After My Alpha Chose Her, I Found the Lycan Prince

The announcement came at dusk.

A pack run—official, ceremonial, meant to welcome the members who'd returned to Moonveil in recent weeks. Everyone knew what that meant. Everyone knew who it was really for.

I stood near the tree line with the other Omegas, already dressed in the lightweight training clothes I'd worn for every run since I was sixteen. Around me, the pack gathered in loose clusters, rank sorting itself without anyone saying a word. That's how it always worked. Alphas and Betas at the front. Warriors behind them. And then the rest of us, fading back into the rear like an afterthought.

I was fine with that. I'd always been fine with that.

Bianca wasn't.

'The Omegas will take rear guard tonight.' Her voice carried across the clearing with the practiced ease of someone who had spent years learning how to sound like an authority she didn't technically hold. Her eyes found mine immediately. 'Including the newer additions. We wouldn't want anyone slowing down the front line.'

A few wolves shifted. Someone near me exhaled quietly.

I kept my face still. Rear guard meant the youngest pups and the weakest members. It meant being managed. It meant being reminded, in front of everyone, exactly where I stood.

Collin said nothing. He stood at the head of the group with that cool, unreadable expression I'd spent years trying to decode, and he said nothing.

I was already turning toward the back when I heard it.

'Lia.' Cyrus's voice. Unhurried. Calm. Carrying just enough weight to make the clearing go quiet. 'You're with me.'

I stopped.

He was standing at the front of the group—the Lycan position, ahead of even the Alpha line—and he was looking at me with that steady amber gaze, one hand extended slightly as if the invitation were the most natural thing in the world.

Bianca's smile didn't move, but something behind her eyes did.

Collin's jaw tightened.

I walked to the front. My heart was hammering, but my steps were even. I didn't look at Bianca. I didn't look at Collin. I looked at Cyrus, and he gave me a single nod, and then we ran.

---

Lycans run differently than wolves. I'd heard that before, but I'd never felt it until tonight.

The pace was relentless—long, ground-eating strides that ate up the forest floor like it was nothing. Within the first mile, my lungs were burning. By the second, my legs had started to argue with me in earnest.

I didn't fall back. I refused to fall back. But I was struggling, and Cyrus knew it.

He slowed.

Not dramatically. Not with any announcement. He simply adjusted, his long stride shortening until it matched mine, his breathing easy beside me while I worked to keep up.

'You're fighting your own rhythm,' he said, not looking at me, his eyes on the path ahead. 'Stop trying to match mine. Find yours.'

'I'm fine,' I managed.

'I know you are.' A pause. 'Find your rhythm anyway.'

I stopped fighting it. I let my stride settle into something that was actually mine, and somewhere around the third mile, the burning in my lungs eased. The trees blurred past us in the dark, silver-edged with moonlight, and for a few minutes I forgot about Bianca and Collin and everything I'd left behind in that laundry room.

I just ran.

At some point I became aware that we were moving in sync—not because I was matching him, but because he was matching me. Our footfalls landing together in the dark. It was such a small thing. It felt enormous.

From somewhere behind us, I caught the sharp, clean scent of Collin's anger. I didn't turn around.

---

The fever hit me like a wall two hours after we returned.

One moment I was sitting on the edge of my bed in Cyrus's wing, unlacing my trainers. The next, the room tilted. I pressed my palm flat against the mattress and waited for it to stop, but it didn't stop. My skin felt like it was radiating heat from somewhere deep inside, and Muffin was already at my feet, whining softly.

'I know, girl,' I whispered. 'I know.'

I don't remember lying down. I remember the ceiling, and the warm glow of the hallway light under the door, and thinking distantly that Cyrus had left the lights on again.

At some point I heard Derek Shaw's voice in the corridor, low and careful. 'She's running a high fever. Someone should—'

Then Bianca's voice, smooth and immediate, cutting across his. 'Collin, the Northern Pack delegation is expecting an answer tonight. This can't wait.'

A silence.

Then footsteps, walking away.

I closed my eyes. The ceiling swam. Muffin pressed her warm body against my legs and didn't move.

Somewhere outside, the pack house settled into quiet, and I lay there in the dark with a fever climbing steadily higher, wondering if I'd imagined the sound of someone else's footsteps—slower, deliberate—stopping just outside my door.