After My Alpha Rejected Me, I Became the Lycan Prince’s Mate

The forest did not care that I was broken.

That was the first mercy. I walked through it for a day and a night and another day, and the pines kept doing what pines do — dropping needles, shifting in the wind, holding water in their bark. Nothing turned to look at me. Nothing asked me to explain what I was doing in a torn gown with a hollow spot on my neck that pulsed like a bad tooth.

I had swapped the gown, somewhere around dawn on the first day, for a jacket and jeans I bought at a highway gas station with the cash I'd folded into my clutch by habit. The clerk had looked at my shoulders, then at my face, and rung me up without a word. I would remember that man kindly for the rest of my life.

By the second afternoon, my legs had started to shake in the way that meant I had not eaten enough for what my body was doing. The bond severance had cost me something I did not have a word for — not blood, but the thing that keeps blood moving. My hand went to my neck again. Cold. Hollow. I made myself lower it.

*Stop touching it,* said the voice inside me. Not cruel. Just direct. *It's not a bruise. It won't heal by checking.*

"Seraphine," I said out loud, to the trees.

The voice hummed, pleased at being named.

She had been with me for two days now — a presence in the space where Lukas's contempt used to live, and I did not yet know what to do with the quiet. Every time I thought of a task, she offered an opinion. *Water. Left. Rest here. Not here — coyote scat.* Her instincts were older than any training I had received, and they were entirely calm, and for the first time in ten years I was inside my own head with something that was not trying to make me smaller.

I stopped at a stream crossing where the water ran clear over dark stones. I knelt. I cupped my hands.

And Seraphine went absolutely still.

*What?* I asked her.

She did not answer in words. She turned my head — literally turned it, my chin swinging north before I decided to move it — and drew a slow breath through my nose.

Cedar.

Winter rain.

The scent hit the back of my throat and my knees folded down onto the moss without my permission. It was not a smell I could place with my mind. But something under my ribs — something that had lived through years of open windows and lonely nights at Ironridge — knew it the way a hand knows the shape of a door in the dark.

*Him,* Seraphine said. Her whole body oriented forward inside me. *Go.*

"I don't know who that is," I whispered.

*I do.*

I got up.

The trail was not a trail. It was a direction the scent pulled from. I walked into it the way you walk into a room you have dreamed about but never seen, and after a mile the trees opened onto a ridge, and on the ridge stood a man.

He was tall. Dark coat. Hands loose at his sides. He was not moving toward me and he was not moving away. He had the stillness of someone who had been available for a long time.

Seraphine keened once, low, in my chest.

I stopped ten feet from him. I made my chin stay level. The cold spot on my neck was pulsing hard now, and I was aware, distantly, that I had not eaten in a day and a half and that my legs were not steady — but I did not let myself lean, and I did not let myself fall.

He looked at me. Gray eyes. Patient.

"I'm not here to be saved," I said.

His mouth moved — the smallest possible shift, not quite a smile. "I didn't think you were."

"I need training." The words came out level. "The Lycan Council Summit is in three months. I need to fight in the exhibition. I need to fight well enough that no one in that hall gets to decide what I am ever again." I swallowed. "I was told you were the best."

"You were told correctly."

"Will you train with me."

Not a question. I had promised myself in the forest that I would not phrase it as a question.

He was quiet for a beat. Then he said, "Yes."

That was all. No conditions. No calibration. Yes.

Something in the air between us hummed — a low frequency I felt in my molars, a resonance where his wolf and Seraphine touched without either of us moving. I had never heard that sound before. Seraphine leaned into it the way a plant leans into light.

I did not lean.

"When do we start," I said.

"Now, if you can stand up straight for another hour." His eyes moved over me, quick and clinical, and I saw him catalog the shaking in my hands, the hollow at my throat, the color that was not in my face. "Otherwise, tomorrow. My name is Wylder Lawrence."

"I know."

I had not known until Seraphine told me, three seconds ago. But I knew now.

"Emory Sullivan," I said.

"I know."

---

The first training session was two days later, in a clearing behind the pack house.

He shifted first — a dark wolf larger than any I had seen, larger even than Seraphine — and waited. Not watching me. Facing away, giving me the courtesy of privacy for my first shift outside the Ironridge hall.

I shifted.

It hurt less than the first time. Seraphine came up through my spine like something surfacing from deep water, and I was on four legs in the wet grass, and Wylder turned his head and looked at me across the clearing.

*Just feel the ground,* his voice said inside my skull. *I've got you.*

I stumbled on the first pass.

I felt it happen — my back left paw caught in a root I had not seen, Seraphine's instincts sharper than my coordination, and the whole line of our formation broke. I skidded. My shoulder hit dirt.

I braced.

Ten years of my life had taught my body what came next. The curled lip. The Alpha tone dropped a register. *Sluggish. Embarrassing. Try to concentrate, Emory.* My ears flattened before I could stop them.

Nothing came.

Wylder circled back. He did not comment. He did not sigh. He adjusted his own line — moved his shoulder half a foot to the right — and through the mind-link he said, quiet as a hand on a back, *Try it from this angle. Your left side is stronger. Let's build from there.*

I stared at him.

*Ready?* he asked.

I was not ready. I was not anything. I was a wolf in a clearing being asked to try again by a voice that had not once, in a full minute of a stumble, made me feel small.

*Yes,* I said.

We ran the pattern again. I did not stumble.

When I shifted back an hour later, standing in the shredded shirt he had left folded on a stump for me, I was shaking so hard I had to sit down on the log to pull it over my head.

Not from pain.

From the strangeness of not having been diminished.

Seraphine curled up somewhere in my ribs, warm and quiet, and did not say anything at all — which I was beginning to learn was her way of saying *yes.*