Chapter Text
There is a specific brand of madness that descends upon a pack when mating season approaches, and to Dylan, it smelled remarkably like expensive hair pomade, raw desperation, and spiced cider.
If you asked the elders, they’d tell you the annual mating run is a sacred, spiritual convergence of fate and biological destiny—a dance of the soul written in the stars and spoken through the ancient language of their bloodlines. If you asked Dylan, it felt a lot like high school prom, if prom involved sprinting through a freezing northern forest in a panic while a crowd of hyper-competitive, scent-crazed alphas chased you down like premium game to claim bragging rights for the next decade.
Their pack, the LYKN, wasn't some primitive settlement of tents, mud, and leather. They were a thriving, self-sustaining stone town of over five hundred members tucked into the shadow of the northern peaks. They had paved streets, complex seasonal markets, plumbing, and a municipal tax structure that Dylan’s father frequently complained about over dinner.
Right now, the gravel streets of the pack square were practically vibrating with nervous energy. The Mating Cottages—the cosy, cedar-planked houses built by hopeful alphas over the last year to prove they could provide for a future mate—shone with fresh coats of lacquer. These cottages were a major point of social ranking; alphas would spend months agonising over the choice of timber, the placement of the hearth, and the aesthetic appeal of the front porch, all to tempt a potential partner. To Dylan, who valued his peace above all else, they looked less like romantic nests and more like very pretty, very expensive, beautifully varnished trap cages designed to lock you into a life of domestic expectations.
"Keep still, Leo," Dylan murmured, his voice a soothing hum as he gently dabbed a cool, chamomile-infused antiseptic onto the scraped knee of a six-year-old pup who had taken a spectacularly dramatic dive off the communal firewood pile. "I know it stings, but if you don't let me clean the dirt out, your mae is going to have to scrub it later, and you know she doesn't use the gentle soap."
Leo sniffled, his big, brown eyes watering as he stared up at Dylan from the stone lip of the communal fire pit. "Will it leave a scar, P'Dylan? Like the ones the warriors have? The ones they get when they fight off the mountain cats?"
"Only a very heroic, very invisible one," Dylan promised, offering him a small, reassuring smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "A stealth scar. Very exclusive. But you have to keep it clean, or the magic wears off."
Dylan liked this part of his life. In the quiet, sterile safety of the medical hall, everything made sense. There was a comforting predictability to healing. You applied pressure to stop a bleed; you drank willow bark to dull a fever; you stitched a wound to let the skin knit back together. It was logical. It didn't involve navigating the suffocating, invisible social hierarchy of the pack square, where the air was currently so thick with a vibrating cocktail of anxious, aggressive, and highly fertile scents that Dylan could practically taste the collective hormones on the back of his tongue.
His own scent—almond flower—was a quiet, barely-there whisper in comparison. It didn't demand space. It didn't scream for attention, and it certainly didn't trigger any competitive instincts. It just sat there, humble, soft, and slightly nutty, which was precisely how Dylan preferred to exist. Invisible. A background character in a town full of main characters. In a culture that rewarded olfactory screaming, Dylan’s scent was a polite clearing of the throat.
A sudden, sharp shift in the square's ambient scent made the small hairs on Dylan's arms stand up, a primal instinct firing before his brain could even process the change.
It was patchouli. But not the cheap, head-shop variety that amateur alphas wore to seem mysterious. This was rich, heavy, and deeply grounded, carrying notes of rain-soaked earth, old-growth timber, and a faint, smoky undertone of cedarwood.
Dylan didn't have to look up to know that the heavy, iron-planished oak doors of the Council Hall had just opened. Junn had stepped out onto the stone landing.
At twenty-one, Junn was already built like a natural disaster, carrying the effortless, heavy-lidded dominance that made people instinctively clear a path without him ever having to utter a word. He’d recently been officially announced as the future Head Alpha, and even from across the crowded, bustling square, Dylan could see the subtle, tense set of his broad shoulders under his dark wool coat. He looked exhausted, carrying the weight of the entire territory on his back. Still, he did it in that devastatingly handsome, tragic-hero sort of way that made half the omegas in a three-pack radius completely lose their minds and start drafting marriage proposals in their heads.
As Junn descended the stone steps, his gaze drifted across the plaza, bypassing the colourful banners, the bustling market stalls, and the groups of chatting elders. For a fraction of a second, his dark, intense eyes locked onto the communal fire pit—directly onto Dylan.
Dylan immediately looked down, his heart doing a stupid, entirely unwarranted flutter against his ribs. He focused intensely on his medical kit, cursing the sudden warmth that bloomed across his cheeks. It was just a glance. Junn was probably just checking to make sure a pup wasn't bleeding out on the gravel.
Before Junn could make it to the main paved path, a boisterous group of young alphas, still sweaty and loud from their afternoon training session at the warrior barracks, trotted over to intercept him, their loud laughter echoing off the stone buildings.
"Leaving work early today, heir?" one of them teased, throwing a friendly, heavy arm over Junn's shoulder. "Or are you just getting some beauty sleep before next week? Tell us the truth—are you actually running this year, or are you going to let the rest of us have a fair shot at the prime routes?"
Dylan kept his head down, focusing entirely on winding a clean cotton bandage around Leo's knee with methodical movements, but his ears practically strained against his skull to catch the response.
"Yes," Junn’s voice drifted across the open square. It was low, steady, and had a deep, rumbling resonance. "I'll be participating."
The alphas laughed, shoving each other playfully. "Well, that settles it then. Half the omegas in the territory have been tailoring their finest cloaks and bathing in expensive floral oils for a month, just hoping you'll catch their scent trail. You've officially ruined the curve for the rest of us, man."
Dylan let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, his chest tightening in a familiar, dull ache. Of course, he was running. Junn was the crown prince of the LYKN pack. His life was mapped out in neat, highly prestigious lines. He would run, he would track down some incredibly beautiful, high-status omega who knew how to host council dinners, and they would build a perfect, high-status life together in the largest cottage in the valley.
Dylan took a quiet, steadying breath of his own almond scent, trying to wash out the trace of patchouli lingering in his nose, when a shadow fell over the gravel.
"P'Dylan!"
Dylan looked up to see Nano stepping away from a small, colourful group of omegas near the textile stalls. Nano was carrying a shopping bag overflowing with bright silks, silver ribbons, and swatches of lace, his face flushed pink with excitement. Behind him stood Det, Talay, and—of course—Kwan. Kwan was currently wearing a tailored wool coat that fit him like a second skin, his hair styled to wind-defying perfection, and his posture radiating elegance.
"My mae told me you're actually joining the run this year. Is it true?" Nano asked, his eyes wide, hopeful, and sparkling with genuine warmth.
