Third Person's POV Victor had told himself for years that he was finished with Lana She was his ex, a chapter long since closed. He had buried that story deep, swearing he felt nothing but indifference now. Yet here he was, standing beneath the lamps outside the Grand Theater of the Capital, his boots planted in the same pavement where her scent still lingered. He had followed Silas's car here, against all reason, against all logic, against his own vow to never be drawn back into her orbit. Why? He couldn't answer, not even to himself. Lana tilted her head, her lips curving into a taunt that cut sharper than any blade. "If I asked whether you came here specifically for me… what would you say, Victor?" His eyes narrowed, silver-grey flashing like the edge of a drawn weapon. Instead of answering, he turned the question back on her, voice low, rough, almost feral. "If I said I did… what would you do then?" Her brows arched, challenge glinting in her gaze. "What? Are you trying to tell me you still carry a torch for me, after all these years?" Victor's jaw flexed. Torch? The very idea was laughable. Impossible. He scoffed, though the sound came out darker than he intended. Carrying a flame for her? Back then, he had only agreed to their relationship because she had pursued him with the persistence of a she-wolf locked on her prey. She had been relentless, charming, wickedly determined. And when they were together, she had played the part of the devoted mate flawlessly-until the moment she had ended it with all the mercy of a killing blow. No hesitation. No lingering glance back. She had discarded him like a toy she had grown tired of, leaving him to feel like the fool who had misread every signal. Cold spread through him as he let the truth fall like a blade between them. "Lana, do you honestly think that's possible?" His tone was ice, every word precise. Her smirk faltered for a heartbeat, but she steadied it with defiance. "Then why are you here?" Victor's stare darkened. He had asked himself the same question the moment he'd stepped out of his car. The same question still clawed at him. He drew a breath, chest tight, and when he spoke, the words tasted of ashes. "Tell me… were you truly done with me? Did you really grow sick of me that easily?"Lana froze. She had expected anger, perhaps scorn, but not that. Her heart skipped, and for a fleeting moment she glimpsed something raw beneath his armor. Then, with deliberate cruelty, she nodded. "Yes. I was. I grew tired of you." No hesitation. No mercy. Victor's face hardened, his expression slipping into shadow. His lips pressed thin, and for the first time in years, his carefully constructed calm cracked. Lana lifted her chin, unyielding. "There. You have your answer. So let me give you something else-don't appear before me again. It doesn't matter if we were lovers once. I don't want to keep bumping into you. My mate would be jealous, and I'm not interested in that kind of drama." The word mate struck him like claws to the chest. Victor's aura surged without warning, his dominance bleeding into the night air, sending a few nearby wolves scuttling back in instinctive submission. His voice was dangerously quiet. "You have a mate?" "Of course." Lana's laugh rang bright and cutting. "What? Did you imagine I'd spend these years alone, pining for you? That I'd waste my youth clinging to old memories?" Her eyes glinted with mischief, but her voice carried a bite. "No, Victor. I've moved on. I have someone. Someone who accepts me as I am." He said nothing. He couldn't. The silence stretched taut as steel wire. Wolves passing nearby lowered their heads, unsettled by the clash of scents-her mocking defiance, his storming fury. Victor clenched his fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He knew she might be lying. He hoped she was lying. And yet, the thought of her with another wolf, with another male's scent draped over her skin, gnawed at him until his chest felt hollow. "You came here to watch males flaunt themselves on stage," he said finally, his voice jagged, "and your so-called mate doesn't care?" "He cares," Lana said sweetly, "but he's generous. He lets me enjoy myself. If he hadn't been busy tonight, he'd have joined me." Her lips curved as she dealt the final strike. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to meet him. Goodbye, Victor." She turned sharply, her heels clicking against the stone, her figure disappearing into the night with the same careless finality she had wielded years ago. Victor stood rooted, his eyes locked on her retreating back. His lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line. He had prided himself on his control, his restraint-the very traits that had made him a force in the Silverfang courts. Even when trials shifted, even when witnesses betrayed him, even when enemies clawed at his throat, he had remained unshaken, unflinching. But tonight, her words had stripped that composure bare. A mate. His chest clenched in on itself, a brutal, unfamiliar ache spreading outward like wildfire. He wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, to cast her claim aside. But the scent of her confidence, the deliberate ease of her voice-it gnawed at him, relentless. Why did the thought of her belonging to another wolf carve him open in a way no battlefield ever had? Meanwhile, not far away, Freya slid into the backseat of Silas's Maybach. The leather smelled of cedar and steel, the Alpha's scent woven deeply into the car itself. She glanced at him, brows furrowing. "You were early. I thought you'd only arrive closer to ten." Then, suspicion narrowed her eyes. "Silas… tell me the truth. That sudden power failure inside the theater-was that really an accident?" His jaw shifted, and when he inclined his head in quiet confirmation, her breath caught. "You caused it?" she whispered. "Yes," he said simply, unflinching beneath her gaze. Shock rippled through her. "Why? Was it just to drag me out early?" His voice dropped, quiet but fervent. "I didn't want you watching them. I didn't want you close to them." His eyes softened, but his aura remained fierce, claiming. "Does that make me small, Freya? Petty? Perhaps. But I can't stand the thought of you giving your attention to others. Not when you're mine." Freya's chest tightened at the vulnerability flickering beneath his Alpha exterior. For all his power, for all the iron he wore like armor, Silas Whitmor was afraid-afraid of losing her. She reached out, fingertips brushing against his face, softening the tension in his features. "I wasn't there for them. I was there for Lana. You don't need to be afraid." Her voice was steady, warm. "You're my mate. In front of me, you don't have to guard yourself so hard." Silas's lashes flickered, his composure nearly undone. He had commanded armies, ruled coalitions, broken rivals. But with her, he was fragile in a way he barely understood. His lips parted, a whisper breaking from him like prayer. "Then tell me… are you interested in only me?" Her cheeks flushed at the rawness of the question. The driver's presence loomed in the front seat, but Silas's eyes burned with such hope, such need, that she could not deflect him.