Just like he said—this was my first step. My first clean break from the past.
Alpha Joey didn’t return that night. In fact, he vanished for several days.
Before, I would’ve panicked. Called him nonstop. Worried he’d gotten into a rogue fight or been injured during patrol.
Now? I didn’t even feel the urge. My wolf didn’t stir. Not even a whine.
Because deep down, I already knew where he was.
I reached out to a few mutual friends and tracked down the wedding invitations I’d painstakingly handwritten. Their eyes went wide when I asked for them back.
Alpha Joey had insisted on keeping the mating ceremony small and quiet—just close pack members, a quick oath, nothing public.
But I’d pushed for formal invitations anyway. Maybe I just needed something physical to hold onto. Something that made it feel real.
Now, I stood before those friends, stuffing the reclaimed invitations back into my bag while they blinked at me in disbelief.
“The groom’s changed,” I said flatly. “So the invites have to change too.”
No dramatic gasps. No shocked silence.
Instead, a few chuckles. A round of teasing.
They thought I was joking.
And honestly? I couldn’t blame them.
I’d spent three years orbiting Alpha Joey like a lovesick moon. Swallowed every cold word, every shrug, every time he prioritized the pack over me.
I would’ve laughed too, if I weren’t the one living it.
But this time, I didn’t explain.
I would let my actions speak.
This time, I was really done.
I reclaimed every single invitation that had gone out. One by one.
And not long after, Alpha Joey finally came back.
I heard his boots before I saw him.
When he stepped into the apartment, I barely recognized him. His white shirt was wrinkled, untucked. His eyes were bloodshot. A stale scent clung to him—an unfamiliar female’s perfume and a trace of sorrow.
He looked like a wolf who’d just barely survived a war.
And the first thing he said?
“Call back the invitations,” he muttered. “My mentor died. The mourning period will last at least six months. We can’t get married.”
He probably expected an outburst. Thought I’d beg. That I’d guilt him with the fact that my grandfather—one of the Moonhowl elders—had hoped to live long enough to see me mated.
He thought I’d cry. Maybe rage. Maybe collapse.
But I didn’t do any of that.
I just looked at him.
“Understood,” I said, voice cool and measured. “My condolences.”
Because truthfully? The groom had already changed.
There was no wedding to delay—only a future I had already chosen to leave behind.