"Yes," Dylan said, offering a tentative, half-shrug, feeling incredibly underdressed in his plain linen medical apron. "My phor wants me to participate. He thinks it’s time I... well, you know. Got out of the clinic and touched grass, as he put it. He's worried I'm going to turn into a medical text."
"Oh, how exciting!" Nano beamed, gesturing enthusiastically toward the decorated market stalls. "You should absolutely come with us. We’re on our way to the beautician right now to get our hair pressed, test some imported scent-locking oils, and pick out ribbon colours. Come join! We need a fifth voice to settle a debate on lavender versus vanilla."
Dylan looked down at the medical kit in his lap, feeling a familiar, cold wave of social exhaustion wash over him before the conversation had even really begun. The thought of spending three hours in a cramped, humid parlour debating the merits of essential oils with anxious omegas sounded like a specialised form of torture. "Oh, that’s incredibly sweet of you, Nano. Truly. But I have a stack of ledger work to audit and three batches of willow-bark burn salves to prep in the medical hall today. You guys should go ahead."
Before Nano could protest or offer to help, Kwan stepped forward. He tossed his perfectly styled hair over his shoulder, crossing his arms with a heavy sigh that smelled faintly of expensive rosewater, mint, and pure condescension.
"Oh, leave him be, Nano," Kwan scoffed, his voice dripping with faux-pity that was sharp enough to slice glass. "It’s not like he’s actually going to get picked anyway. Why waste the expensive oils?"
Nano’s expression snapped, his friendly demeanor vanishing in an instant. "Kwan! What is wrong with you?"
"What? I’m just being realistic," Kwan said, looking down his nose at Dylan as if he were a particularly stubborn smudge of dirt on his expensive Italian leather boots. "He never socialises. He’s always cooped up in that dusty clinic with the sick, the injured, and the elderly. He never comes to the omega mixers, he doesn't participate in the community dances, and let’s be entirely honest—he isn’t exactly a sought-after omega, is he? Have you ever seen an alpha so much as look his way, let alone try to strike up a conversation? He's practically a ghost. So why on god’s green earth would he get chased in a forest full of competitive men?"
The words hit Dylan right in the sternum, sharp and cold. They shouldn't have—he had spent the last three years telling himself the exact same things in the mirror, preparing himself for a lifetime of independence—but hearing them voiced so casually, so publicly, in the middle of the pack square made his throat tighten. His fingers trembled slightly as he tied off the final knot on Leo's bandage. He gave the little boy a gentle, silent tap on the shoulder, sending him scurrying off to his mother, just so he wouldn't have to look up and meet Kwan's eyes. He wanted to disappear into the gravel.
Nano's scent flared with sudden, protective fury—a sharp, citrusy sting of anger that cut right through the heavy floral perfumes of the square. He stepped directly between Kwan and Dylan, his small frame suddenly looking incredibly imposing.
"Someone who actually has a brain is going to pick him," Nano said, his voice ringing out clearly, drawing a few curious glances from nearby merchants. "Because Dylan has depth. He has kindness, intelligence, and a soul. He isn't completely hollow like you. Honestly, Kwan, if the alphas in this pack could see past the three layers of cake makeup on your face and look at your actual personality, you wouldn't have anyone running after you either. You'd be sitting in the woods alone."
Kwan’s jaw dropped, his face flushing a violent, furious crimson under his immaculate powder. "You—! How dare you! You cannot speak to me that way!"
"Alright, that’s enough, come on," Talay muttered, looking around nervously as he quickly grabbed Kwan's elbow. Det grabbed his other side, the two of them practically dragging the sputtering, outraged omega down the gravel path before a full-blown civil war could break out in front of the Council Hall.
"Let go of me!" Kwan shrieked, throwing a venomous, glittering glare over his shoulder at Dylan. "I don't care! I’m going to be claimed by Junn anyway! He's the only one worthy of me. I am going to be the future Head Omega, and when I am, Nano is going to face my wrath for this! You'll all be begging for my favour!"
Nano didn't even turn around to watch them go. He let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to deflate his entire shoulders, the anger draining out of him to leave only tired sympathy. He knelt down on the cold cobblestones right next to Dylan, his silk shopping bag rustling as he began picking up a rogue roll of gauze that had escaped the medical basket during the commotion.
"Don't listen to him, P'Dylan," Nano said softly, his voice dropping into a comforting, quiet register that was meant for Dylan's ears alone. "He just has a massive ego because his dad sits on the council and lets him get away with murder. He thinks the whole world revolves around his social calendar."
"It's fine," Dylan murmured, forcing a small, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. He reached for the wooden container of antiseptic, his hands finally stopping their shaking.
He gathered the remaining medicine jars, his chest feeling heavy, hollow, and cold. Kwan was a bully, but the worst part about bullies in a small town is that they usually have a point. The mating run was a week away. And as Dylan stared down at his pale wrists, smelling the delicate, faint scent of almond flower clinging to his skin, he had never felt more invisible.
If there was a support group for people who wanted to crawl into a hole and let the earth reclaim them, Dylan would have been the founding member, the treasurer, and the guy who brought the tea.
The morning of the mating hit the LYKN territory like a brass band at five in the morning, heralded by the echoing, metallic blast of the ceremonial bronze horns from the watchtowers. By the time the sun had fully cleared the peaks of the northern range, the pack square was a dizzying, multi-sensory kaleidoscope of social performance and sensory overload.
There were banners—acres of heavy, hand-dyed wool in deep evergreen and wild orange—fluttering and snapping in the crisp, biting wind. There were council officials in heavy, ceremonial robes trimmed with fur, guards standing at rigid attention in highly polished leather harness-work, and a sprawling crowd of hundreds of spectators. Families, gossiping elders, and wide-eyed pups were packed tightly into the tiered stone bleachers like spectators awaiting a particularly bloody gladiatorial arena. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of roasted chestnuts, spiced cider, and the underlying, electric current of collective anxiety.
And then, there were the omegas.
There were exactly twenty-eight of them gathered in the designated, cordoned-off circle at the very center of the square. Almost every single one of them had spent the pre-dawn hours being meticulously lacquered, painted, curled, and squeezed into layers of blinding silk, heavy brocades, and ancestral family heirlooms. They sparkled. They practically clinked when they moved, dripping in silver chains, heavy bracelets, and intricate pearl hairpins designed to catch the early morning light.
The air in their immediate vicinity was so thick with the competing, frantic notes of concentrated perfumes and nervous pheromones—clove, jasmine, heavy musk, and frantic, sugary vanilla—that Dylan was genuinely surprised it hadn't triggered a localized, highly flammable weather system. It was a sensory assault and Dylan wanted absolutely no part in it.
He stood on the absolute, outermost edge of the circle, his shoulders slightly rounded, feeling like a single, stubborn blade of grass in a field of highly aggressive, glittering orchids.
