By the time I reached the driveway, Elliot had already sealed himself inside his vehicle. The engine purred with Alpha-controlled precision, the kind of calm power that signaled finality rather than hesitation. Hayley rushed toward him, her scent sharp with panic and desperation, but he didn't wait for her to reach the door. The car reversed smoothly, a controlled retreat through the pack boundary line of the estate, then accelerated into the night like a closing verdict.
She was left standing in the cold wind, fur coat still clinging to her frame, but no warmth could touch what had already broken inside her.
I could smell it from where I stood—the collapse of expectation. She had altered herself, reshaped her appearance, even bent her identity toward imitation of Anastasia's mate-signature, expecting recognition. But Alpha instincts do not respond to mimicry. They respond to truth, and she had none that reached him.
