The first rays of dawn slipped through the tall arched windows of the Blackwood Pack house, casting long shadows across the vast stone kitchen. The air was thick with scents—freshly baked bread, sizzling meats from the warriors' breakfast, the earthy musk of pine from the surrounding forest, and the overlapping signatures of dozens of wolves who had passed through already.
In the Blackwood Pack, scent was everything. It was identity, status, warning, and invitation all rolled into one invisible language. Alphas carried heavy, commanding notes—storm and cedar, smoke and steel—that made lesser wolves instinctively lower their gazes. Betas smelled of loyalty and strength, a steady undercurrent that held the pack together. Omegas, the lowest rank, had faint, submissive scents, soft florals or warm vanilla that signaled they posed no threat.
And then there was Jennie Voss.
She contributed nothing to that symphony. No trace. No whisper. Not even the barest hint of wolf. She was a void in a world built on smell.
Jennie knelt on the cold flagstone floor, knees aching against the unyielding surface as she scrubbed vigorously with a worn brush. Her long silver-white hair, shimmering like moonlight on fresh snow even in the pale morning light, was tied back in a practical braid that trailed down her spine. Stray strands framed her pale, flawless face, catching the light in a way that made her look almost ethereal—too beautiful for the menial task, yet here she was, as always.
Her ice-blue eyes, sharp and luminous like glacial pools, focused intently on a stubborn stain. Full, naturally rosy lips pressed into a thin line of determination. Beneath her loose gray work dress, her curvaceous figure—narrow waist flaring into rounded hips—moved with a natural grace she tried to suppress. Drawing attention only ever brought pain.
Today marked her eighteenth birthday. Tonight, the full moon would rise high and bright, pulling at every wolf in the pack for their shifts and celebrations. For most, it was a rite of passage, a night of power and belonging. For alphas and betas, it meant displaying dominance. For omegas, it meant hoping their scent strengthened enough to attract a mate.
For Jennie… it was a desperate, fragile hope that something—anything—would change.
The heavy oak door swung open with a dramatic creak, and in swept Lydia Harrington, flanked by her usual trio of giggling she-wolves. Lydia was everything the pack admired in a high-ranking female: golden-blonde hair in perfect waves, emerald eyes sparkling with calculated charm, tanned skin, and a figure she flaunted in tight training gear. Her scent was strong and sweet—jasmine laced with dominant spice—a clear signal she was beta-born and Luna material.
In pack dynamics, rank wasn't just strength; it was bloodline, scent potency, and social maneuvering. Lydia's father was the pack's lead warrior, her mother a respected beta. That placed Lydia near the top of the unmated females, perfectly positioned to catch the eye of the returning Alpha heir.
Lydia's gaze landed on Jennie immediately, lips curling into a practiced sneer. "Still here, scentless? I thought ghosts were supposed to float away by dawn."
The others snickered. In the rigid hierarchy, bullying the weak was tolerated—encouraged, even—as long as it didn't disrupt pack unity. Omegas served. The weak submitted. It kept order.
Jennie didn't look up, continuing to scrub, though her grip tightened on the brush until her knuckles whitened.
Lydia stepped closer, heels clicking. "Oops." She deliberately kicked over a bucket of dirty water. It splashed across the floor Jennie had just cleaned, spreading grime in a dark puddle. "Clean that up before the warriors come in. We wouldn't want the Alpha family slipping on your worthless mess."
Jennie's ice-blue eyes flashed upward for a split second, cold fire burning in them. But she swallowed the retort, voice steady and low. "Yes, Miss Harrington."
Lydia leaned in until her face was inches away. "And stay out of sight tonight. Kai Blackstone is returning—the real Alpha heir. The last thing he needs is your cursed presence ruining the ceremony. No one wants a scentless thing like you anywhere near him."
The words cut deep, but Jennie held Lydia's gaze without flinching. In pack law, challenging a higher-ranked wolf verbally could earn lashes or isolation. Jennie had learned silence young.
The she-wolves laughed as they sauntered out, leaving the echo of mockery behind.
Alone again, Jennie redo the floor in silence. Her mind drifted to the structure that governed every breath she took.