"Stop fidgeting," Nano whispered, dauting a quick, sharp look sideways and swatting Dylan’s hand away from the hem of his top. Nano looked lovely in a soft, pale blue drape that complemented his bright, wide eyes, though his scent—usually a pleasant, breezy citrus—was currently giving off a distinct buzz of unadulterated anxiety. "You look beautiful, P'Dylan. I swear, if you touch that silk one more time, you’re going to crease it before we even cross the gravel."
"I’m not fidgeting," Dylan lied smoothly, adjusting the drape over his left shoulder for the fifth time in three minutes. "I'm conducting an assessment of my survival gear. There's a difference."
His survival gear was a custom-tailored, two-piece set of sage-green silk. When his phor had first brought the bolt of fabric home from the textile market, Dylan had insisted on the colour for a very specific, highly strategic, and entirely unromantic reason: tactical camouflage.
If—or rather, when—he walked back into this very square at sunset, entirely unclaimed, empty-handed, and carrying the heavy, public weight of social rejection, he didn’t want to be wearing a beacon of bright white or primary red. He didn’t want his humiliation to be highly visible from the outer bleachers. He wanted to blend so perfectly into the pine needles, moss, and shadows of the old-growth forest that people’s eyes would simply slide right over him. He wanted to be a background texture, not a cautionary tale.
While the other omegas had opted for traditional, tightly tailored ceremonial gowns that restricted their strides to tiny, delicate steps, Dylan and his father had spent three nights altering his pattern. It was a beautiful, elegant drape that clung softly to his frame when he stood still, but the bottom—if you squinted or watched him move—wasn't a restrictive skirt. It was a pair of incredibly wide-legged, fluid trousers that ended just above his ankles.
It gave the perfect illusion of a ceremonial gown while secretly granting him the stride and mobility of an athlete. Because, as Dylan had dryly pointed out to his father over a breakfast of porridge, they were being sent into old-growth forest full of exposed roots, slick mud, and highly uneven terrain. Running for your life in tight silk and three-inch heels was a great way to end up in his own clinic with a compound fracture of the tibia. He was a healer; he preferred not to become his own most embarrassing patient.
A few yards away, Kwan was the undisputed center of a small, admiring court of elders and younger omegas. He was practically vibrating with triumph and self-satisfaction, wearing a stark, snowy white silk gown that featured a trail of real river pearls sewn along the seams. He smelled of heavy, expensive rosewater, mint, and smug certainty, his eyes dauting repeatedly toward the platform where the Council sat.
Dylan involuntarily followed Kwan’s gaze, and his heart did a dangerous flip against his ribs.
Junn was standing on the stone landing of the Council Hall, flanked by his father, the Head Alpha, and the senior pack warriors. He looked entirely remote, a figure carved out of dark basalt. He was dressed in a structured, midnight-blue wool coat that made his broad shoulders look impossibly wide, his dark hair pushed back from his forehead to reveal the sharp, aristocratic lines of his brow. Even from this distance, Dylan could feel the gravity of his presence, a heavy pull that seemed to warp the air around him.
Junn wasn't looking at the crowd. He wasn't waving, smiling, or playing the part of the beloved heir. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched so tightly Dylan could see the muscle tick in his cheek. He looked like a man preparing for a grim, bloody battlefield, not a celebratory mating festival.
Dylan felt a sudden, sharp ache in his chest. Of course he looks like that, Dylan thought. The entire world expects him to hunt down Kwan or some other glittering, high-status omega today. He’s trapped in the gold cage, just like the rest of us.
"The wind is blowing south today," Nano murmured, leaning close to Dylan’s shoulder, his voice cutting through Dylan's spiraling thoughts. "The Alphas are going to have a hard time tracking by scent alone once we hit the tree line. The dampness in the valley holds the smell close to the ground, and the pine needles will absorb a lot of the trail."
"Good," Dylan said softly, his voice barely a breath. "Then they can rely on their eyes. Which means they'll chase the ones wearing white diamonds and flashing pearls, and leave the green leaves alone."
Nano gave him a soft, fiercely sympathetic look, his hand briefly squeezing Dylan’s wrist. It was a look that said I wish you didn't think of yourself as a ghost, but Nano knew better than to push. "Dylan—"
"I’m fine, Nano," Dylan interrupted gently, offering a small, reassuring smile that felt a little tight and hollow around the edges. "Really. I’m actually looking forward to the peace. I've had a translation of an old Southern botanical text that I've wanted to finish for three weeks, and I finally have an ironclad excuse to sit under a cedar tree for four hours without someone screaming for a burn salve or an ingrown toenail."
Before Nano could reply, the deep, resonant boom of the ceremonial bronze drum echoed off the stone buildings, silencing the chatter of the spectators in an instant. The sudden quiet was heavy, almost suffocating.
The Head Alpha stepped forward to the edge of the stone platform, his voice projected clearly by the natural acoustics of the stone square as he began the ancient recitation. He spoke of fate, of the strength of the bloodline, the sacred nature of the chase, and the ancient pacts of the forest. Dylan barely heard the words. He was focusing entirely on his breathing, calming the frantic rhythm of his heart, and tracing the path ahead.
From the center of the square, a wide, gravel path stretched out, heavily decorated with evergreen boughs, wild orange ribbons, and hanging paper lanterns that would be lit at dusk to guide the claimed couples home. The path led directly to the massive, weathered wooden archway that marked the boundary of the sacred forest—the point of no return.
"On the count of the third strike," the Head Alpha’s voice boomed, echoing off the mountain peaks, "the omegas shall run. You have until the sun touches the western ridge to find your sanctuary, or to be found."
Dylan let out a slow, steady breath, letting the cold air clear his mind. Just run, hide, and wait. It was a simple, logical formula. He could do logical.
The drum struck once. A collective, sharp intake of breath rattled through the twenty-eight omegas.
The drum struck twice. Dylan shifted his weight, his wide-legged trousers swishing softly, his eyes locking onto the dark, cool, and inviting entrance of the forest. He ignored the eyes of the crowd, ignored the heavy, suffocating scent of patchouli drifting from the platform, and focused only on the green.
The third strike hit like a lightning bolt, the deep vibration rattling through the soles of Dylan's shoes.
In an instant, the air exploded with the rustle of expensive silk, the frantic clatter of silver jewelry, and the high-pitched gasps of twenty-eight young omegas suddenly bolting forward. The decorated path became a chaotic blur of white, red, and silver. Some omegas sprinted with desperate, frantic speed, eager to claim the high, scenic ridges or the easy-to-track clearings where their favored alphas could easily spot them. Others moved in calculated, graceful strides, keeping their postures perfect and their hair immaculate for the cameras and the watching elders.
Dylan didn't sprint, nor did he pose.
