Siren at the Altar

Evander POV

Stunning.

As the unfamiliar she-wolf drifted toward the platform at the end of the aisle, that single appraisal hammered through my skull. A rich fragrance of summer blooms and wild crushed grass drifted ahead of her, tearing through the stale hall and lighting up every nerve ending beneath my skin.

I had never laid eyes on a female built quite like her. She simply paralyzed me.

My focus traveled down her compact, perfectly sculpted frame. At six-foot-eight, I knew I would tower over her delicate height, yet every curve signaled that she belonged tucked tightly against my chest.

Her eyes drew me in without mercy, swirling with the turbulent silver-gray of a summer storm. Looking into them was like plunging into deep, turbulent waters, daring me to hunt down whatever secrets she buried behind that cool exterior. I wanted to pilot that vessel, explore every hidden contour, and lay bare everything she guarded.

My groin tightened instantly at the sight of those lush, petal-pink lips. A sharp breath hissed through my teeth. My imagination ran wild, visualizing the scorch of her mouth trailing down my collarbone while my fists knotted deep in the thick waves of her ink-black hair.

"Close your mouth, Alpha," Cyrus murmured beside me, his voice dripping with amusement.

A low, involuntary growl rumbled in my chest, earning an arched eyebrow and a quiet chuckle from my Beta.

"I can tell from ten feet away what that girl is doing to you," Cyrus said, leaning slightly in my direction.

I rolled my eyes, exhaling a quiet breath of annoyance. Cyrus had an irritating habit of catching every microscopic change in my composure.

"Who is she?" I asked, attempting to shove the filthy fantasies out of my head. We had arrived straight from the airfield following a grueling pack summit, and Cyrus had shoved a dossier into my hands without leaving me five minutes to read it.

"Her name is Freya Ironbark," he answered quietly. "The only surviving heir to the Ironbound Pack. Tito and Cora’s daughter."

"A silver wolf," I muttered under my breath. That alone explained the heavy turnout of surrounding packs.

Silver wolves carried the direct blessing of the Moon Goddess. Those lineage packs inherited rare gifts, their bloodlines distinguished by a sacred silver sigil etched into their hides that warned off rogues and territorial rivals alike.

"That's rare," I said, folding my arms over my chest. A female inheriting the Alpha title over a blessed line did not happen often.

"There's more," Cyrus continued, nudging my arm. "She decided to claim her own Beta as her mate."

That piece of news hit me square in the chest, knotting my stomach with an abrupt wave of resentment.

My attention shifted toward the raised dias, locking onto the chosen male as he tugged at the stiff collar of his formal tunic.

"The guy looks half-sick," I pointed out.

Cyrus gave a slow nod.

"I’ve been watching him since we walked in," he said. "He’s standing up there like a man facing an execution squad, not a union."

"Meaning?" I pressed.

I knew Cyrus too well; he never walked into a formal event without interrogating the room first.

"One of their sentries let slip that Beta Gael grew up joined at the hip with the heir," Cyrus said.

"Lifelong friends?" I asked, my forehead furrowing. It made little sense for a powerful future Alpha to settle for her subordinate rather than seeking out a foreign alliance.

"Exactly," he said. "And the whole ceremony was thrown together in forty-eight hours."

Why force a sudden binding?

Was she carrying a child?

I stiffened in my seat as Freya halted mid-stride, her chin tilting upward as though testing the air. The irises of her eyes flashed erratically, flickering between midnight obsidian and radiant, polished silver. The shock hit me like a physical blow: her wolf had just locked onto my scent.

"Why are you sinking into your chair like a fugitive?" Cyrus grumbled beside me.

I straightened my posture, shooting him a flat scowl while tucking my arms across my ribs.

Why was he dissecting my every twitch today? Was my reaction really that obvious?

"Spill it to him," Jax, my wolf, barked inside my skull, pacing frantic circles against my ribcage. "He's your Beta. He'll handle the fallout."

Jax was right. Letting Cyrus know would at least keep me from losing control in the middle of a foreign pack territory.

