(Raiden’s POV)
The news hits me harder than I expect.
Eighteen months. It’s been eighteen months since Siena walked out of my life, her head held high, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes.
Eighteen months since she severed the bond between us with those ancient words, leaving me to drown in the wreckage of my own mistakes.
And now, she’s coming back.
Not for me, of course. She made that clear in her brief, carefully worded messages delivered through Rairity. Siena’s return isn’t about reconciliation or revisiting the past.
She’s returning to Windhowl to visit friends, to check on the pack’s progress, to see for herself how things have fared in her absence.
Still, the news sends Horace into a frenzy. He paces restlessly in my mind, his excitement wild and untamed, his hope clawing at my chest despite my attempts to push it down.
“She’s not coming back for us,” I remind him, my voice firm even as my own heart betrays me by quickening at the thought of seeing her again. “She’s moved on. We have to respect that.”
But Horace doesn’t listen. He never does when it comes to her.
I try to focus on the upcoming SOA summit, on the agenda and the diplomatic meetings that require my attention, but my mind keeps drifting back to Siena.
I think about the letters she’s sent to Rairity, each one written with the same formal, deliberate tone that keeps me at arm’s length.
I think about the programs I’ve implemented over the past year and a half—the very ones she proposed during our marriage, the ones I dismissed without a second thought.
Educational initiatives. Veteran support systems. Diplomatic outreach.
Each success is a bittersweet reminder of how right she was.
It’s impossible not to see how much stronger Windhowl has become under the shared leadership we’ve established with Silverfang. The harmony between the packs, the prosperity we’ve achieved–it’s all rooted
in Siena’s vision.
And I was too blind to see it.
When whispers spread that Siena has been spotted at a popular werewolf gathering place, I don’t think. I act.
The council chamber buzzes around me, elders debating logistics, the voices droning patiently through the detailed agenda for the upcoming summit.
My fingers drum restlessly against the polished oak table, pulse quickening at the mere thought of her—so close, within reach after all this endless time. My chest tightens, breath suddenly shallow, as memories of
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Chapter 132
+25 BONUS
her flood me, vivid and relentless, blotting out everything else.
I push abruptly from my chair, the legs scraping sharply against the stone floor. Conversations falter, heads snapping toward me in startled confusion. My Beta pauses mid–sentence, eyes narrowing as he registers
my movement.
“Alpha, we’re not done–” he starts firmly, stepping forward, concern etched deeply into his brow.
But Zion’s words blur, fading to a distant hum beneath the roaring urgency in my ears. Without answering, without even glancing back, I stride swiftly toward the exit, heart hammering wildly.
I cannot be stopped. I will not be stopped.
The drive across town is reckless. My hands grip the wheel tightly, my knuckles white as I weave through traffic with a single–minded determination that borders on desperation. I feel like a lovesick adolescent rather than the composed Alpha King I’m supposed to be.
By the time I pull up outside the upscale bar, my heart is pounding in my chest, Horace straining against the seams of my control. The music pulses through the air as I step inside, the sleek, modern décor illuminated by soft, ambient lighting. The crowd is lively, packs mingling and celebrating in a way that feels both chaotic and intimate.
And then I see her.
Siena.
She’s sitting near the center of the room, surrounded by a small group of people.
Her golden hair is longer now, falling in soft waves over her shoulders, and her posture is relaxed in a way that feels unfamiliar. She’s laughing—a genuine, unrestrained laugh that lights up her entire face.
I stop in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.
It’s been so long since I’ve seen her laugh like that.
During our marriage, her laughter was rare, fleeting, something I never fully appreciated. Hearing it now, seeing her so at ease, strikes me with painful clarity. This is the joy I suppressed.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