Using the incredible freedom of his hidden trousers, he dropped his center of gravity, leaned forward, and pushed off the gravel with a clean, practiced, and highly athletic stride. While the bulk of the crowd jostled, collided, and crowded each other on the main decorated path, Dylan veered hard to the left the second his feet cleared the wooden archway.
He bypassed the prime, easy routes entirely. He didn't want the scenic ridges, and he certainly didn't want the sunny meadows. Instead, he headed straight for the dense, overgrown western valley where the canopy was thickest, the shadows were longest, and the ground was a messy, wet tangle of wild ferns, fallen timber, and damp, slippery moss.
Within five minutes, the sound of the cheering crowd, the ceremonial drums, and the panic of the other omegas faded into absolute nothingness.
The forest swallowed him whole, and Dylan felt like he could actually expand his lungs and breathe.
The air here was cold, crisp, and smelled beautifully of wet earth, pine needles, decomposing cedar, and decaying winter leaves. It was clean. It was real. Dylan slowed his pace from a jog to a comfortable, steady walk, his sage-green silk blending seamlessly with the surrounding brush. He walked deep into the heart of the valley, navigating the damp, treacherous terrain with the effortless ease of someone who had spent his entire childhood foraging for wild ginger, ginseng, and willow bark.
Eventually, deep in the shadows of the ravine, he found exactly what he was looking for: a massive, ancient oak tree, its trunk so wide it would take four men to hug it. Its roots flared out like the buttresses of a great cathedral, creating a natural, deep, and moss-lined alcove against the bark. It was completely hidden from the main trails, tucked behind a thick, defensive screen of wild berry brambles and dense hazel bushes.
"Perfect," Dylan murmured to himself, his voice sounding small and comforting in the vast quiet of the woods.
He sat down in the natural armchair of the roots, the cool dampness of the moss immediately soaking through the thin silk of his trousers, but he didn't care. It felt grounding. It felt safe.
To pass the long hours—and to keep his hands from shaking with the lingering, residual adrenaline of the pack square—Dylan looked around the forest floor. The early spring thaw had coaxed a few brave, delicate wildflowers from the cold earth. He reached out, his long, nimble fingers gently plucking a tiny, star-shaped wild anemone. A few inches away, a cluster of pale violet wood-sorrel grew near a rotting log, and a fragrant sprig of wild pine lay snapped on the ground.
Dylan began to gather them. One by one, he plucked the delicate stems, cleaning off the damp soil with his thumb. He began to weave them together, using a long, sturdy blade of sweetgrass to bind the stems into a tight, neat braid.
Anemones for anticipation. Wood-sorrel for healing and quiet love. A wild sprig of pine for endurance.
He quieted his mind, focusing entirely on the soothing and physical task of building a small, humble bouquet. His own soft, delicate scent of almond flower drifted lazily in the small alcove, a quiet whisper completely undisturbed by the loud, chaotic world outside. He had hours to kill before the horn blew to signal the end of the run, and here, hidden in the green, Dylan was perfectly content to let the world think he had simply ceased to exist.
If Dylan had to catalog the top five most peaceful moments of his life, sitting in a damp, mossy alcove of a thousand-year-old oak tree, weaving a miniature crown of weed-sorrel and sweetgrass, would have easily claimed the number-one spot. It was a ranking he had cultivated with the methodical mind of a senior actuary, beating out "the time the clinic ran out of castor oil" and "the three hours it took for the spring melt to clear the mountain pass, trapping him in a library with nothing but historical botanical logs."
The forest was cool, damp and silent. Here, there were no patients complaining of gout, no ledger books demanding to be audited, and absolutely no high-society omegas measuring their self-worth in layers of blinding silk, heavy ancestral pearls, and hair so lacquered with pine-resin spray that it was practically a fire hazard. It was just him, his quiet almond-flower scent drifting lazily in the cold air, and the soothing repetition of braiding stems. He was hidden beautifully in his tactical, sage-green camouflaging trousers. He was utterly irrelevant to the grand mating run.
And then, the universe decided to laugh in his face.
It didn't start with a romantic call or the calculated rustle of a courting Alpha stepping gracefully through the ferns.
It started with a sound that Dylan’s brain instantly categorized as uncontrolled momentum.
Snap. Crash. Thud.
About fifty yards away, a thicket of wild berry brambles exploded.
Dylan froze, a half-woven violet dangling from his fingers. The forest, suddenly felt very small and very occupied.
Huff. Huff. Huff.
It was the sound of someone breathing incredibly hard, running at a speed that was irresponsible given the density of the old-growth forest. The footsteps were hammering against the damp earth like a stampede of heavy, desperate hooves.
He’s going to trip, Dylan thought, his healer instincts firing with automatic alarm, overriding the survival instincts that were currently screaming at him to climb the nearest pine. He is going to catch a root, fracture his metatarsal, and I am going to have to drag a fully grown alpha back to the square on a makeshift pine-branch travois while the entire village watches.
The snapping got closer. Faster. The raw, physical presence of the approaching runner was sending tiny, vibrating shockwaves through the soft moss beneath Dylan's thighs.
Dylan scrambled to stand, his wide-legged trousers swishing softly, but before his brain could even formulate a trajectory for escape, the defensive screen of hazel bushes in front of his alcove surrendered. It gave way to a blur of dark basalt, flying pine needles, mud, and pure, concentrated mass.
Junn didn't stop. He didn't slow down to assess the situation. He didn't strike a dominant, wind-blown pose like the Alphas in the historical romance books Dylan’s father kept in the parlor.
He launched.
Dylan barely had time to let out a tiny, high-pitched gasp—a sound he would later vehemently deny making—before two hundred pounds of solid, muscle-bound pack royalty collided with his chest, tackling him straight back into the giant oak tree and down into the thick, soft mattress of damp moss and rotting leaves.
The impact knocked the wind entirely out of Dylan’s lungs in a single, unceremonious whoosh. He braced himself, his eyes squeezing shut, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against his ribs. For a fraction of a second, his brain—steeped in centuries of pack history and dark romance novels—expected the traditional, heavy display of alpha dominance. He braced for the possessive pinning, the low, rumbling growl of a predator claiming its prize, the suffocating pressure of a pack leader asserting his biological right to the territory.
Instead, he got a giant, vibrating face pressed directly and enthusiastically into his neck.
"I FOUND YOU," a voice muffled loudly against his collarbone.
Dylan blinked, his eyes snapping open. The canopy of leaves spun slowly above him like a green-and-gold kaleidoscope. Junn was currently draped over him like an oversized, discarded winter coat, his heavy, broad shoulders rising and falling with desperate, gasping breaths.
