Edward
I stood by the SUV for a second longer, letting the cool evening air sting my lungs, trying to shake the chill crawling beneath my ribs. Watching my grandchildren should have brought me pure peace. Eric was already whispering against Hailey’s temple, making the Alpha’s daughter throw her head back in rich, unrestrained laughter that made the leaves on the driveway shudder with their shared frequency. That was how the bond was supposed to look—clean, joyous, uncomplicated by ghosts or regrets. Then there was Roesha, a streak of effortless grace sprinting up the front steps, leaving the front door swinging wide in her wake. I followed them inside, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind me as the warmth of our home wrapped around us like a thick woolen blanket. The air was a rich, intoxicating collision of our roots—slow-braised oxtails simmered in deep red Chianti and crushed San Marzano tomatoes, mingling with the earthy musk of collard greens seasoned with smoked turkey, and sweet, crisp-crusted cornbread cooling on the marble island. In the center of the kitchen stood my mate, Carmella. Her silver-streaked dark curls were pinned back loosely, an apron dusted in flour tied around her waist. She had Roesha gathered in an embrace so fierce it looked like she was trying to press twenty years of distance into ten seconds. “Look at you, tesoro mio,” Carmella was saying, pulling back just enough to cup Roesha’s cheeks with both hands, her dark eyes shining with tears.
“Skin glowing, eyes sharp. You’re working too hard at those human hospitals, aren’t you? You look like you haven’t had a proper bowl of pasta in six months.” “Grandma, I performed three coronary bypasses and a liver resection last week,” Roesha laughed, leaning into her touch with that radiant, golden warmth that always seemed to spill out of her spirit. “I’m eating fine, I swear.” “Surgery doesn’t put meat on your bones, baby,” Carmella scolded gently, though her smile was wide and radiant. She handed Roesha a long wooden spoon. “Stir that ragù before it catches on the bottom. Your grandfather’s been hovering over the stove like an old bear since two o'clock.” “I heard that,” I said, stepping into the kitchen and letting my hand rest at the small of Carmella’s back. The familiar spark of our own mating bond flared pleasantly under my skin—decades old, steady as iron, and entirely untangled. She turned and kissed my cheek, her perceptive gaze lingering on my eyes for a fraction of a second too long. She knew me too well; she could tell my mind was pacing cages.
Behind us, Eric strode in with Hailey tucked neatly under his arm, looking smug enough to challenge the entire pack council single-handedly. “Don’t let her fool you, Grandma,” Eric chimed in, grabbing a slice of fresh focaccia off the board before Carmella could swat his hand away. “Roesha lives on espresso, pure spite, and medical journals. I had to physically drag her away from a research paper on cellular regeneration just to get her onto the jet.” “It wasn't spite, Eric, it was a peer-reviewed study,” Roesha retorted without missing a beat, turning from the stove to point the sauce-covered spoon right at his chest. “And unlike someone who spent the entire flight taking quizzes on his phone to see which Greek god he is, some of us actually believe in keeping our brains sharp.” “I got Apollo, by the way,” Eric declared, grinning as Hailey rolled her eyes affectionately and buried her face in his shoulder. “God of healing, poetry, and breathtaking good looks. It’s scientifically accurate.” “You are impossible,” Hailey muttered, though her fingers were tangled firmly in the belt loops of his jeans, anchoring him close. The kitchen erupted in easy, overlapping laughter. This was the Carter bloodline at its finest—a blend of fierce Southern warmth, old-world Italian tradition, and lycan blood so ancient and potent it made lesser wolves bow their heads on instinct. Roesha was glowing in the center of it, teasing her twin with quick, sharp-witted jabs, effortlessly slipping into the rhythm of family life. Yet, as I watched her, my healer’s instincts flared like a warning flare against a pitch-black sky. Roesha’s aura was shimmering with a peculiar, restless frequency. It wasn't just the excitement of traveling or the anticipation of meeting new people. Her wolf was awake, pacing beneath her skin, emitting a faint, rhythmic pulse of energy that hummed in perfect disharmony with the atmosphere of this territory.
It was the biological prelude to a collision—the kind of invisible magnetic draw that only happens when two halves of a divine equation are brought into the same zip code. My stomach knotted into a hard, cold fist. Not him, I prayed silently, the plea desperate and ragged in my mind. Moon Goddess, anyone but him. Beta Dominic Santino was a pillar of this pack. He was loyal, efficient, and lethal when crossed, but he had made his choice twelve years ago. When he married Clara, a kind-hearted human schoolteacher with gentle hands and zero concept of pack wars, the entire council had urged him to pause.
They had warned him about the ancient laws, about the cruelty of the True Amante bond if fate decided to cash its check later in life. Dominic had refused to listen. He had chosen love over destiny, building a cozy suburban life on the southern ridge, complete with a garden swing set and two little girls who knew nothing of fangs, blood rites, or mating bites.