The Blackwood Pack followed traditional laws: one Alpha pair at the top, supported by the Beta council and warrior enforcers. Below them, ranked members contributed skills—trackers, healers, teachers. Omegas handled domestic labor: cooking, cleaning, childcare. It was meant to be symbiotic. In practice, it was brutal for those at the bottom.
Jennie had no official rank. Not even omega. She was "unclassified"—a polite term for defective. When her parents died in a rogue attack thirteen years ago, Alpha Ronan had taken her in out of duty to fallen warriors. But as she grew and no scent emerged, duty turned to tolerance, then resentment. She served without protection. Anyone could push her around. No one would defend her.
An old healer had once whispered about legends: Veiled Wolves, rare bloodlines born without scent to act as unseen guardians—spies, assassins, protectors who could walk among enemies undetected. But the healer had laughed it off as myth, and no one spoke of it again.
Jennie paused, touching the faint scar on her inner wrist hidden beneath her sleeve—a foolish teenage attempt to force a scent by drawing blood. It hadn't worked.
She rose, glancing out the window toward the pale full moon still visible in the morning sky. A whisper escaped her lips: "Let me belong somewhere. Just once."
Outside, a bird perched on the sill tilted its head, confused for a fleeting moment—as if the girl inside had simply vanished from its senses.
By late afternoon, the pack grounds buzzed with barely contained energy. Jennie carried heavy trays of food and supplies to the sacred clearing deep in the ancient pine forest—a wide natural circle ringed by towering trees, now adorned with flickering torches and garlands of white moonflowers for the homecoming ceremony.
Pups chased each other in excited circles. Warriors boasted of old battles, flexing to impress unmated females. She-wolves preened in elegant dresses, comparing jewelry and whispering about who might catch the heir's eye.
The air hummed with anticipation: Kai Blackstone, son of current Alpha Ronan, was returning tonight after five years training with fierce allied packs across the country. Rumors painted him as a legend—unmatched in combat, ruthless in victory, strategic beyond his years. His scent, they said, was already legendary: storm clouds, dark cedar, raw power.
In pack tradition, the returning heir would choose—or at least strongly favor—a future Luna during his first full moon home. It solidified alliances, strengthened bloodlines. Lydia's voice carried over the crowd as Jennie passed: "He'll need a strong Luna by his side. Someone worthy. Someone with a scent worth claiming."
Her eyes flicked toward Jennie with venom.
At every mention of Kai's name, Jennie felt a strange warmth tug deep in her chest, unbidden and confusing. Nerves, she told herself. Nothing more.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the full moon climbed high and bright, the entire pack gathered in the clearing. Torches cast dancing shadows across hundreds of faces. Howls rose in welcome, a chorus of loyalty and excitement.
Then, silence fell like a blade.
From the tree line emerged a figure that commanded every gaze without effort. Kai Blackstone.
Even from across the clearing, he was breathtaking—towering well over six feet, broad shoulders straining a fitted black shirt that clung to sculpted muscle, every movement radiating lethal grace. Jet-black hair tousled just enough to look wild and untamed. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble. And those eyes—piercing forest-green, scanning the crowd with predatory intensity that made even ranked wolves lower their heads instinctively.
His scent rolled ahead of him like a storm front: dark cedar, ozone, raw dominance. It marked him unmistakably as future Alpha King.
His gaze swept the assembly... and locked directly onto Jennie.
The world narrowed to that single point of contact. An intense electric jolt slammed through her body, fierce and undeniable. Her heart thundered against her ribs, heat blooming low in her belly as an invisible thread yanked her soul toward him. Primal. Overwhelming. Fated.
Across the distance, Kai froze mid-step. Nostrils flared instinctively—he felt the same violent pull, the spark of something ancient and unbreakable. But... nothing. No answering scent to confirm it. No trace of mate bond fragrance that every wolf learned to recognize from childhood stories.
Confusion twisted his handsome features for a fraction of a second, quickly masked by iron control and raw frustration.
The pack erupted in cheers and triumphant howls, shattering the charged moment.
But Kai's piercing green eyes found hers again through the sea of wolves.
And this time, he didn't look away.
My breath caught in my throat.
What... what was that?