After My Alpha Left My Ceremony for Her

I didn't know what Maverick was doing back in Silverfang. I didn't think about it much. That part of my life felt distant now, like a story someone else had lived.

But Ophelia called on a Tuesday morning while I was making coffee.

"He's been standing in the hallway outside your old room," she said without preamble. "Three times this week. Just standing there. Staring at the door like it owes him an explanation."

I set the coffee pot down carefully. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because his wolf is agitated. Restless. He keeps asking where your scent went. And I want you to know that whatever he's feeling now, it's too late."

I didn't answer right away. I looked out the kitchen window at the lake. The morning light was soft on the water.

"Good," I said finally.

Ophelia made a small sound that might have been approval. "Francesca tried another emergency yesterday. Crying on the training grounds about some male who rejected her. Maverick went. But he left after ten minutes. He's never done that before."

"That's not my problem."

"No," Ophelia agreed. "It's not. I just thought you'd like to know he's finally noticing what he lost. Even if he doesn't understand it yet."

She hung up before I could respond.

I poured my coffee and went to find Lorenzo.

The sparring session was his idea.

"You need to know how to defend yourself," he'd said the night before, casual as asking about the weather. "Moonveil territory is safe, but you should still be prepared."

I'd agreed because it made sense. And because I was curious.

We met in the backyard at noon. The grass was still damp from overnight rain. Lorenzo was already stretching when I arrived, his movements loose and efficient.

"Basic defensive positions first," he said. "Then we'll see where you're at."

I nodded.

He demonstrated a stance. Weight balanced. Knees bent. Hands up. I mirrored him.

"Good," he said. "Now try to block me."

He moved.

It was fast. Too fast. His hand came at my shoulder in a controlled strike and I barely got my arm up in time. The impact jarred through my forearm.

I reset. He moved again. This time I was ready. I deflected and stepped back.

"Better," he said.

We went through the sequence three more times. Each time, his movements were precise. Controlled. But also—

I stopped mid-block and lowered my hands.

Lorenzo froze. "What's wrong?"

I looked at him. Really looked. His footwork was flawless. His reflexes were sharp. His aggression, even controlled, had a weight to it that didn't match someone whose wolf had been dormant for years.

Wolves without their inner connection moved differently. Slower. Less instinctive. I'd seen it before in the few Silverfang wolves who'd lost their bond through rejection or injury.

Lorenzo didn't move like that at all.

"Your wolf," I said slowly. "When did it go dormant?"

"Five years ago," he said without hesitation.

"And you kept training."

"Muscle memory," he said. His tone was even. Practiced. "I was good before it happened. The body remembers even when the wolf doesn't."

I held his gaze. His expression was calm. Unreadable.

"Sure," I said.

The word hung between us. He knew I didn't believe him. I knew he knew.

Neither of us said anything else.

"Again?" he asked after a moment.

I raised my hands. "Again."

We finished the session without further comment. But I filed the observation away carefully, next to the knee compensation and the perimeter rotation and the coffee made exactly right.

Lorenzo King was lying about something. Maybe several things.

I didn't know what yet. But I was starting to build a list.

The grocery run happened on Thursday.

We'd run out of basics—pasta, tomatoes, garlic, cheese. Lorenzo had offered to go alone, but I'd insisted on coming. Partly because I needed to learn the town layout. Partly because staying in the house all day was making me restless.

The Moonveil market was small and well-stocked. We moved through the aisles with a cart, building the ingredients for Bolognese.

I was reaching for fresh oregano when Lorenzo put dried oregano in the cart.

I stopped. Stared at the jar in his hand.

"What is that?" I asked.

"Oregano," he said.

"Dried oregano."

"Yes."

I took the jar out of the cart and put it back on the shelf. "We need fresh."

"Dried is fine."

"Dried is not fine. Fresh oregano has oils that dried doesn't. The flavor profile is completely different."

Lorenzo picked up the jar again. "The recipe I looked up said dried was an acceptable substitute."

"The recipe you looked up was wrong."

"You're being pedantic."

"You're being lazy."

His eyebrows rose. "Lazy."

"Yes. Lazy. You're taking shortcuts because you don't want to walk to the produce section."

"The produce section is three aisles away," he said. "And dried oregano is right here."

"That's literally the definition of lazy."

"That's efficiency."

"That's bad Bolognese."

We stood there in the spice aisle, glaring at each other over a jar of dried oregano. His jaw was set. My arms were crossed.

A Moonveil pack member—middle-aged she-wolf, shopping basket in hand—walked past us. She glanced between us, her expression shifting into something knowing and faintly amused.

She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

I felt my face heat. I turned sharply and walked to the next aisle.

Lorenzo followed with the cart. When I glanced back, he was smiling. Not at me. Just—smiling. At nothing. At the air.

I grabbed a bag of flour with more force than necessary and dropped it in the cart.

"Fresh oregano," I said without looking at him.

"Fine," he said. "Fresh oregano."

We finished shopping in silence. But the silence felt different now. Charged. Like the argument had opened something neither of us wanted to name.

When we got back to the house, I unpacked the groceries while Lorenzo put things away. The rhythm was easy. Practiced.

He handed me the fresh oregano without comment.

I took it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said.

Neither of us mentioned the she-wolf's look. Neither of us mentioned the argument.

But that night, when I was chopping garlic for the Bolognese, Lorenzo appeared beside me with a cutting board and started dicing tomatoes without being asked.

We cooked side by side in comfortable silence.

And I realized, with a quiet jolt that felt like falling, that I was happy.

Not content. Not okay. Happy.

For the first time in years.