Escaping the Mate-Bond, Never Looking Back

After a short pause, Kaelen signaled for someone to bring over a selection of dresses.

“Liora,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the low rumble of concern only a packmate—or alpha—could muster, “I know you’ve been swamped these past few days. I asked Marcella to pick out a dress for you to try. See if any of them suit your taste.”

Marcella’s voice chimed in, bright and teasing, as she leaned forward.

“Sis, don’t forget—I’m your bridesmate! We’ll be walking down the aisle side by side, and everyone will get to see how stunning we both are!”

Her father, ever the embodiment of pride and affection, ruffled Marcella’s hair, his smile warm and approving. Kaelen allowed himself a small grin at the familiar display of family affection, yet his eyes flicked toward Liora, scanning her reaction.

Liora, however, could barely tear her gaze from the dress in her hands. The fabric was faded and yellowed with age, the cheap material stretched and worn, a jagged tear ruining the chest. The dress looked like it had survived decades in a dusty attic rather than any modern bridal shop. It paled in comparison to Marcella’s bridesmaid dress—a figure-hugging fishtail with delicate lace that accentuated every curve, shimmering even in the soft room light. If anyone in the room looked like a bride, it was Marcella.

Marcella twirled in her dress, her delight bubbling up in every pirouette.

“It’s perfect! If only I had a crown… then it would be complete!”

Kaelen, ever quick with a response, leaned in, his tone teasing yet pointed. “That’s easy to arrange. Liora has a crown, right? She’s your older sister; I’m sure she wouldn’t mind lending it.”

His eyes shifted to Liora—but froze when they landed on the tattered gown she held.

“How did this happen?” His voice was low, edged with surprise.

Liora’s gaze flicked briefly toward Marcella, but Kaelen stepped protectively in front of her before she could speak.

“It must be some mistake at the shop,” he said firmly. “Marcella had nothing to do with this. I’ll have someone fix it immediately.”

Marcella, ever the actress, tilted her head and feigned concern, her tone sweet but laced with mockery.

“But it’s late now… the shops must be closed. Why not borrow something second-hand for the night? After all, haven’t you always said you wanted a simple wedding, Sis?”

All eyes turned to Liora. In a pack as influential and wealthy as theirs, finding a new dress would have been trivial. Yet here, everyone seemed content to let Liora compromise, as they always had—she’d been the one to shoulder inconvenience, the one expected to yield.

“It’s fine,” Liora said softly, her voice carrying a calm authority that belied her inner ache. “I wouldn’t want to trouble anyone. You all have your own matters. I’ll handle it myself.”

Her gentle smile passed through the room like sunlight cutting through fog, diffusing the tension entirely. The chatter resumed, laughter echoing off the walls, as if Liora’s quiet sacrifice had never been there.

Kaelen’s gaze lingered on her longer than anyone noticed, his chest tightening with the weight of understanding—he knew just how much this ceremony meant to her—but he was powerless. He feared the disappointment that might flash in her eyes, the sting he could not erase.

With a quiet exhale, he produced a sleek card from his pocket, offering it with a soft, unspoken reassurance.

“Don’t worry about the cost,” he said gently. “Whatever makes you happy—that’s what matters.”

Liora paused for a beat, the card feeling like a fragile bridge between them, then accepted it with a simple, final nod. Her quiet “thank you” lingered in the air, solid and unyielding. The line between them felt sharper now, a subtle, unspoken barrier.

Kaelen’s chest tightened; the words to cross it remained trapped.

Marcella’s sharp eyes caught the tension and, seizing her opportunity, pulled a camera from the bedroom.

“Let’s take a family photo now,” she suggested, her tone cheerful but calculating. “Tomorrow will be chaotic—this way, the pictures will turn out perfect.”

Kaelen didn’t hesitate, guiding Liora to the center. She stood there, calm and elegant, a stark contrast to the storm churning inside him.

As the shutter clicked, Marcella lunged forward suddenly, stepping between them. Liora lost her balance, stumbling forward.

“Liora!” Kaelen’s voice broke through instinctively, low and urgent. His body surged, muscles coiled to catch her—but Marcella’s theatrics intervened.

At that exact moment, Marcella burst into feigned tears. Kaelen froze. For three heartbeats, he hesitated—torn between the protective pull of his mate instincts and the sight of his “daughter’s” distress.

Then, as if compelled by the bond he shared with Marcella instead of Liora, he shifted his weight, leaving Liora to collide against the edge of the shelf. His hands caught Marcella instead, cradling her gently, wiping away the counterfeit tears with a tenderness that cut deep into Liora’s chest.

Liora pressed a hand to the edge of the shelf, the sting of splintered wood sharp against her palm, but it was nothing compared to the ache curling in her chest. Her wolf instincts roared in quiet fury, a suppressed growl in her chest as she watched him lavish care on the one he had always truly chosen.

The room buzzed with the laughter and chatter of everyone else, oblivious. But Liora felt the weight of the pack around her, of her place—or rather, her absence—in Kaelen’s heart, and the chill settled deep into her bones.