"I WAS LOOKING EVERYWHERE," Junn gasped, his voice cracking slightly with unfiltered desperation that seemed entirely incompatible with a man who had once single-handedly negotiated a timber treaty with the southern packs without blinking. He lifted his head, his dark hair a wild, chaotic nest of pine needles, dried twigs, and crushed leaves. His cheeks were flushed a bright, unnatural pink, and his dark eyes were wide, glittering, and entirely manic. He looked less like the future Head Alpha and more like a golden retriever that had just successfully excavated a long-lost ball from a muddy garden. "Why are you sitting here?!"
"I—" Dylan squeaked, his voice entirely trapped in his throat by the absurdity they were currently sharing.
"Do you know how scared I was?!" Junn rambled, completely ignoring Dylan's state of utter paralysis. He grabbed Dylan’s shoulders, his hands trembling slightly, his face hovering mere inches away. "Do you have any idea how terrified I was that someone else would get to you first? I literally sprinted the entire western boundary. I almost tackled an elder's son because I thought I smelled almond flower, but it was just a cheap lavender soap, and I lost three minutes backtracking. Why are you wearing green? You're literally the color of a bush, Dylan! I almost ran right past you! I had to double back because a stray draft brought just a microscopic hint of almond, and I thought I was hallucinating!"
"You..." started Dylan, his brain short-circuiting so violently he could practically hear the gears grinding to a screeching halt. "You... were looking for me?"
"Of course I was looking for you!" Junn practically yelled, his chest heaving against Dylan's ribs. "I've been looking for you since the literal second the third drum struck! I didn't even look at the main path! I didn't even look at the ridgeline where everyone else went! I knew you'd head for the wet, miserable parts of the valley because you hate crowds, you hate being looked at, and you like mud!"
Dylan stared up at him, his mind blanking out.
This was Junn. The ice prince of the LYKN pack. The man carved of basalt, who commanded warriors with a single, cool glance, and who looked like he carried the tragedy of the world on his incredibly broad shoulders. Currently, that same prince was grinning so wide his eyes were crinkling at the corners, his tail-wagging energy so intense it was practically radiating off him in waves.
"Specifically?" Dylan whispered, his voice trembling as he tried to process the sheer weight of the word. "You were looking for... me?"
"Yes! Specifically!" Junn cried, his voice echoing off the ancient trunks. All sense of dignity, future headship, and societal expectations had completely left his body, scattered somewhere along the five miles of forest floor he had just demolished. He buried his face back into the crook of Dylan’s neck, inhaling so deeply and desperately that Dylan’s skin tingled. "Oh, thank god. You smell so good. You smell like almond flower and rain. I thought I was going to lose my mind. I've been losing my mind for two years, Dylan. Two. Years."
"Junn," Dylan choked out, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air like two lost birds before slowly, tentatively landing on the broad expanse of Junn’s midnight-blue wool coat. It was warm. Incredibly warm. And Junn was practically purring. "Are you... having a medical episode? Did you take a blow to the head during the warrior training session yesterday? Because I can perform a cranial nerve exam right now if you would just—"
"I’m having the best day of my life," Junn corrected happily, his voice muffled by Dylan's shoulder. He rolled slightly to the side, but didn't let go, wrapping one massive, heavy arm around Dylan’s waist and pulling him flush against his chest, effectively dragging both of them deeper into the mossy, leaf-strewn alcove. "I am literally having the absolute best day. I got to chase you. And I caught you."
"Technically, you tackled me," Dylan muttered, though his heart was doing a stupid, dizzying dance, and the rich, intoxicating scent of patchouli, rain, and cedarwood was currently blanketing his senses, making his head spin in the most terrifyingly delicious way. "There was very little chasing involved. It was mostly just physical assault by a high-ranking official."
"I don't care," Junn murmured, his cheek pressing against Dylan's forehead. "You're here. I have you."
Dylan lay there, his mind desperately trying to make sense of the sudden, chaotic shift in his reality.
For years, Dylan had lived in the comfortable, self-protective shadow of his own insignificance. He was the quiet healer's son. He didn't do omega mixers. He didn't wear pearls. He didn't think anyone—let alone the most sought-after, popular Alpha in the entire northern territory—could ever look at him and see anything other than a background character. He had assumed Junn’s occasional, lingering glances in the square were just polite awareness. A prince scanning his future subjects.
He had no idea that behind those quiet, intense glances, Junn had been harboring a severe, borderline-unhinged case of lovesickness.
"My parents," Junn whispered, his fingers gently playing with the hem of Dylan’s sage-green silk top, his touch surprisingly soft, almost worshipful compared to the chaotic force of his arrival. "They sat me down last month. They told me... they told me the pack needs a strong leader, but a leader is nothing without a partner he actually loves. They told me not to think about what the council wants, or what the political alliances demand. They told me to choose the omega I want to spend the rest of my life with. The one I’d want to share a grave with."
Dylan’s throat tightened, a sudden, emotional warmth blooming behind his eyes, threatening to spill over. "And you... you chose the guy who spends his days cleaning dirt out of six-year-olds' knees and smelling like almonds?"
"I chose the only person I've looked at for two years," Junn said, his voice dropping into a soft, desperately affectionate register that made Dylan's stomach do a spectacular flip. He pulled back just enough to look Junn in the eyes, his expression so earnest, so raw with vulnerability, that Dylan felt entirely exposed. "You barely talk to me, Dylan. Do you have any idea how agonizing that is? You duck your head every time I walk past. You look at me like I’m a particularly aggressive tax collector. I tried to compliment your hair last month at the spring market, and you literally told me I was mistaken and that it was just a standard botanical rinse, and then you ran away!"
"It was a standard botanical rinse," Dylan squeaked, his cheeks burning a furious red. "It was chamomile and lemon peel. It wasn't... I didn't think you were actually looking at my hair. Why would you look at my hair when Kwan was standing three feet away wearing literal river pearls in his braids?"
"I don't care about Kwan's pearls," Junn said simply, his dark eyes tracing the line of Dylan's cheekbone, his thumb gently wiping away a stray speck of moss from Dylan’s temple. "I look at everything. I notice everything about you. I know you like to sit on the east side of the square because the sun hits it first. I know you use the gentle soap for the pups even though it costs twice as much. I know you bite your lip when you're trying to read a difficult prescription."
Before Dylan could process the terrifying weight of that statement, Junn’s inner excited puppy flared back up. He sat up abruptly, dragging Dylan up with him so they were both sitting in the nest of roots.
"You're cold," Junn announced, his forehead structural-assessment mode instantly activating. "Your hands are like ice. Why are you sitting on wet moss? Why didn't you build a fire? No, wait, a fire would give away your position. But still!"
"I was trying to be invisible, Junn," Dylan said dryly, though he couldn't stop the small, breathless laugh that escaped his lips. "Usually, building a signal fire in the middle of a hiding zone defeats the purpose."
"Well, you don't need to be invisible anymore," Junn said, his voice brimming with a smug, proud satisfaction that was almost embarrassing.
