Chapter 14
[Nearly 3:00 AM / Midnight Estate Entrance]
Asher
The SUV's headlights cut through the swirling snow as Blake pulls into the circular driveway, the engine rumbling to a stop in front of the main entrance.
"Home sweet fucking home," Blake slurs slightly, killing the ignition.
I lean back against the leather seat, my head spinning pleasantly from the whiskey. Too much whiskey, probably, but fuck it—we turn twenty today. We're officially adults in pack hierarchy. In a few hours, Dad will hand over the Alpha mantle in front of the entire Silver Frost Pack.
We deserve to celebrate.
"That was a good night," Cole says from the backseat, his words only slightly slurred. "That blonde at Eclipse was really into you, Blake."
"Which blonde?" Blake grins, popping open his door. "There were three."
"The one who wrote her number on your arm in lipstick," I clarify, stumbling out of the passenger side. The cold air hits me like a slap, sharp and sobering. Twenty below zero, easy. The snow crunches under my boots, fresh powder already covering the driveway we'd cleared yesterday.
"Oh, her." Blake squints at his forearm where a phone number is smeared in red. "Tiffany? Brittany? Something with a 'y'."
"You're a pig," Cole laughs, but there's no heat in it. We're all too drunk and too happy to fight.
The three of us stagger up the front steps, Cole accidentally shoulder-checking Blake into the doorframe.
"Watch it, asshole!"
"You watch it!"
"Both of you shut up," I mutter, fumbling with my keys. "Mom and Dad are asleep. If you wake them—"
The door swings open before I can finish.
We all freeze.
But it's just the automatic sensor. The house is dark, silent except for the hum of the heating system.
Everyone's asleep. Good.
I don't want to deal with Mom's disapproving looks or Dad's lecture about "setting a proper example" right now. Tomorrow—today, technically—is soon enough for all that Alpha responsibility bullshit.
We tumble into the foyer, tracking snow across the marble floor that some poor servant will have to mop up tomorrow.
Not Kara, I think suddenly. Not anymore. Once we're Alphas, we're changing that. She shouldn't be—
I shake my head, trying to clear the thought. The whiskey is making me maudlin.
"Gentlemen," Blake announces, throwing his arms wide and nearly knocking over a decorative vase, "I propose a toast. To us. To twenty years of being the most handsome, most powerful, most—"
"Most humble?" Cole supplies dryly.
"—most awesome triplets in the entire fucking pack!"
"We're the only triplets in the pack," I point out.
"Which makes us automatically the best!" Blake crows.
Despite myself, I'm grinning. This is why I love my brothers—they can turn even the most ordinary moment into something worth celebrating.
Cole pulls out his phone, squinting at the screen. "It's almost three. We should get some sleep before the ceremony."
"Sleep is for the weak," Blake declares, but he's already yawning.
"Sleep is for people who don't want to pass out during their own Alpha coronation," I counter, heading for the stairs.
The three of us climb to the second floor, our footsteps heavy and uncoordinated. At the landing, we pause—a habit from childhood. Our rooms are all on this floor, spaced evenly along the corridor.
"Night, assholes," Blake says, his version of affection.
"Night," Cole and I reply in unison.
Through the mind link, I feel the warm buzz of connection—my brothers' contentment, their excitement for tomorrow, their bone-deep certainty that we're ready for this.
We've got this, Blake sends. We're going to be the best Alphas this pack has ever seen.
Damn right, I agree.
We split off toward our respective rooms. I hear Blake's door slam, then Cole's close more quietly.
I pause at my own door, one hand on the handle, and take a deep breath.
Twenty years old. In a few hours, I'll officially be Alpha. Leader of the Silver Frost Pack. One of the most powerful positions in North American werewolf society.
Are you ready? my wolf asks quietly.
I have to be.
I push open the door and step inside.
---
The bedroom door swings open under my hand, and I nearly stumble over the threshold.
Fuck. My head is swimming—too much whiskey, too many shots Blake kept shoving into my hand at the club. "Come on, bro, it's our twentieth birthday! Live a little!"
I should be thinking about the ceremony. About the responsibilities waiting for me at dawn.
But the moment I step fully into my room, every coherent thought evaporates.
The scent hits me like a freight train.
Roses. Honeysuckle. And underneath it all, something I've never encountered before—pure, crystalline, like the first snowfall of winter melting on your tongue.
White musk and first snow.
The alcohol fog in my head vanishes instantly.
My wolf surges forward with such violence that I actually stagger, catching myself on the doorframe.
"MATE."
The word reverberates through my skull—not my thought, but my wolf's, primal and absolute.
No. No, that's not—
But my body knows. Every cell in my body recognizes this scent.
My heart rate spikes. My skin feels too tight. My canines ache to descend.
The scent is everywhere. In the air. On my bed. Near my desk.
Someone was here.
I lurch toward the bed, my enhanced senses suddenly razor-sharp despite—or maybe because of—the adrenaline now flooding my system. The scent is strongest here—on my pillow, my sheets, as if...
As if she lay down in my bed.
I lift the pillow to my face and breathe in deeply.
The effect is instantaneous. My wolf howls in triumph. Every nerve ending in my body lights up like I've been struck by lightning.
Black ebony and tobacco—my own scent—mingles with hers in the fabric, and the combination is so right it makes my chest hurt.
This is what it's supposed to smell like. This is completion. This is—
"Stop," I gasp aloud, forcing myself to drop the pillow. "Get a fucking grip."
But I can't. I'm on my knees beside the bed, searching like a madman.
The scent trail leads to my nightstand. Something's been moved—the picture frame. I pick it up with trembling hands.
Fourteen-year-old me stares back from the photo, standing by the ice river. The day after the "game."
The day after we almost killed her.
The memory slams into me with sickening clarity: Kara at eleven, her face blue from hypothermia.
My stomach lurches. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm retching into the toilet, whiskey and shame burning my throat.
When I finally stop heaving, I slump against the cool tile wall, head in my hands.
She was here. In my room. She touched my things. She left her scent—
For us, my wolf insists. She came to us. She accepted the bond—
"She doesn't even know what a bond is," I rasp. "She just shifted tonight. She's probably terrified and confused and—"
She came to our room. Our bed. She wanted to be close to us.
I want to believe that. God, I want to believe she came here willingly, that some part of her recognizes what we are to each other.
But all I can see is her face tonight in the ballroom. The way she flinched when I got too close. The raw, honest terror in her eyes when she said: "I don't want a mate because he'd probably be as mean to me as you three."
We did this. The thought crashes over me like ice water. We made her terrified of the mate bond. We made her terrified of us.
My phone buzzes. A text in the triplet group chat:
Blake: something's wrong with my room
Blake: it smells like
Blake: fuck I can't even describe it
Blake: get out here NOW
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving.