She took my place "The Alpha's decision"

The perfume of pine and damp earth, ordinarily a pleasant blanket, was now a harsh, metallic taste in Lyra's nose, mingling sickeningly with the coppery stench of her blood. Every breath was a quick gasp, a painful reminder of the claws that had torn across her ribs, of the teeth that had slashed into her side. Her eyes swam, distorted by sweat and misery, but her paws, caked with filth and grit, continued to move. One agonizing step after another. North. Always north. Towards the heart of the Moonstone Pack. Towards him.

Alpha Thorne.

His name was a mantra in her thoughts, a lighthouse amid the storm of sadness that threatened to consume her. He was her anchor, her rock, the violent, unyielding male whose presence was the whole substance of her existence. They were fated, their connection inscribed by the moon itself, a relationship so profound it exceeded mere words. It was a buzz beneath her skin, a pull in her soul, constant and genuine. Or, it had been.

The renegade attack had come out of nowhere, a wave of angry, ravenous wolves, twice their number, smashing down on the border guard. Lyra, as Luna, had struggled with the passion of a she-wolf protecting her young, even though her pups had yet to be birthed. She'd been at the vanguard, a flurry of silver fur and snapping jaws, her shouts piercing the darkness as she drove back the invaders. But even a Luna, particularly one as terrible as Lyra, may be overtaken. The last thing she remembered vividly was Thorne's battle cry, a sound that promised revenge and protection, as he approached to cover her escape, or maybe, to pull her from the jaws of death.

She hadn't waited to be dragged. The pack needed her alive, needed their Luna. With a guttural growl, she'd withdrawn, a frantic, strategic retreat, drawing some of the rogues away from the main combat, gaining precious minutes for her pack-mates. It was a gamble that had cost her dearly.

Now, hours later, the forest floor was a perilous patchwork of roots and fallen branches. The Whispering Woods, ordinarily a welcoming companion, seemed like a silent, indifferent judge. The moon, generally a source of strength and comfort, was veiled by dense clouds, placing the forest in an unpleasant shade. She couldn't shift. Her human body was too weak, too fragile. Her wolf form, however, scarred, retained more primal resilience.

A searing flash of anguish lanced through her as her paw snagged on an unseen root, sending her staggering. She groaned a sound she detested, but she couldn't help it. Her muscles screamed in protest, each movement a fresh torture. She felt lightheaded, the world teetering alarmingly. Blood loss, a sensible section of her mind stated, but Lyra shoved it down. She had to keep going.

She thought of the packhouse, a warm, welcoming light in the distance, a refuge of safety and love. She envisioned Thorne's face, furrowed with anxiety, his powerful hands tenderly tending to her wounds. She watched him clutching her tight, relishing her perfume, whispering words of comfort and praise for her strength. That picture, pure and unspoiled, was the fuel that kept her going when her body begged to collapse.

Suddenly, a weird perfume assaulted her. Faint at first, carried by a stray gust of wind, then stronger. Pack. Relief surged over her, so powerful it almost buckled her knees. She was close. So close.

She plunged through a thicket of sharp thorns, dismissing the fresh scratches. Beyond it, the trees began to thin, giving way to a more controlled section of the forest, the boundary of the inner pack lands. She could make out the faint glitter of lights from the packhouse.

But then, another aroma, one that brought her up short, stopping her in her movements despite her urgent need to reach safety. It was faint, unfamiliar, but clearly a female wolf's fragrance. And it was related to Thorne's. Not battling. Not threatening. Intertwined. Intimate.

Lyra's breath hitched. Her heart, already beating from exertion and misery, suddenly pounded with a novel form of panic. No. It was impossible. Her mate. Her Thorne.

She shook her head, hoping to dislodge the fog. It had to be a trick of her muddled senses, a hallucination from the blood loss. He would be waiting for her. Concerned about her.

Yet, the aroma continued, increasing stronger as she got closer to the clearing she knew led right to the packhouse grounds. It was delicious, nearly overbearing, foreign to the comfy combination of her pack. And it was wrapped around Thorne's rich, musky perfume like vines enveloping a big oak.

She emerged from the final line of trees, her vision still fuzzy but clear enough to make out the scene before her. The packhouse stood, welcoming and cheery. And in the warm warmth of the outdoor lights, right outside the main entrance, stood Thorne.

He was intact, unhurt, his formidable presence emitting calm authority. But Lyra's emphasis was not on his flawless form. It was on the small, exquisite figure standing close to him. A she-wolf. Her fur was a delicate, pale grey, almost silver in the moonlight, and her head nestled softly on Thorne's shoulder. His hand, strong and possessive, was draped casually over her arm, his fingers stroking her fur.

They weren't fighting. They weren't in danger. They were... there. Together.

An icy horror flowed into Lyra's bones, overriding the bodily anguish. It was a new form of wound, one that bypassed her flesh and struck directly at her soul. The hum of her mate connection, which had been her anchor, her life force, flickered. It didn't fade altogether, but it got faint and distorted, like a beloved melody played through a faulty speaker.

Thorne mumbled something to the she-wolf, a low, intimate rumble that Lyra couldn't quite hear, but the gesture, the touch, the serene connection, was evident. The she-wolf peered up at him, her eyes wide and adoring.

Lyra, unseen, unexpected, stood riveted at the edge of the meadow, her injured form a strong contrast to the clean vision before her. The anguish in her body was nothing compared to the ice growing in her veins. Her mate. Her Alpha. The man who was half of her soul is with someone.

Her breath hitched again, but this time, it was not from pain. It came from a knowing that chilled her to the core, threatening to crush what little remained of her will.

The gentle she-wolf near Thorne moved, shifting her head slightly, and her eyes, large and innocent, met Lyra's across the black breadth of the clearing. A spark of something unreadable passed her face - surprise? Recognition? Fear?

Before Lyra could grasp it, before she could even summon a snarl of protest, the she-wolf opened her lips, and her voice, calm as a woods breeze, drifted clearly into the night.

"Thorne," she whispered, her gaze still fixed on Lyra, "Someone's here."