He immediately stripped off his midnight-blue wool coat and draped it over Dylan’s shoulders. It was massive on Dylan, swallowing him in heavy, warm wool that smelled so intensely of Junn’s rich patchouli scent that Dylan’s inner omega practically purred in response.
Then, to Dylan’s utter bewilderment, Junn began grabbing handfuls of dry pine needles, cedar bark, and large, soft ferns, frantically padding the spaces between the oak roots around Dylan, attempting to build a makeshift, giant-sized nest.
"Junn," Dylan said, watching the future Head Alpha of the LYKN pack aggressively arrange a pile of dry leaves with his bare, calloused hands as if his life depended on the structural integrity of a leaf pile. "What are you doing?"
"I’m making it comfortable," Junn said, not looking up, his face deadly serious as he patted down a particularly soft patch of moss near Dylan's hip. "You look cold. You're wearing silk in a freezing ravine, Dylan. It's beautiful, by the way. The green is... you look like a forest spirit. But it’s highly impractical for a spring day. If you catch hypothermia, I will never forgive myself, and your father will probably ban me from the clinic forever."
"I have trousers," Dylan pointed out, lifting the edge of his drape to show the wide, fluid fabric ending at his ankles. "See? They're pants. I can actually run in them. I modified the pattern with my father so I wouldn't end up in my own clinic with a broken ankle."
Junn stopped his nesting. He stared at the trousers, then up at Dylan's face, his eyes shining with a mixture of awe and pure, unadulterated adoration. "You are so smart. You're literally the smartest person in this pack. I cannot believe you're mine. You wore tactical pants to a mating run."
"We aren't mated yet, Junn," Dylan reminded him, though his voice lacked any real bite, the words feeling soft and experimental on his tongue.
"Details," Junn waved a hand dismissively. He reached into the deep pockets of his discarded coat and began pulling out cloth-wrapped bundles. "Here. I brought food."
Dylan stared at the growing pile of cured venison, sweet honey-biscuit rolls, and dried plums sitting on a clean handkerchief between them. "You... packed a picnic?"
"You never remember to eat lunch," Junn said, his voice softening into that protective, attentive tone that made Dylan's chest ache. "Your father told my father last week that you missed three meals during the spring fever outbreak because you were too busy compounding willow-bark salves. I wasn't going to let you starve in the woods while I was looking for you. I spent three hours last night arguing with the head cook about the exact amount of honey in these rolls because I know you don't like things too sweet."
"You talk to my father about my eating habits?" Dylan whispered, his heart swelling to a painful, beautiful size.
"I talk to anyone who will tell me anything about you," Junn admitted shamelessly, leaning forward to press his forehead against Dylan's temple, his breath warm against Dylan's skin. He picked up a sweet roll and held it to Dylan's lips. "Eat. Please. I ran five miles to find you, and I need you to have energy for when we walk back."
Dylan slowly took a bite of the sweet roll, the honey and butter rich on his tongue. Junn watched him like he had personally invented the concept of eating, his dark eyes never leaving Dylan's face, his tail practically wagging in spirit.
The silence of the forest settled back over them, but it was no longer lonely. It was warm, thick with the scent of sweet almonds and earthy patchouli, a perfect, harmonious blend that felt like a promise.
"You know," Dylan murmured, swallowing his bite, his fingers lightly tracing the soft wool of Junn's coat. "Kwan told everyone in the square that you were going to claim him today. He said he was going to be the future Head Omega."
Junn’s jaw tightened, a brief flash of his dominant, protective Alpha persona surfacing before it was instantly smoothed away by his gaze landing back on Dylan. "Kwan is loud, hollow, and smells like a perfume factory exploded in a spice market. I wouldn't track him if he were the last omega in the territory. I’ve only ever had one scent in my head, Dylan. It's yours. It's always been yours. I don't care about lineage, I don't care about politics. I just want you."
Dylan looked down at the sweetgrass braid in his lap, the tiny wild anemones and purple sorrel catching the faint sunlight filtering through the canopy. He picked it up and, with trembling fingers, gently placed the small, humble crown onto Junn’s wild, twig-filled hair.
Junn froze, his breath catching. He reached up, his large, scarred hand gently touching the delicate stems of the flowers as if they were made of spun glass.
"Anemones for anticipation," Dylan whispered, his cheeks warm, his voice a soft, honest confession. "Wood-sorrel for healing. And pine... for endurance. Because apparently, you've been enduring a lot of lovesickness."
A slow, dazzling grin spread across Junn’s face, lighting up his features so completely that Dylan felt his own chest tighten with affection. He leaned in, wrapping his arms around Dylan’s waist, lifting him slightly off the moss to press a soft, lingering kiss against Dylan’s jawline, right over his scent gland.
"I have," Junn murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his purr vibrating directly into Dylan’s bones. "But I'd wait another ten years if it meant I got to find you like this."
They still had hours before the sun touched the western ridge, hours before they had to return to the loud, gossiping reality of the pack square. But as Dylan leaned back into the warmth of Junn’s chest, wrapped in his heavy blue coat, watching the future Head Alpha of the LYKN pack happily feed him dried plums while wearing a crooked crown of wild weeds, he realized something beautiful.
He hadn't disappeared into the green to be forgotten. He had disappeared so the only person who actually mattered could find him.
And Junn, mentally already drawing up plans for their shared cottage, their future pups, and their matching headstones, was having the absolute best day of his life.
If there was a medal for cognitive dissonance, Dylan was currently wearing it. Or, more accurately, he was entirely wrapped in it, drowning in several yards of expensive, midnight-blue wool that had no business being this soft or this warm.
The walk back from the western ravine was a slow, absurdly cozy affair. Dylan was completely swallowed by Junn’s massive coat, which smelled so strongly of patchouli, cedarwood, and smug triumph that Dylan felt slightly high just breathing it in. It was like being ensconced in a walking, talking forest fire that had somehow been domesticated and taught how to navigate a gravel path.
Junn, on the other hand, was walking with the swagger of a man who had not only won the lottery but had personally designed, printed, and validated the winning ticket. He had refused to take off the crooked, slightly wilted crown of weed-sorrel, sweetgrass, and wild pine that Dylan had woven for him. It sat at a jaunty, ridiculous ten-degree angle on his thick, dark hair, clashing spectacularly with his terrifyingly sharp jawline, his high-status military posture, and the regal bearing of a future head of state. He looked like an aristocratic prince who had been thoroughly mugged by a very enthusiastic botanical garden, and he was absolutely thrilled about it.
Every three steps, Junn’s hand—which completely engulfed Dylan’s, his calloused palm warm and slightly rough—would squeeze gently, as if checking to make sure Dylan hadn't magically dissolved back into the ferns.
