After My Alpha Gave My Music to His Beta

Zayne wanted dinner together that night. He texted through the household link like it was a normal thing, like we hadn't spent five days circling each other in silence. *Table for two, penthouse terrace, 7pm.* No question mark. Just an announcement dressed up as an invitation.

I went anyway. Buster trotted at my heel, nails clicking against the marble, and settled under my chair the second I sat down.

Zayne was already there, sleeves rolled to the forearm, a bottle of wine breathing on the table like he'd planned this for romance instead of damage control. He smiled when he saw me. The camera-ready one.

"You look tired," he said, which from him was almost tender.

"I've been working."

Something flickered behind his eyes. Hope, maybe. He wanted to believe the silence had broken. "Good. That's good." He reached for his glass, took a sip, set it down with the careful precision of a man rehearsing his next line. "The Territory Tour kicks off in three weeks. I need the opening anthem locked by Friday — nothing fancy, just something with your usual weight behind it."

He said it the way he said everything now. Like it was already decided. Like my silence for the past five days had simply been a pause button he could unpress whenever it suited him.

I cut into my food and said nothing.

He kept going, filling the space the way he always did when I didn't fill it for him. "I know things have been strained. I've been thinking about that." He reached under the table and produced a bag — one of those pale, boxy designer things with a ribbon tied in a bow too perfect to have been done by his own hands. He slid it across the table toward me like an offering. "I'll make more time for us. After the tour. I promise."

I looked at the bag. Then at him.

I didn't touch it.

I reached down instead and scratched behind Buster's ears, and the dog leaned his whole weight into my hand with a low, contented groan, and that was the only sound at the table for a long moment.

"Madeline." A thread of irritation now, thin but there. "I'm trying here."

I finished my meal in silence. I said good night without looking at the bag again. I heard him call my name once more as I walked away, and I didn't turn around.

—

The press summit was three days later, live from a glass-walled conference hall in Manhattan, broadcast to every pack territory with a screen and a signal. Alphas from six regions sat in a horseshoe of leather chairs under lights bright enough to bleach the color from everyone's face. I stood in the wings, exactly where protocol put me — visible enough to prove the Alpha had a Luna, invisible enough to prove she didn't matter.

Zayne was magnificent up there. He always was. He talked about pack unity, about legacy, about the tour that would carry Ironcrest's anthems across six territories in six weeks. The moderator, a sleek Silvercrest correspondent, asked him about the creative partnership behind the music everyone praised.

Zayne smiled the smile.

"Vanessa Reyes is more than my Beta," he said, and I watched his hand find her shoulder, watched her lean into it with practiced ease. "She's my howling-mate in music. Every anthem Ironcrest has howled in the last year carries her fingerprint."

The hall went quiet in that particular way that meant everyone understood exactly what he'd said. *Howling-mate.* Not partner. Not collaborator. A phrase soaked in mate-bond connotation, the kind wolves didn't use loosely, the kind that made two Alphas in the front row exchange a glance sharp enough to cut.

Somewhere in my chest, the mate bond — the thing I'd carried for seventeen years, the thing that used to hum low and warm whenever he was near — went cold.

Not painful. Not the ache I might have expected. Just cold. Clean. Final. Like a window closing somewhere far away, and me standing on the other side of the glass, watching it happen without feeling the draft.

I didn't cry. I didn't make a sound.

I reached into my bag, found my phone, and scrolled to a number I'd saved months ago and never used.

*Patrick Jones — Lycan Council Registry Counsel.*

I stepped further into the shadows of the wings, past a rack of unused microphone stands, and pressed call.

He picked up on the second ring. "Jones."

"This is Madeline Shaw," I said. My voice came out steady. Measured. The tone I used for correcting a flat note. "I'd like to talk about the Registry certificates I filed five years ago."

A pause on the line. Then, dry as bone: "I wondered when you'd call."

—

We met two days later at a café just outside pack territory, neutral ground, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and a barista who didn't know or care what a Luna was. Patrick was already seated when I arrived, a plain manila folder squared perfectly in front of him, his suit deliberately unremarkable.

I sat down and slid the certificates across the table. Every anthem. Every ceremony. Every summit song, timestamped and sealed, five years of my name and no one else's.

He read through them slowly, methodically, and I watched something like satisfaction settle into the corner of his mouth.

"This is airtight," he said finally, closing the folder. "Sole authorship, registered before a single one of these songs was ever performed. He doesn't have a leg to stand on." He looked up at me, studying my face the way he probably studied opposing counsel. "So. How long do you want him to suffer before we file?"

I thought about the designer bag I'd left untouched on the table. I thought about *howling-mate in music*, broadcast across six territories while I stood in the wings like a prop.

"Long enough," I said, "for him to need me one more time. And not have me."

Patrick smiled, and it wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who'd just been handed exactly the kind of case he lived for.

"Then let's build it quiet," he said. "Invisible. Until it isn't."

I nodded, and for the first time in five days, something in my chest that wasn't cold at all began, very carefully, to burn.