"Because," I said, keeping my voice low enough to slide beneath the organ music, "the bride standing up there happens to be my second-chance mate."

Saying the words aloud left a strange, bitter taste in my mouth, both impossibly right and fundamentally terrifying.

My fingers instinctively rose to my jacket pocket, brushing the stiff cardboard edge of the worn photograph tucked against my ribs. I carried Genevieve’s picture everywhere, a permanent tether ensuring I never erased the memory of that night.

A hollow sigh tore from my lungs.

Genevieve had been pure sunlight. Her laugh could cut through the blackest storm, and she used to wander the pack halls greeting every last pup and warrior, golden hair tumbling around her shoulders as she tended to everyone's needs.

Her turquoise eyes had always carried an unyielding warmth. The entire pack worshiped the ground she walked on. She was sharp, gentle, and utterly selfless.

Her only shortcoming was carrying an Omega wolf. That hadn't stopped me from binding myself to her the second our bond flared. I fell for her the moment our eyes locked.

A familiar phantom shock burned through my sternum, squeezing my chest in an icy grip. Five years later, the lacerating grief of that night still cut to the marrow.

My eyes burned with unshed heat. Genevieve had bled out on the delivery table, and our infant son had drawn his last breath right beside his mother.

That was the Alpha bloodline curse. A frail rank simply could not survive carrying a true Alpha pup.

I blinked away the moisture, shaking the funeral memories from my head.

"Holy shit, Evan!" Cyrus hissed, electric excitement sharpening his voice. "Get your ass up there and stop it! We're bringing our Luna home."

I gave a resolute shake of my head.

"I'm staying right here," I said.

"Are you insane?" he shot back.

"Because of—"

"What?" Gael's voice shattered the formal silence at the front of the hall, loud enough to stop the officiant dead in his tracks.

The corner of my mouth hitched upward. The little bride had just dropped her bombshell on him.

Still, the move baffled me. Why hand him the truth right at the altar?

"What the hell just went down?" Cyrus demanded, his gaze snapping back to the altar.

"I suspect my mate just informed her groom that her true match is sitting in the back row," I muttered, leaning back into the wood of the pew.

"They're going at each other's throats," Cyrus observed, watching the hushed fury unfolding on the dais. "The whole setup feels completely off."

"Not my problem to solve," I answered. "She lost focus the second she stepped through those double doors."

"Because you were sitting here," he said, turning a harsh stare back onto me.

"Maybe," I said, offering a careless shrug.

Cyrus shook his head, though my faint smirk told him I was listening.

"Stop playing the brooding bastard," he growled, leaning close. "Stand up and claim what belongs to you. She’s standing thirty paces away."

"I have no right to touch her," I said, motioning toward the dais where she was already attempting to smooth things over with the elder. "Her choice was locked in before I walked through the door. She picked her Beta."

"And you're just going to sit there and let her take his mark?" Cyrus asked, sheer disbelief bleeding into his tone.

"She made her call," I said flatly. "None of this matters anyway."

"Damn it, Evan!" Cyrus hissed under his breath. "Gen has been gone for three, four..."

"Five," I cut him off harshly. "Five full years."

Cyrus blew out a heavy breath, his expression softening with genuine worry.

"Look at me, Evan. My sister wouldn't want you rotting inside your own skin for the rest of your life," he insisted, his voice cracking with fraternal desperation. "You know how impossible a second-chance mate is. The Goddess gave you this for a reason."

"Just like she gave me Genevieve?" I snapped, the poisonous guilt finally spilling past my teeth. "And now both she and my boy are under six feet of dirt."

Cyrus dragged a palm down his face, groaning under his breath. His sister's absence carved into him just as deeply as it carved into me.

"Genevieve was born sick, Evan," Cyrus said, refusing to let me twist the narrative. "The pack doctors warned you about her heart from the start."

"If I had kept my hands to myself, she wouldn't have gotten pregnant," I snarled quietly. "She’d still be drawing breath."

"That sickness was going to kill her either way," Cyrus snapped, shutting me down with hard finality. "Stop drowning in your own guilt, grow a pair of balls, and get down that aisle before they lock the marks in."