Chapter 3 She took what's mine.
1152 Words
_Zarelle’s POV_
The tinted window slid down with a whisper of luxury, revealing the face I hadn't realized I'd missed so desperately.
Cyric Feymere's dark eyes gleamed with quiet fury and relief—an Alpha's welcome. His scent wrapped around me, cedar and wintergreen, so different from Calden's pine-and-iron dominance yet just as powerful.
"Get in, little wolf."
The locks disengaged with a muted click. I tumbled into the leather seats, my body moving on instinct before my mind could catch up.
Then—
I folded forward, pressing my forehead to my brother's thigh like a pup seeking solace after a storm. His hand settled between my shoulder blades, warm and heavy with the unshakable certainty of home.
"There, there." His thumb traced slow circles over my spine, the way he'd done when I'd skinned my knees as a child. "Let it out."
The Rolls purred to life beneath us, its vibration thrumming through my bones. The tears came then—silent, shuddering things that left dark stains on his Brioni wool trousers.
"I was so stupid," I choked out, the words scraping my throat raw. "So blind."
Cyric didn't offer empty platitudes. Just the steady weight of his palm and a truth that settled like sunlight: "We all chase the wrong moon sometimes."
I cried until my ribs ached, until the salt of my tears washed clean the lingering scent of that other pack—of him. When I finally sat up, leaving my grief smeared across ten thousand dollars' worth of tailoring, my brother's mouth quirked.
"Feel better?"
I swiped at my damp cheeks with the back of my hand. "Thank you. For coming. I hope I didn't—"
"Council meeting?" Cyric snorted, adjusting his cufflinks with deliberate calm. "Let's just say they'll survive the scandal of their Alpha walking out mid-vote to retrieve his sister from that backwater pack."
The way he said backwater—like Calden's territory was some flea-ridden outpost rather than one of the strongest southern alliances—made something tight in my chest finally loosen.
Home.
The Missatian Empire didn't just rule territories—it owned them. Our holdings stretched across continents like gilded roots, boardrooms in London and Tokyo answering to the same ancient bloodline that had once ruled from wolfskin thrones. And Cyric Feymere, my brother, heir to it all, currently had his Brioni-clad arm around my shaking shoulders like I was still the pup who'd followed him through moonlit forests.
"You texted." His voice carried the weight of a thousand unspoken worries. "The world can wait."
His fingers carded through my hair, leaving behind the comforting musk of home—vetiver and snowmelt, so different from Sunlight Ridge's pine-and-iron austerity. The scent alone made my throat tighten.
"Thank you," I whispered, picking at my sleeve. "For the photo trace. For...everything."
Cyric's thumb brushed away a stray tear, his touch lingering like a brand. "Took three calls." A wolf's smile—all teeth. "The moment you mentioned Thessaly's 'head trauma,' I had enforcers watching every clinic in their territory."
The admission cracked something open in my chest. Three years. Three years of isolation, and they'd been watching the whole time.
"Father howls for you."
The words landed like a physical blow. Our Alpha father's full moon ritual—a lament for missing pack. My eyes burned anew.
"I was a fool," I choked out, burying my face in his shoulder. "You warned me. The whole damn pack warned me—"
"No." His arms locked around me, Alpha strength tempered by brotherly care. "You walked into that fire to prove it wouldn't burn you. That's not foolishness—that's Feymere blood."
I laughed wetly against his lapel. "Turns out fire burns everyone the same."
Cyric's growl vibrated through me. "Calden Ashmoor never deserved our princess."
He tipped my chin up, dark eyes scanning the damage—the hollows under my eyes, the scars no one could see. "Sunlight Ridge will learn what happens when they play games with Missatian wolves."
The Rolls crossed the territorial boundary, the air shifting subtly as ancient wardstones recognized their lost daughter. Cyric pressed his forehead to mine, our breaths mingling in the sacred space between Alphas and their kin.
"Welcome home, Zarelle Feymere."
***
_Calden’s POV_
The sterile hospital air clung to my skin like a second layer of clothing, heavy with the acrid tang of antiseptic and Thessaly's rose perfume. I strode from her private ward, my knuckles still throbbing from where I'd punched the observation room wall.
Fainted. No crisis. Feigned Luna frailty.
The head healer's diagnosis echoed in my skull, each word a fresh insult. Three years. Three godsdamned years of emergency transfusions, of watching Zarelle grow paler with each donation—all for theatrics.
My phone burned in my palm.
"Sorry, the number you've dialed is unavailable—"
I crushed the device against my ear hard enough to make the plastic creak. When the automated voice repeated its mocking refrain, something primal snarled in my chest.
Gone.
Not just from the hospital. From the territory. From me.
Beta Aldrin materialized at my elbow, his usual confidence frayed at the edges. "No sign of her, Alpha. Security cams show her leaving through the west garage. Alone."
Alone. The word hooked between my ribs. Zarelle had never gone anywhere alone—not since the pact bound her to my pack. Always an escort. Always my oversight.
"Track her." The command ripped from my throat before I could temper it. "Every road. Every flight manifest. I want—"
What?
The unspoken question hung between us. What did I want from the omega who'd been nothing but a contractual obligation? We'd never completed the mating bond. She never wore my mark. Our marriage was just on paper. Then why did I want her back?
Aldrin hesitated. "The council will question diverting resources to—"
"Now." My canines punched through my gums, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
As Aldrin scrambled to obey, I braced against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. My reflection stared back—a stranger with wild eyes and a heaving chest.
Zarelle Stormy.
The name tasted wrong. She'd never been Stormy to me. Not really. Just...Zarelle. The quiet shadow who appeared when summoned, who endured my coldness without complaint, whose rare RH-negative blood had saved Thessaly more times than I could count.
And now she was gone.
My wolf raged against its chains as her scent faded from my territory, and her absence carved a hole in my chest.
I whirled toward the elevators, my dress shoes striking the polished floors like gunshots.
"Alpha?" Aldrin called after me.
I didn't slow. "Call the enforcers. Activate the bloodhound units."
"On what grounds?"
The elevator doors slid open. I met his gaze over my shoulder, letting my wolf bleed into my eyes.
"On the grounds that she took what's mine."
- Writer