"You're doing that thing again," Dylan murmured, looking up from under the giant, stiff collar of the coat. The wool was tickling his nose, and he was ninety percent sure he had a stray pine needle stuck somewhere in his hair, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
"What thing?" Junn asked. His voice was a low, rumbling purr that was practically vibrating through the heavy fabric of the sleeve and straight into Dylan's shoulder. He didn't look at the path. He was staring down at Dylan as if Dylan had personally invented the concept of photosynthesis and was currently demonstrating it in real-time.
"The staring," Dylan said, gesturing weakly with his free hand. "And the vibrating. You're vibrating like a seismic event, Junn. It’s concerning. I’ve read about neurological tremors in historical texts, and while I’m fairly certain this isn't that, I still feel obligated as a medical professional to monitor your vitals."
"I'm happy," Junn declared shamelessly, pulling Dylan a fraction of an inch closer, their shoulders brushing with every step. The friction of their clothes was a comforting, steady hum against the quiet of the woods. "And I'm marking my territory. If I vibrate hard enough, the patchouli bonds with the almond flower. It’s basic science, Dylan."
"That is absolutely not basic science. That is a biological crime against chemistry" Dylan muttered. He tried to sound stern, to maintain the detached dignity of a healer's son, but he didn't pull away. In fact, his fingers curled a little tighter around Junn's hand, his thumb tracing the small, familiar scar across Junn's second knuckle.
As they neared the weathered wooden archway of the sacred forest, the quiet, damp sanctuary of the old-growth pines began to give way to the distant, chaotic hum of the pack square. The transition was physical; the air grew warmer, thick with the scent of roasted chestnuts, spiced cider, and the heavy, anxious perfumes of several hundred spectators. The ceremonial paper lanterns had been lit, casting a warm, flickering orange glow over the gravel path, painting the tree trunks in long, dancing shadows. Families were gathered in clustered groups near the boundary, drinking from steaming clay mugs, gossiping, and welcoming back the claimed couples with loud cheers and clinking glasses.
But the moment Dylan’s sage-green trousers and Junn’s towering, crown-wearing figure stepped through the boundary arch, the hum of the square did not just quiet down.
It died.
It was a sudden death of conversation that swept across the tiered stone bleachers like a cold draft. A hundred pairs of eyes locked onto them in perfect, synchronized disbelief. The gossip stopped mid-sentence. Cups of hot cider froze halfway to open mouths.
Dylan immediately felt his instincts urge him to tuck his head into the giant collar of the coat and pretend he was a highly expensive, inanimate piece of luggage. But Junn’s grip on his hand was ironclad. Junn didn't look down. He threw his shoulders back, his chest puffed out, looking like a victorious general bringing home the crown jewels of a conquered empire—even if the crown jewels in question were currently blushing a furious, tomato-red and wearing camouflage pants.
"P'DYLAN!"
A high-pitched, ecstatic shriek shattered the heavy silence of the square.
Before Dylan’s brain could process the trajectory or the sheer volume of the sound, a pale blue blur launched itself out of the crowd. Nano collided with Dylan in a flurry of soft silk, wrapping his arms around Dylan's neck and squeezing so hard Dylan's ribs gave a small, protesting creak.
"I knew it! I literally knew it! I told everyone! I was like, ‘Just wait, Dylan is going to bring home the biggest prize in the valley!’" Nano screamed, jumping up and down with such frantic energy that his pale blue drape was fluttering wildly like a flag in a storm.
(Narrator’s note: Nano had, in fact, absolutely not known it. For the past three nights, he had been stationed in the back of the medical hall holding Dylan’s hand while helping him develop an extensively researched, post-rejection survival plan.
Phase one involved a medically irresponsible quantity of alcohol.
Phase two involved translating ancient Southern manuscripts so painfully obscure that even the archives had not touched them in forty years.
Phase three involved a three-week disappearance into the deepest level of the archives where Dylan could live among the dust, the dead languages, and several emotionally supportive mushrooms until the pack forgot he had publicly failed to attract a single alpha during mating season.)
"Nano, breathe," Dylan choked out, trying to pat his friend’s back while still trapped under the immense weight of Junn's coat. "You're cutting off my oxygen. My ribs are compromised. And who...?"
Dylan’s eyes drifted past Nano’s shaking shoulder and landed on Pepper, the formidable leader of the pack’s warrior vanguard. Pepper, who looked like he could comfortably wrestle a mountain cat and win without breaking a sweat, was currently standing three feet away. He was holding a discarded blue ribbon, his heavy leather armor looking slightly out of place next to the soft silk of Nano’s drape. He had a soft, dazed, and thoroughly whipped expression on his face, looking at Nano with the helpless, starry-eyed adoration of a man who had been hit repeatedly in the skull by a very small, very loud angel.
"He tracked me!" Nano squealed, pointing a finger at Pepper, who offered Dylan a polite, slightly embarrassed nod that was entirely unbecoming of a legendary vanguard leader. "He literally jumped over a three-foot ravine and swam through a freezing stream to get to my cedar tree. But enough about me—look at you! Look at him! Why is he wearing a weed crown, Dylan? Did you drug him? Did you use that specialized valerian root tincture we brewed last winter?"
"I am entirely sober," Junn interjected, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction as he pulled Dylan a fraction closer. "And it is not a weed crown. It's a coronation. Show some respect, vanguard leader."
Pepper let out a low, breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Congratulations, heir. You look... highly festive. The sweetgrass really brings out the authority in you."
Before Dylan could reply or apologize for his alpha’s utterly embarrassing behavior, the tense, fragile peace of the square was violently shattered by a high-pitched, theatrical wail coming from the very center of the plaza, near the Council steps.
"This is a farce! It’s a statistical anomaly! I demand a formal petition for a technical rerun!"
Dylan winced. Kwan.
In the middle of a tightly packed circle of whispering elders and sweat-slicked council members, Kwan was currently undergoing what Dylan’s medical training classified as a psychological meltdown. His pristine, snowy white silk gown was no longer pristine; the hem was covered in wet, black mud, several of his real river pearls had gone missing somewhere in the briar patches, and his perfectly styled, wind-defying hair was deflating rapidly in the evening dampness, hanging in sad, sticky clumps around his face.
Standing awkwardly behind Kwan were the only two Alphas who had actually bothered to track his heavy, expensive rosewater scent trail through the valley.
The first was Borin, a fellow councilman’s son. Borin was a notorious, thirty-something rake who spent ninety-five percent of his time face-down in tavern casks and possessed no recognizable life skills other than a spectacular talent for dodging municipal taxes and writing terrible poetry. He looked thoroughly hungover, his tunic wrinkled, staring at Kwan with the bored, slightly irritated expression of a man who had signed up for a charity raffle and won a mildly annoying household appliance.
