THE CURSED MATE'S RETURN

The moon was low in the sky, its silver light spilling over the thick trees surrounding the Whiteclaw Pack__ Shadows extended along the ground, cast by the dancing flames of the bonfire burning at the center of the clearing. A sound of laughter and music swirled together in the night, a chorus of joy rising up among voices. The pack was alive-reveling, rejoicing in the warmth of kinship.

Gwen stood apart from it all, hidden in the darkened edges of the village, her arms wrapped around herself. She was near enough to hear the laughter and cheer, to see the smiles, to feel the sense of camaraderie she had never experienced. But she may as well have been a ghost, invisible in the presence of her own.

She gave up trying to belong a very long time ago. Because she knew it was actually pointless trying.

She had been living on fancies since childhood: wanted compassion, needed acceptance. The Whiteclaw Pack was the opposite-also a truth violently hammered into her: an unwanted outcast. Daughters of dead warriors who were murdered under suspicious circumstances, she had always lived with the weight of those suspicions and whispered rumors. One of them in their company, all that they noticed was that she acted like a grim reminder of memories which nobody talked about.

She had never grasped why they hated her that much. Her parents had been loyal to the pack, her father a strong warrior, her mother a healer with a gift. Their death had not been natural, there were in fact whispers of treachery, of betrayal. Yet nobody had ever shown her the truth.

Instead, they had made her suffer.

A collection of young warriors laughed on the sidelines, their bodies dripping with sweat from sparring. Among them was the future Alpha; Eamon. Golden hair blazed in the light of fire, as sharp green eyes shone merry. He was what a leader should be; powerful, mighty, adored.

Gwen used to look up to him but now, she knew better.

Eamon had been one of the cruelest, and he had taken it upon himself to make sure she knew her place, never forgetting that she was beneath them all.

"She's staring again," one of the warriors grumbled under his breath; his voice carried out into the night.

Gwen turned away, knowing what would follow.

"Aye, awaiting a taker for the likes of you, Gwen?" Eamon says, his voice mocking, the smirk in the night cutting like a blade. "Hate to break it to you, but fate is never that malicious."

The effect was laughter that was sharp, merciless. Gwen had fists clenched at her sides, her nails deep into her palms. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction-a reaction.

Instead, she turned and walked toward the outskirts of the village, toward the small, worn-down hut she called home. It wasn't much-just four walls and a roof, barely holding together-but it was hers. The only place where she was free from their stares, their ridicule.

As she stepped inside, the weight of solitude settled over her like a heavy blanket. She sank onto the little cot, staring up through the wooden ceiling above her. Was she to be forever condemned to dwell alone, unwanted and unloved? The very suggestion had her heart bleeding.

She had always dreamed of something more, something much more than this; of someone who'd see her-truly see her. A mate. The one person in the world meant for her. Among the wolves of her pack, it came without effort: finding their mates called to them as if the very bond that connected them was a part of their souls. Gwen never had the pull; she'd never felt that electric connection, a sign from fate that chose her.

What if she never would? What if she was supposed to be alone for eternity? A harsh laugh escaped her lips. "It wouldn't be surprising," she whispered to herself.

Suddenly, a rustling outside made her sit up, her body tensing. Her senses heightened. She wasn't alone.

The night was quiet; too quiet. The usual sounds of the forest had disappeared, leaving only the stillness of something unseen, lurking in the darkness. Gwen rose more slowly, her breathing even, her muscles curled. She wasn't a warrior, hadn't been trained like the others, but she knew how to survive. She went outside, onto the cool earth with bare feet. The wind changed direction; on its sigh, it carried the scent of something different, something wild.

And from within the shadows, he appeared. A man. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with a lethal grace, his presence commanding, overwhelming. His dark hair fell to just past his ears, framing sharp, chiseled features. But it was his eyes that held her captive. Gold. Not the golden green of Eamon's, but true gold, glowing faintly beneath the moonlight. Not of her pack. Gwen's breath caught. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her body refused to obey. The air between them crackled with something invisible, something powerful. Then it happened. A sudden, searing heat tore through her chest, locking her muscles, stealing the breath from her lungs. A bond.

No. It couldn't be. Her heart pounded, her wolf howling in recognition. A mate. Her mate.

The stranger took a step closer, the movement slow, deliberate. His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his gaze-something dark, something possessive. The silence stretched between them, thick with tension, with incredulity. Then his lips parted, and his voice, deep and smooth and laced with something almost animal, sliced through the night. "Mine."

Gwen's world tipped. Everything that she had ever known, everything she had ever believed, crumbled in that instant. The fates had answered her plea.

But as she peered into those golden eyes of his, into an intensity that seemed to wrap itself around her like a storm, one thought and one alone ran an icy finger down her spine.

Fate was never kind.

And this man?

He was dangerous.