

He leaned down, his mouth closing over Riven’s collarbone, biting softly, then licking the sting away. His hands roamed slowly—over Riven’s stomach, his thighs, his sides—feeling every breath, every twitch, every shiver.

Riven arched beneath him, legs parting as Kaelen moved between them.

“You want this?” Kaelen growled against his skin, voice barely human.

“Yes,” Riven whispered, eyes gleaming. “I want everything.”

Kaelen pressed in.

Hot. Heavy. Slow.

Riven cried out, head tipping back, fingers clawing at the furs. Kaelen held him steady, one hand on his hip, the other pressed to the mattress. He moved inch by inch, allowing Riven to stretch, to open, to feel every part of it.

When he was fully inside, Kaelen stilled.

Their eyes met.

And then he began to move.

Slow at first, dragging every thrust like a tide pulling out to sea—then faster, deeper, until the bed creaked beneath them and Riven was gasping, legs wrapped tight around Kaelen’s waist.

He kissed Riven again, swallowing his moans, biting down on his lower lip when the rhythm grew rougher. Riven took it all. Welcomed it. Matched it with soft cries and arched hips and eyes that never stopped looking into his.

The moment built.

Their bodies locked.

Kaelen groaned, low and guttural, when Riven tightened around him—hot and wet and unrelenting.

Then it came—sharp, overwhelming, the heat spilling between them as Kaelen buried himself deep and held still, trembling with release. Riven followed a moment later, shuddering beneath him, his own breathless cry echoing through the room.

When it was over, Kaelen didn’t pull away.

He rolled to the side, taking Riven with him, their bodies still tangled.

For a long time, they lay there—only the sound of the fire crackling and their ragged breathing filling the silence.

Riven rested his head against Kaelen’s chest, fingers lazily tracing circles over his skin.

“Did the spirits see?” he asked softly.

Kaelen pressed a kiss to his forehead. “They saw.”

Riven smiled. “Then we are truly mated now.”

Kaelen’s arms tightened around him, voice hoarse. “You’ve always been mine. Tonight only made it eternal.”

Outside, the moon watched silently through the high window.

And within, the Alpha held his mate close, claiming not just his body—but his soul.