The second was the butcher’s son, Toby—a massive, burly young Alpha who was still wearing his heavy leather work apron and looked deeply mortified to be involved in a public domestic dispute in front of the entire ruling council.
"Kwan, shut your mouth," Kwan’s father, Councilman Vane, hissed, his face a dangerous shade of eggplant purple as he clutched his ceremonial robes. "You are making a public spectacle of this family. Borin is a councilman’s son. His lineage is—"
"Borin has a permanent tab at the Boar’s Head and smells like stale yeast!" Kwan shrieked, stomping a silk-shod, muddy foot against the gravel. "He’s not handsome! He’s not young! He doesn't even have a cottage, father! He lives in his mother's attic above the dry-goods store! And the butcher's son—I am a high-status Omega! I do not clean intestines for a living! The wind was blowing south! The tracking conditions were biased! Junn clearly got lost in the western valley"
Just then, Kwan’s frantic, scanning eyes locked onto the edge of the square.
He froze.
He saw Junn. He saw Junn's massive, expensive coat wrapped securely around Dylan’s shoulders. He saw their intertwined hands. And then, he saw the crooked, sweetgrass-and-anemone crown sitting proudly on the future Head Alpha’s head.
Kwan’s face went from furious red to a pale, horrified green, before settling into pure, venomous outrage. He pushed past his father, stomping across the gravel toward them like a small, damp cyclone.
"You!" Kwan pointed a trembling, manicured finger directly at Dylan’s nose. "You stole him! You sat in the mud like a parasite and intercepted my scent trail! Junn—Junn, tell him! You were looking for me, weren't you? You got turned around by the dampness in the ravine. You couldn't find my path, so you had to settle for the first thing you ran into! Tell this entire pack that this is a mistake!"
Dylan’s chest tightened, that old, familiar coldness creeping back into his stomach. For years, he had been the ghost. He had been the one who didn't fit, the one who kept his head down so he wouldn't be targeted. Hearing Kwan voice his deepest, most irrational fears out loud—that he was just a mistake, a default choice, a runner-up—made him want to pull his hand away, to shrink back into the shadows where it was safe.
But he didn't get the chance.
The warm, gentle puppy energy radiating off Junn vanished in a fraction of a millisecond. Dylan felt the sudden, massive shift in the air before he even saw it—the temperature seemed to drop, and the rich patchouli scent in the air sharpened into a heavy, suffocating pressure that made several nearby Alphas instinctively lower their heads. The easygoing heir was gone. In his place stood the future leader of the north.
Junn stepped forward, placing his towering, solid frame directly between Dylan and Kwan, completely cutting off Kwan’s line of sight and shielding Dylan from the venomous glare.
"Let's get one thing entirely clear, Kwan," Junn said. His voice had a deep, carrying resonance that echoed off the stone walls of the Council Hall, ensuring that every single one of the pack members heard every syllable. "I did not get lost. I didn't even look at the main path. I didn't look at the ridge where you and your pearls were waiting. I spent five miles sprinting straight for the western ravine because I knew exactly where Dylan would hide."
Kwan blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a landed trout. "But... but the... my lineage... the council alliances—"
"I wouldn't track you if you were the last Omega in the territory," Junn said, his voice cold, clear, and utterly merciless. "Your scent smells like a perfume factory exploded in a spice market, and your personality is entirely hollow. I have had exactly one scent in my head for two years, and it is almond flower. I have been completely, miserably in love with Dylan since before I could even carry a warrior’s sword. So get out of your delusions, stop screaming in the square, and if you ever bully my to-be mate again, I will personally ensure your family's tax audit is conducted by the most ruthless ledger-man we have in the western archives."
A collective, sharp intake of breath rattled through the spectators.
Councilman Vane looked as if he might actually faint. He lunged forward, grabbing Kwan’s elbow with a grip of pure, mortified desperation, and dragged him back toward the center of the square. "You will shut your mouth, Kwan! You will honor the Alpha who came for you, or so help me, you will be courting the butcher's son by tomorrow morning!"
Kwan was practically weeping, his face buried in his hands as his father dragged him away, the crowd parting to let them through with a mixture of pity and hushed, frantic giggles.
Dylan stood there, his brain crashed entirely. He stared at the back of Junn’s neck, his cheeks burning so hot he was genuinely surprised his sage-green top hadn't caught fire. Miserably in love with me? For two years? Since before he could carry a sword?
Junn turned back to Dylan, the terrifying, dominant alpha instantly melting back into that doting puppy. He reached up, his large hand incredibly gentle as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind Dylan's ear. "Are you okay? Did he hurt your feelings? Because I can still go call the tax auditor. He's my cousin on my phor's side, and he takes his job very, very seriously."
"Junn," Dylan squeaked, his voice barely a whisper as he grabbed the lapel of the giant coat to steady himself. "The entire pack is staring at us. Your parents are standing on the platform."
Junn glanced up at the stone landing of the Council Hall. The Head Alpha and Head Omega were indeed standing there, framed by the massive oak doors. The Head Alpha was currently trying very hard to hide a massive, proud grin behind a large leather-gloved hand. The Head Omega, a beautiful, sharp-eyed man was simply shaking his head with a fond, knowing expression, gesturing for them to come up.
Junn took Dylan's hand, leading him up the stone steps with an unbothered grace that made the remaining whispers in the crowd die down.
When they reached the top of the landing, Junn stopped. He looked at his parents, who gave him a brief, firm nod of approval, and then he turned back to face the entire, gathered pack in the square below.
"My parents told me to choose the partner I want to spend the rest of my life with," Junn announced, his voice ringing out with absolute authority, settling over the crowd. "The one I would share a grave with. I have made my choice."
He looked down at Dylan, his dark eyes shining with a vulnerability that was so raw, so incredibly sweet, that Dylan’s heart did a gravity-defying flip.
"I am formally announcing my intent to court Dylan, the head healer's son," Junn declared to the crowd. He paused, his jaw tightening slightly as a smug, eager grin began to play at the corners of his lips. "And it will be an exceptionally brief courtship. Because quite frankly, I've waited two years, and I have absolutely no intention of waiting more than a month to marry him."
Dylan’s jaw dropped. A month?!
In the square below, Nano let out another earsplitting shriek of joy, Pepper began to clap his heavy leather gloves together, and the entire pack erupted into a deafening roar of cheers, laughter, and whistles.
Dylan buried his face directly into the warm, patchouli-scented lapel of Junn's massive blue coat, his heart hammering a beautiful rhythm against his ribs. He was still invisible, perhaps, to the loud, chaotic world outside—but as Junn's strong arms wrapped securely around his waist, pulling him close against his chest and shielding him from the wind, Dylan realized he didn't mind the spotlight at all.
Not when he had the biggest, most ridiculously lovesick Alpha in the world holding the flashlight.